and in that gesture
satisfy my dizzy, naked need,
spellbound as spent leaf
whose golden moment
has no hunger left
but blissful floats
mid magic flutter
back to earth.
Upon this beach, the people saunter by.
Idyllic children play at water’s edge.
The warm wind blows its foam into my eyes.
My heavy heart sinks silent from this ledge.
But, lo! my body; buoyed by the salt,
forgets. My mind now slips its bony cage.
Free floating, spiny blob. I’m fish, default
as once defined me in some ancient age.
I’m orca, splashing through his innocence.
Suspended, I am Pisces lost to shore.
Steered by my fins, I search with rounded lens.
I’m free…no more aerobic carnivore!
But suddenly… old Triton blows his horn
and I am banished; back to shoreline borne.
Photo: Ginny Hale Meredith
Some steps I’ve taken, there was sharp ascent
into the unknown where the foolish tread.
That journey, once committed, brought lament.
Cold sorrow with some tears that pathway led.
Some steps have pushed me inward, glorious,
to better heights than I had known before.
Yet, even so, my soul, tempestuous,
has not avoided pitfalls I abhor.
I take it slow, now, ‘fore the final bend
I know some steps might make a dismal tale.
I know the walk creates a happy end.
With careful steps, I’m likely not to fail.
I’ve not looked back where I have been, askance
but, rather wonder at its dark romance.
“This Red, Red Rose is Out of place!”
One does not leave a rose mid sandy beach:
Perchance, a seagull dropped it here somehow?
As much as I might like, I cannot stretch
nor will I bend… or to your logic bow.
Oh, No! This dying rose is out-of-place!
It needs some dainty green and shady lawn.
The sun has wrinkled up its little face.
And left it frying here. But still, I yawn.
My modern ways want none of your trite sighs;
You’d best learn words to move my unctious heart.
You’ve better chance to make my sadness fly
than wilted rose of red regret to part.
So, hear me well as I shake off your sand:
best leave dramatic note or better plan.
“Ol’ Christmas, 2015”
Ol’ Christmas appeared today.
Her hurrah hangs, loose and sluggish.
Her spindly legs are shaky.
She, wilted, has her say:
“Life’s so unkind to disrobe me;
a ‘beauty’ in my day
with all my twinkling baubles and gems.
Yet, I know I cannot stay…
Remember me and be done with it!”
You, Ol’ Christmas, cannot stay
tho your lights still shine in sweet disarray
on this somber January day.
Ol’ glow, you’re outta here.
Another year gone
As a child, I always found it quite depressing the day we dismantled the tree and threw her out for the garbage man. The living room looked sad and empty and bare after she was thrown to the curb.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,400 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 40 trips to carry that many people.