Life’s a Beach

Flamingo (2)“Life’s a Beach”
Hello, you hula-skirted palm tree’s sway.
I hear a ukulele’s wistful song.
It’s borne upon the breeze that floats my way
as shiny shells in water roll along.
The scent of seaweed and the cry of gull
beneath the yellow sun that glistens where
the rushing waves of water stir my soul.
My footprints find a soft reception there.
A dram of seaside air _a brew sublime_
a rippled shoreline I cannot resist.
A booming surf, my wanton friend, divine.
My heart is with your windy, sky-blown kiss.
Hello, my love of many youthful days.
Life’s still a beach so many blissful ways.

“Love is Blind on Such a Night”

“Love is Blind on Such a Night”
Was on a summer solstice such as this
when drunk with idleness, old Bottom napped.
Awakened then, his new reflection kissed
two donkey ears, a toothy grin, a sap!
“Hee haw!”_ a screech, as his reflection frowns
but through the eyes of love, Titania sees
our hero, Bottom, with a kingly crown.
So, love may tilt upon the bless`ed breeze
with lofty dreams and sprightly attitude.
Old Oberon’s pretensions give us flight
for all the fairy pleasures in a brew
as comedy of errors fill the night.
That love is blind is surely ecstasy:
old Shakespeare knew of love…and you and me.

“For Lydia”

There’s Lydia; we catch a glimpse of her250px-Lydia_Hamilton_Smith

among the burning leaves where soldiers lie.

She guides her horse with water wagon where,

at Gettysburg are heroes marked to die.

The men, propped there by tree or death’s cold stare,

are left alone, their golden dreams now gone.

They cannot answer captain’s call to share

nor may they rise again so proud and strong.

See, there! She now approaches where they fell;

one lonely figure sent as spirit’s daughter.

In hot and humid morning’s quiet hell

puts crusty lips to cups of cool, cool water.

Her horse now stamps his foot as mid pale cries

she is the angel hears their final sighs.

(Lydia Hamilton Smith, born in Gettysburg, Pa., was the daughter of an African-American mother and an Irish father.  When donations wither away for Civil War veterans, she uses her own earnings to help them.  Lydia was born & died on Valentine’s Day, 1813-1884.)


“DaVinci’s ‘Mona Lisa'”

MonaIt’s all about her look; a placid guile.
We know her well; that enigmatic glance.
Suggestive are her lips; a warmth of style.
She teases us; her eyes a bit askance.
A reticence enhances lady’s charm.
Anticipation in his mind may leap.
Expectancy has power to disarm.
A popular diversion pastimes keep.
The world still favors subtlety of sex.
DaVinci must have known his buyer’s dream
when he took brush-in-hand.  His Mona’s hex
elusive as her curving lips now seem.
She hesitates, and most agree with me
Time’s still not taken all her mystery.

Botticelli’s ‘Allegory of Spring’

Botticelli’s ‘Allegory of Spring’botticelli-primavera
The painter’s brush gives voice to Greece and Rome:
Poliziano’s poems depict just how
the pagan, Venus, with her loving om
now stands with Cupid’s arrow over brow.
When Zephyrus germinates his girl with air
then gentle Flora has her flowered fling;
inseminates imaginings so fair
that airily her vines awake to spring.
Three graces waltz and turn in harmony
as past and present to the future bow.
As Botticelli paints, sublime and free,
our Mercury fragments the forming cloud.
“‘Humanitarian’, this Venus play”
or, thus, the Pope defines her in his day.

Berthe Morisot’s ‘The Cradle’

Berthe Morisot’s ‘The Cradle’”

Her baby girl; her sleeping child is here

and breathless mother watches as she dreams.

Her tiny mouth moves just to share the air;

in twinkling innocence, her young face beams.

An angel’s here; her sleeping star is near.

All nature listens for the slightest sound.

And all the world is silent just to hear

each moment of her beating heart resound.

Her precious daughter yawns and then she sleeps

and all the realm of nature cannot best

this miracle.  She slumbers as she peeps

with mother’s gentle sway, her babe’s at rest.

Outshines the stars, this being full of grace

as mother rocks her cradle mid the lace.A Baby





at end of day

he comes to talk.

His dark, brown eyes are piercing me:

“I’m ready for my lesson, please.”

And, so, our game begins.

I mouth the dark, black, circled ‘ohm’.

Inspired, the terrier in him

‘tempts guttural with teeth and tongue

He must repeat, now, what he hears

yet issues forth his standard bark!

He tries again, a grinding growl

a lower tone with healthy howl

and I, excited, nod him “Yes!”

and he’s beside himself with joy.

The more my face makes round the sound,

he’s rolling on the floor, unbound

in doggy laughter!



“Aubade” Red Poppies

Bright dawn, aglow with rosy blush-ablaze
appears our dainty bride; a powdered fey.
She blows a fairy dewdrop stormy maze
that plays o’er misty flowers blissful sway.
This sparkling day sends light to kiss the face
of groom who grows beneath the shadows low.
She blooms a brilliant hue; a purple grace
as beds of violets bewitch her beau.
The moon has slipped away beyond the night
as early beams entrance her wedding guests.
They turn their heads to greet the waltzing light
adorns the periwinkle’s silken vest.
Triumphant, golden march, as morning breaks.
A mystical reunion re-awakes.

An AUBADE is a morning love song or poem about lovers separating at dawn.  Also defined as “a song evoking daybreak”.

Birth of a Hurricane


It’s steamy in the southern Keys tonight.
Her air is thick. She tastes of salty fog.
A quiet’s fallen with no birds in sight.
Her ocean swells; she’s pregnant with resolve.

Her palms turn, twist and wave a hula skirt
fall quickly back as wind subsides beneath.
She hesitates; a flash begins to flirt;
as light’ning promises some stiffer teeth.

Expectant, gray light pushes down our beach:
a rising, higher tide begins to form
of something coming just before the breach.
A quieter wind wavers ‘fore the storm.

She’s here! She’s pushed a new-born screaming child;
she’s grown a full-blown wind to squall awhile !

The Bee’s Ballade

no anxious bee“The Bee’s Ballade”

Mysterious, communion of the bee.

His joy; his voice a welcoming alarm

for flowers. His madness filled with fealty

whose body, mind and soul relentless, swarm

mid petals where his wings will do no harm.

Behold this busy thief; his game of bliss.

So drunk with nectar, bumblebee informs

sweet love needs not a reason to exist!

Men may not tell you why they go to sea.

Might hope for bold adventure be the charm?

He ventures forth. By his own loyalty

protects, defends against that crushing storm.

The sea confronts and causes him to mourn

and fracture all his soul with bare, cold fist.

Yet, spite of all old Ahab’s whale deforms,

sweet love needs not a reason to exist!

Oh, Love is like the stars, far-flung and free.

So bountiful in beauty, they disarm.

They blaze before our sight, bright symphony

with fiery heart.  They yearn and spin and form.

They’re sucked into black holes may not be warm;

their soul in coldness cast; yet they persist

as logical as love torn arm-from-arm.

Sweet Love needs not a reason to exist.


The bee, the man, the star; sonata form

the music of crazed things.  An ageless tryst,

it makes no sense; this heart in worship’s dorm.

Sweet Love needs not a reason to exist.

(Different from the English Ballad, the French Ballade form is difficult because of the rhyming.  There must be 14 “B” rhymes!)