A Warning for Lovers

credit: Dreamstime.comPhotoCredit: Dreamstime.com

Be warned, for winter’s tease is all about.
Slight chill is in the air. Her glance is there.
Such danse macabre comes with October’s rout
when crimson leaves burn, withering and drear.

When colors drunk with frost and wind so high,
may swirl through trees and bend them to ground;
their righteous voices moaning for reply.
Their golden souls are lost and never found.

Forgotten are the dead , yet still they dance
in summer’s lost frivolities and tune;
like heart’s marooned in short-lived autumn trance
like sigh that is dispersed with solemn rune.

Oh, dance, my autumn, ‘fore your fiery tears
bring on that looming loss as winter nears.

“Where Have all the Monarchs Gone?”


“Where Have all the Monarchs Gone?”

The bees now crash the windows to my soul.
I will despair, unable to withstand
with cozening, the cruel, deceptive whole
as GMO’s now spread across our land.

The bee will sigh; the butterfly will gnash
her teeth; the Monarch now Monsanto’s slave.
Who sprays our corn? Who whistles making cash
from food genetic, modified so brave?

The cricket’s heart, in fields he also raves
against the holy husk. How high his price?
While Rachel lies a listening in her grave
no butterfly imbibes as Milkweed dies.

The spirit of the worm has inched away
the stunning metamorphosis can’t stay.


(“Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care. Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air.” (Theodor Seuss Geiselt, better known as Dr. Seuss)

First Love (Trifecta Entry-First Place )

“First Love”

You take my hand
and in that gesture
satisfy my swirling, naked need,
spellbound as spent leaf
whose golden moment
has no hunger left
but blissful floats
mid magic flutter
back to earth

credit: Dreamstime.com

Photo Credit: Dreamstime.com

Prompt for Trifecta:  use the word, SATISFY.  Count must be 33 words. (My entry took

First Place.  Thank you, Trifecta!)

Feasting Crows


Feasting Crows

Crows mingle where the vegetation’s scarce.
They group above eroded garbage dump.
The stench of blackened roots; the land is fierce.
What god has given them such place to romp ?

The rain revisits some eroded squash
and fermentation stinks to heaven, high!
Excitement in the black and flashing wash
of wing and orange beak; then stymied cry!

Oh, death’s a celebration they conceive
as cells are woven; broken down to one.
They gather strength and grovel to relieve
their earth’s corrosive treasure in the sun.

They fly above their desolate desire;
above the filthy fumes; the smoking pyre.