Birth of a Hurricane

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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 Blue Grass Trailer Park

The Blue Grass Trailer Park

The Blue Grass Trailer Park. A crowded court

where sis and I grew up; played in the sand.

Where summers were a hopscotch and cavort

while list’ning to the sound of Dorsey’s band.

Our home a cosy space for count of five.

A closet kitchen with three rooms beside.

A paneled, sandy floor where roaches hide

a mile from beach where royal palms reside.

My Daddy moved us here in Forty-Four

and we were those who lived across the tracks

from Mar-A-Lago glamour I adore.

That bridge too far was minutes from our shack.

The Blue Grass Trailer Park:  life still a thrill

so close to other worlds that are surreal.

A Dose of Castor Oil”

A Dose of Castor Oil

A dose of castor oil was once the trick

our fathers often said we must imbibe.

Then gagging does embrace the mucous thick

as down it goes so foulness may not thrive.

A stuttering, red evil here is strewn

as AR Fifteens shatter all the love.

We need an antidote from heaven-hewn

yet no such medic issues from above.

Oh, world of endless joy and ruthless pain,

we’re crying out ; please send a cure for us

before dead children drive us all insane;

before this globe and hope is turned to dust.

Yet, comes no answer for our sickened sighs

or family of man. Cold blood defies.munch_edvard_3

“There May Be Dragons”

Photo by Jacqueline Casey

There may be dragons in that soul-less flight

where harpies;  hovering aloft her bed,

born of a spell that chills the wicked night

and winters in her heart some unknown dread.

There may be dragons in the hate-filled gloom:

a whistling as the icy wind now drones.

As thundering is heard; impending doom

may crack the branches of the empire’s thrones.

Oh, seek to know the reason they are here.

The slow roll and the glaring eyes proclaim

love’s mated with a devil’s crushing leer.

There’s mystery; their birth is foreordained.

There may be dragons in the frozen night

as all those kingdoms hold their breath in fright.

 

(this poem influenced by “Game of Thrones”…)

 

 

Happy Birthday To Me

Happy Birthday (to me)

The sun that shone and opened up today

reminds me of cold fate’s unceasing shore.

I see her many suns have had their sway

as now my skin sags low at eighty-four.

My birthday card now comes from stranger’s hands

as day revolves to night and time still thrives;

as those who loved me flown from life’s demands

now seek to make my candles eighty-five.

Still, happiness is candles flickering 

the sun that peeps through blinds in early morn

and all the bright lights on my cake I proudly sing

before the dark of eighty-five is born.

Oh, happy to survive our human fate

than travel through strange worlds andcropped-colorado-19731-e1444166494509darker gate.

(photo: me about 1970, Colorado Springs, Colorado.  I place the same poem here, as last year.  I must only change the lines and rhymes where my age changes.)

“Mother Eclipse”

Solar Eclipse August 21, 2017.

Mother Eclipse

The morning doves now pause their cooing, grand!
The infant’s little lids close heavily.
All nature yawns at fading of their land
while green has turned to black too instantly!

How must our father’s fore us felt when torn:
their brightest sun is sprinkled on black leaves.
Like little half-moons dance about the morn
convince him of a dark eternity.

Forever gone, man’s mother-light has left:
she hides in darkness, cold, their world up-ends!
And falling to their knees, their heart’s bereft
as blackness shakes their bones and leaves no friend.

“Oh, light of all our life, please with us stay
as from your breast our universal sway.”

What Price, Greed?

220px-Tulipomania

Collectibles may grow a certain breed:

an acre valued less than seed that’s sown?

Each bulb now has a name and so, his seed

but options taken stead of tulip owned.

The futures market needs an early bloom.

Morality is lost on rainy days

yet ministers may preach as buyers swoon:

“Eternity’s rewards: value delayed!”

There’s cabbage patch where tiny babies glow.

And Jack, with beanstalk never needed stair.

With higher price,  imagination grows.

There’s beans that turn into some babies rare.

And higher did the tulip price ascend

before her bubble pops and then descends. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“How To Write A Sonnet”

How To Write A Sonnet

The miracle of birth when words do sing.
The hungry mouth so round from out its shell.
Stout voices from the nest may try their wings.
Newborns and rocking horses may rebel.

I am not made of steel”, the riddle plays:
“A magic song is soft and full of sighs”.
My bonnet, as it tilts and then sashays,
I’ll grab the golden ring before it flies.

And as his nostrils flare; we gallop round.
Calliope’d,  his pipes now spin and turn.
My pen becomes a dagger ‘fore he bounds;
escapes my inner critic ‘fore he burns.

For love of form, some well might offer scorn
but from my heart a sonnet, sure, is borne.

 

 

 

The Hankering

field-of-dreams

“The Hankering”

Then suddenly September rain comes down.
The green peas whisper to the thirsty corn:
“New seasons yearn before your silk turns brown.
Some nameless hand will bend you one dark morn!”

From Miller’s Pub, our hero drains his beer.
His dream: to leave this red-clay country life.
But not before the dinner bell will steer
a thirst and hunger back to waiting wife.

“Oh, Maudie, do ya hear the crushing claim
of wind that rushes through our restless stalks?”
Old Maud is deaf; can only feel the train
that shakes and rattles dishes as he talks.

The railroad curves avoiding corn and peas.
The train sweeps, weeping past old Walt’s disease.

 

A Frosty Love

 

It seems I’ve lost my way amidst your chill.

Was only yesterday our love abloom

but your intemperance a wanton spill

of words as cold and listless as the tomb.

I’ve wasted quite away from your cold draft.

A sullen gray has settled on my head

and you, your frozen pauses, seem quite daft.

My heart endangered by your talk, instead.

Oh, rose of romance, bent amid the drift

I pray the sun will waken this cold trend.

Will love , now lost before your sullen shift

be gone and dead and never come again? 

A warmer, kinder glance, a tilt or phrase

might yet, my icy sadness, you erase.