Seeds

I am the flower

Picked fresh on a summer’s morn

Drops of dew glisten

You are the ripe fruit

Harvested ‘neath autumn’s moon

Full-bodied and crisp

We are the slim seeds

Laid to rest with promises

Of life beyond soil

I was listening to tales of Woodstock on the radio this morning while running errands around Tallahassee. This summer marks the 50th anniversary of the famed music festival. I’d tell you I was there, but that would be a lie. I was only 12, and my taste in music was pretty bland.

At any rate my poem was inspired by Joni Mitchell (who wasn’t at Woodstock either) and her song, “We Are Stardust.”

https://youtu.be/cRjQCvfcXn0

Peace, people.

Closure

The righteous will say,

No closure for the wicked

No rest for the hordes

Rail on for justice,

For resolution’s balance

For a sign of peace

Dove’s wings are tangled

Within the hawk’s taloned fists

Your closure, his claws

I began writing about one kind of closure, but my words wandered into a different place.

Peace, people.

Reservations

Discarded baby

Doll’s kewpie mouth serenely

Smiles while cars drive by

Note: I was driving down the busy interstate yesterday and noticed a vintage style doll sprawled carelessly on the shoulder of the road. No other detritus surrounded the discarded doll. Weird, right? I’d have gone back to retrieve her, but I-10 isn’t all that conducive to stopping.