blue green opal tucked
within rings of solid gold
october’s gemstone.
fiery flashes
sparkling illumination
bright dalliances.
delicate wire twists
displaying earth’s opulence
captured in one stone.
slipped on slim finger
a ring for all the ages
smooth and elegant.
more than 800 miles stretched before us
upon leaving home early this morning
with 300 strong horses to serve us
we conquered the road, 4 wheels a’turning
but summer’s freeways hold pitfalls galore:
roadwork, collisions, detours, and potholes
soon our horses could stretch their legs no more
the brakes were applied more than our throttles.
with technology we looked to the skies
and soon plotted a course for our horses
our new path allowed those miles to fly by
thanks to heaven for satellite choices!
our route now is open; traffic is clear
the steeds are running in their highest gear.
Studly Doright is responsible for much of this poem, most of which was composed as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic on I65.
two bikes in the back
of an old blue pickup truck
red striped straps hold firm.
a long way to go
Fayetteville, Arkansas, bound
settled in the cab.
bypass truckers’ stops
favoring mom and pop shops
plain country cooking.
Good conversation
with a real good man, my man;
wonder if he knows…
that these shared journeys
mean much more to me than where
this old road might go.
Not our truck. Not our bikes. But you get the idea!
Not anymore, but there was a time
When laundry piled up in baskets
And toys cluttered the floors.
Our mornings were hectic
Nothing ever in its place.
Keys always missing and
Lunch money dispersed.
Backpacks with homework,
Field trip permission forms, and
Last minute projects forgotten til 8.
Life was chaotic, messy; an adventure.
Gate changes and delays
harried young mother
wearing infant son
towing another;
frazzled.
Distraught debutante clicking
three-inch louboutins;
furious glimpses of
red against gray
tiled floors.
Hawaiian-shirted tourist
clutching camera close
strap flapping on
printed purple
hibiscus.
Hipster dude in black framed
glasses, reading kerouac
while moving his lips
to the pure beat of
a lost generation.
Elderly passenger, bound
for Tokyo; cancelled
flight, long missed
connection results
in frantic call.
Written in response to the Daily Post’s daily prompt: Turn, Turn, Turn. Which season do you look forward to most?
Serve me a large mug of Autumn:
Oranges, golds, yellows, and
Browns
Fires on crisp October
Evenings.
Sweaters, hoodies, woolen
Socks
Broken-in blue jeans and a
Soft blue barn coat–
Flannel lined.
High school football,
After game party
Hay rack rides
S’mores cooked to perfection.
Delicious chill in the air
Tailor-made for cuddling.
Trick-or-treating and
Jack-o’lanterns
Hot apple ciders and chocolate
With marshmallows.
Fill my mug again.
there is a diverse cluster of angels
arranged in an vague approximation
of a semi-circle on the third shelf
of a bookcase in my living room.
the tallest among the collection,
a beautiful Isabel Blume piece
soars among her sisters, holding
high a pink ribbon of survival.
a gift from my daughter, the angel
commands and deserves center stage.
her siblings provide clues to
places visited by my friends and me.
a brightly colored fabric angel hails
from guatemala. she is plump and
comforting and is the only seraphim
I know who sports black pigtails.
two cherubim, one tiny and one merely
small, serenely smile, clutching plaster
lambs to their white plaster chests.
another guatemalan angel, created from
old, rolled sheet music soundlessly
sings praises to heaven above.
there are several others gathered there,
some sitting on books. i imagine they
read late into the night so from time
to time i rearrange them for variety.
one inexplicably holds a marble. i have
no idea where the marble came from, but
it seems appropriate in the angel’s hands.
sixes and sevens charged headlong,
vying for first place in an
imaginary race to the monkey bars,
and the seesaws, and the slide.
Texas panhandle playground, dirt-covered
unkind to bared legs on cold, windy days
while archaic dress codes demanded
dresses be worn by little girls.
disregarding weather, firm, yet kind
educators shepherded their charges into
stinging maelstroms of gravelly sand.
it was for teachers’ sanity no doubt.
some days impromptu games of
following a self-appointed leader
consumed recess time, effectively
socially sorting first graders at play.
teeth were sometimes lost as children
clamored for a spot on the merry-go-round;
noggins often took bumps and lumps
slipping through monkey bars.
tears weren’t uncommon; neither was blood.
rules were simple: don’t push,
no tattling, leave the teachers alone.
tough, necessary playground lessons.
When you call my name
my lonely heart holds its breath
afraid of loving.
So whisper the words
tell me you need me always
but don’t say my name.
for names hold power
as every lover knows
a twist in the gut.
Peace, people!
I’m a bad ass cat
poised for adventure and fun.
watch me as I pounce!
Ill let you pet me
my bad self craves attention
man, just keep it real.
Don’t turn your back, Jack,
I’ll get you every time
I’m a bad ass cat.
Praying for Eyebrowz 