Spring Break
No freshman
on the beach
bikini clad beach balls
No umbrella clad
mai tai's
sustence for late evening
indulgences
No college girls gone wild
baring what they have
hiding what they don't
No male hotties
strutting to the tune
tits and ass
I'm going to sleep
till noon
clean house
and eat
out!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Blogs of the days -- March 18, 19, 20, 21, 22
OMG, my plan to write a poem a day on this blog is faltering! Okay, so here they are, five poems (sigh). Count 'em down.
March 18th
we put away
no corned beef
we ate it
we threw away
cabbage
phew
we ate
cold carrots
for a late night snack
we fried
potatoes for breakfast
yum
St. Patrick's Day
escapes our culinary designs
for another
year
March 19th
Sunday
sleeps in
'neath mile-high
comforters
while rain sleet and snow
reigns
March 20th
Monday blues
Tuesday too's
Wednesday drowsy
Thursday pouty
Friday wake
Saturday break
Sunday muse for
Monday blues
March 21st
Spring Solstice
Balmy breeze
chase away the north wind
cajole waiting lillies
from their warm nests
tease feathery royals into birth
future plums of the summer
warm the laconic land
and bring
spring
March 22nd
Forty at dawn
forty-five mid-morning
fifty at noon
fifty-eight as the school bus
corners the street
sixty greens the roses
until
forty claims the night
March 18th
we put away
no corned beef
we ate it
we threw away
cabbage
phew
we ate
cold carrots
for a late night snack
we fried
potatoes for breakfast
yum
St. Patrick's Day
escapes our culinary designs
for another
year
March 19th
Sunday
sleeps in
'neath mile-high
comforters
while rain sleet and snow
reigns
March 20th
Monday blues
Tuesday too's
Wednesday drowsy
Thursday pouty
Friday wake
Saturday break
Sunday muse for
Monday blues
March 21st
Spring Solstice
Balmy breeze
chase away the north wind
cajole waiting lillies
from their warm nests
tease feathery royals into birth
future plums of the summer
warm the laconic land
and bring
spring
March 22nd
Forty at dawn
forty-five mid-morning
fifty at noon
fifty-eight as the school bus
corners the street
sixty greens the roses
until
forty claims the night
Friday, March 17, 2006
BotD -- March 17th 2006
St. Patrick's Day.
You drove the snakes
out of Ireland?
Not!
You were an important
part of my life?
Right!
So stop
wait
you ignited people
your actions evoked myths
traveled to far off countries
settled with your countrymen
evolved
and came to mean for me
not just Corned Beef and Cabbage
or the wearin' of the green
because you
formed a connection
more than time
more than space
we are connected though
my belief
in you
You drove the snakes
out of Ireland?
Not!
You were an important
part of my life?
Right!
So stop
wait
you ignited people
your actions evoked myths
traveled to far off countries
settled with your countrymen
evolved
and came to mean for me
not just Corned Beef and Cabbage
or the wearin' of the green
because you
formed a connection
more than time
more than space
we are connected though
my belief
in you
Thursday, March 16, 2006
BotD -- March 14-15-16
March 16th
Who is packing your parachute? I got this forwarded e-mail, usually junk mail I delete, but for some reason I stopped and read the first few lines. They caught my interest, hence this blog. Charles Plumb, Navy pilot, shot down over Vietnam, POW for 6 years, sitting in a restaurant with his wife, up comes a man states that he knows him, he packed his parachute ... saved his life.
Okay, so what's the point? The lines that follow caught my interest, "Now, Plumb asks his audience, "Who's packing your parachute?" Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day."
Yes, that's true. Those unappreciated, unidentified, someones who provide what we need to make it through the day. Whoever packed your lunch, gave you Tylenol for a headache, let you in traffic, cleaned the bathroom, washed your clothes, watched your kids, gave you a hug when you felt sad. Even more basic, those someones who milked the cows, cleaned the grocery store, picked the strawberries, climbed the telephone pole and restored your service, all of those someones.
So, the next time someone annoys you, remember, that person may have packed your parachute today. Say thanks instead.
invisible
unnoticed
unextraordinary
you
have done
visible
noticed
and extraordinary things
for me
thank you
March 15th
march
in las vegas
warming up
plum trees with blossoms
rose bushes
purple faces peep through
the thorns
as snowflakes
descend
March 14th
I want
turkey legs
I growl
Suddenly
small legs pump
rugs out of the way
arms thrown into
the air
screams punctuate the
action
as I growling
tickle feet
legs and faces
when you're three
everything tickles.
Who is packing your parachute? I got this forwarded e-mail, usually junk mail I delete, but for some reason I stopped and read the first few lines. They caught my interest, hence this blog. Charles Plumb, Navy pilot, shot down over Vietnam, POW for 6 years, sitting in a restaurant with his wife, up comes a man states that he knows him, he packed his parachute ... saved his life.
Okay, so what's the point? The lines that follow caught my interest, "Now, Plumb asks his audience, "Who's packing your parachute?" Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day."
Yes, that's true. Those unappreciated, unidentified, someones who provide what we need to make it through the day. Whoever packed your lunch, gave you Tylenol for a headache, let you in traffic, cleaned the bathroom, washed your clothes, watched your kids, gave you a hug when you felt sad. Even more basic, those someones who milked the cows, cleaned the grocery store, picked the strawberries, climbed the telephone pole and restored your service, all of those someones.
So, the next time someone annoys you, remember, that person may have packed your parachute today. Say thanks instead.
invisible
unnoticed
unextraordinary
you
have done
visible
noticed
and extraordinary things
for me
thank you
March 15th
march
in las vegas
warming up
plum trees with blossoms
rose bushes
purple faces peep through
the thorns
as snowflakes
descend
March 14th
I want
turkey legs
I growl
Suddenly
small legs pump
rugs out of the way
arms thrown into
the air
screams punctuate the
action
as I growling
tickle feet
legs and faces
when you're three
everything tickles.
Monday, March 13, 2006
BofD -- March 12 and 13
Oops, I didn't post yesterday so here are two.
March 12th
simmering
just below the surface
it lives in smiles
a death's head grin
bubbles in rage
and then sinks to wait
again.
March13th
when did anger
become such a part
of my life
who I am
what I do
what I say
and when will it
stop
March 12th
simmering
just below the surface
it lives in smiles
a death's head grin
bubbles in rage
and then sinks to wait
again.
March13th
when did anger
become such a part
of my life
who I am
what I do
what I say
and when will it
stop
Saturday, March 11, 2006
BofD -- March 11, 2006
A poem a day -- I need a change of scenery.. external and internal.
The news gets worse every day, war, bombings, people dying, natural disasters. I almost hate to see what is new. And I suspect that marketing compels the media to make events sound more than what they are, more disastrous, more horrible, more whatever, to sell the news, to sell the sponsor's products, to sell sell sell.
So I'm reading about Emily Dickinson, the poetess from Amhurst, Mass. Her desire for solitude, her genius in writing poetry, her desire for privacy, and now we have to guess from what little remains who she was, why she was a recluse and what her poetry means. Not, have to; want to. So what does my poetry mean? What does anyone's poetry mean? By me.....
it snowed today
brief white flakes
drifting in solitary solumnity
exhaling in momentary freedom and youth
until individuality becomes anonyminity
falling onto street, car, tree, grass
and melting into
obscurity
The news gets worse every day, war, bombings, people dying, natural disasters. I almost hate to see what is new. And I suspect that marketing compels the media to make events sound more than what they are, more disastrous, more horrible, more whatever, to sell the news, to sell the sponsor's products, to sell sell sell.
So I'm reading about Emily Dickinson, the poetess from Amhurst, Mass. Her desire for solitude, her genius in writing poetry, her desire for privacy, and now we have to guess from what little remains who she was, why she was a recluse and what her poetry means. Not, have to; want to. So what does my poetry mean? What does anyone's poetry mean? By me.....
it snowed today
brief white flakes
drifting in solitary solumnity
exhaling in momentary freedom and youth
until individuality becomes anonyminity
falling onto street, car, tree, grass
and melting into
obscurity
Friday, March 10, 2006
BofD -- March 5, 2006
Barney Fife
where are you?
your wide smile
wider eyes
arms akimbo
Barney,
the Sheriff is looking
for you
his hair is white
his tall straight figure
bowed
and his eyes wet
with the tears
of your
departure
where are you?
your wide smile
wider eyes
arms akimbo
Barney,
the Sheriff is looking
for you
his hair is white
his tall straight figure
bowed
and his eyes wet
with the tears
of your
departure
BotD -- March 6, 2006
Lois Lane
has gone
Superman departed
first
the smile slowly fading as
he returned to
his planet from whence
he arrived
young strong free
but Lois Lane
without Superman
fled the halls of Justice
sank weeping upon the frozen throne
and departed
while the spirit
of the American Way
wept
has gone
Superman departed
first
the smile slowly fading as
he returned to
his planet from whence
he arrived
young strong free
but Lois Lane
without Superman
fled the halls of Justice
sank weeping upon the frozen throne
and departed
while the spirit
of the American Way
wept
BotD -- March 8, 2006
I am working
sdrawkcab
in time
inexorably drawing
efil
out of myself
onto my
nep
until finally
deniard
time unnervingly
straped
sdrawkcab
in time
inexorably drawing
efil
out of myself
onto my
nep
until finally
deniard
time unnervingly
straped
BotD -- March 9, 2006
Post
post now
post
post right now
post
staring back
at me
the stodgy blog
demands
my heart soul blood
post post post post post
posit
oops
post now
post
post right now
post
staring back
at me
the stodgy blog
demands
my heart soul blood
post post post post post
posit
oops
Blog of the Day -- March 10, 2006
A poem a day?
Restlessly
They scamper
Thought by thought
Skipping through
The recesses of my mind
Until weary of their
Playful taunts
They depart
And sleep
arrives
Restlessly
They scamper
Thought by thought
Skipping through
The recesses of my mind
Until weary of their
Playful taunts
They depart
And sleep
arrives
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October in Vermont 2007
