The Poet’s House – Spring

Found art in a used book. I colored Spring in a b&w image.

Translucence
follows suit
of gray doves -gone.
Hope circles, in the sky
orbit
sharp green blades
that lie low
in soil, kneaded
with nimble thoughts
to sprout joy.

It is not spring in Massachusetts. It is spring in Jeanne’s attic, where all such things are stored.

Talk

I had a conversation with myself this morning. I rambled on and on about what I would do with my day time. I finally decided to sit down at my desk and write. Write out a long, drawn out rehearsal of time passing.

When I looked up from the lonely computer screen, you were no longer sitting in the comfortable chair across from me. You had started the car engine. The revving noise, a distant dream. You, a train destined to an orbiting sky full of scenes. The very scenes I had written down in stars.

Of nonstop writing
I was swallowed.
Of staring out windows
I once wallowed.
Imagining animal talk
and shadow dances.
Us, lurking
in dark spaces
set to music.
Finding words
to match the rhythm
rolling in ink.

Lonely Author

I notice daily, Andrew, at The Lonely Author blog is missing from this community of writers. For quite a while now.

Please join me in sending healing vibes… Hope his heart ache (in many ways) finds healing soon.

Miss your words and friendship.
Be well soon Andrew,

The Word Press Community ✍🏼

Good gravy!

Where are these people?

Where do I start this morning? I need to go away… I cannot read another word. I am tired of humanity.

We have beaten down everything around us except ourselves. I love this Mark Twain quote which came through a social media feed.

Right?! You!? Let us all take a little blame for the world’s common craziness! We all play a part in this satirical melodrama.

And in the same breath, I must say enough of the media flogging us. What good are beaten-up people? We can do some introspection, do our part to heal our neighborhoods and homes. We can be reasonable people and still have a healthy ego.

Not all of us are selfless enough to abandon our lives. But we should stop on occasion and take inventory on how we conduct ourselves daily.

Take small steps. Then take some more. Good Gravy is never rushed. But eventually, with constant stirring, we can enjoy our mashed potatoes. And share them with humanity.

The Poet’s House -Winter

Leaden footed winter.
Lumbering elephantine.

A pieced poverty of color
the house close-mouthed.
Silvery shards,
a fence frosted, still erect.
Leaden footprints of anticipation,
the tulips and daffodils quilled.

(I found a black and white print of “The Poet’s House” in a second-hand book. Artist unknown. I added seasonal color. This is winter.)