LITTLE DANDIES

Narcissus, hyacinthsnowdrops, tulips -above the dirttheir little heads poke Not to be outdonethe dandelions sproutsure of themselvesthey know their worth.They fill the fieldscarefree, unabashedas bright as sunshinestretch the golden flood – a feast for the beesfood for the hungryrelief for the achypetals to dye forintoxicating liquorbane of the lawnmowera harbinger of wishesa torrent of sneezesa

GOING HOME

The day is done her shift is over she treads the path in the edge of twilight she lets fall her mask unburdens her load finds herself – bare, unadorned, light – like a dandelion seed she soars towards the love of her soul. ****** Linking with DVERSE POETS PUB’s Quadrille #172 – “Shift”

AUTUMNAL

A lonesome bird sings the evensonghis frantic wings beating towards home.I count my treasures in the darkwhere suggestible senses hold little sway.Moments tumbled through my fingers,flickering shadows danced by candlelight.Would that I could keep only joyful moments;somehow laughter and tears look alike in the lens of time.Could a rose be parted from her thorns and

SECRET

Your name was carved in my heart Long before I fell in love Its sound rolled as velvet in my tongue Its form gave art to my hand. And yet, and yet no one knew About this spell that turns my day From gloom to magic in a breath This secret I buried, deep within,

MUSINGS

The days become a giant clock and I, its moving hand, marking the hour remembering the time, the same as what is gone, the same as what is to come. Days, hours minutes fold into each other indistinguishable. Perhaps, it is all a trick of the mind – the walls preserve life, the walls take

TO A HYDRANGEA PAST ITS PRIME

You have lost the vibrance of your huesYour blushing pink, sweet lavender, or sky blueHave long faded into sage green leavingFaint traces of what you once wereHinting of what will be. Veins on your petals writeAll the summer days and all the stormy daysThat deepened your roots. You have changedYou are changingYet in this world

GOLD

I speak of wealth –of golden hearts and golden timeWherever I am is grandeur –golden sunrise, golden grainsgoldenrods, golden shrines I am the magic of August nightswhen fireflies flit aboutIn the gloom of winter nightsI bring hope twinkling from the heights Truly, I am beautyand treasure much desireda desire that need  be reinedas  old King

BEGINNING

The counters are still emptyThe cold floor is still cleanThe sky is still grey – The furnace wakessputtering and clanging as steam builds up. I set the coffee to percolate flour the counterfor the brioche dough prepared last night to be kneaded and braidedand tucked in the pansfor one final rise. Light spreads on the

DOODLES

The dips and arcs of a bumblebee’s flight The curve of a blade of grass laden with dewdrops The twirl of tendrils adorning pea and watermelon vines My pen traces Its gel ink glides Smoothly tracing the lines and curls Now a flower Or a butterfly Morphing into words Building a poem Until the once

SAILBOAT

My little sailboat floundersIn a sea of whispersHas it forgotten its courseAmidst so many voicesSaying go north, or south, or east, or west?My little sailboat spinsIn the currents. Is there hope for my sailboatEnsorcelled as it isBy sweet-voiced sirensHarboring evil schemes? Alas! Not the pull of the moonNor the push of the windsCould set my