A DEEP, COOL MEADOW
Dedicated to my late sister, Suzanne who would have been sixty-five today.
July 8, 2012
As I sit in the deep, cool meadow
nor making a sound,
The birds greet each other wildly
with melodic notes.
Joyful flowers nod hello
to the jumbling bumblebees.
Innocent creatures who name it home,
gather, hop, sip, and nibble
conducting business of the woods.
If I sit in the deep, cool meadow
no words or gestures to disturb,
if I listen, closely listen
will I hear the words of God?
If I raise not voice or hand
only watch with marveling eye
at this world that blooms, sprouts,
is born or hatched, then
wilts, dies, and born again,
Will I see the hand of God?
As I sit the deep, cool meadow
standing as temporary sentinel,
knowing no man has any claim to it’s existence.
Even a single green leaf
is beyond his abilities.
Though he boasts of worlds full,
no credit or thanks does man deserve.
As I sit in the deep, cool meadow,
I humbly thank the First Creator.
I, too, am one of these perfect creations,
who will pass quickly pass through.
I can only hope to hear the call
that will lead me home, again
to the deep, cool meadow and you.
tanka(delicate red rose)
delicate red rose
thornless fragrant offering
lies rejected, torn
love’s guileless gift shredded, crushed
by fear disguised as wisdom
SHADES OF GRAY
Time was when good and bad stood granite-firm to me.
Years passed, edges crumbled, distinctions ceased to be.
Rules bent, black and white bled, face values swirled away
Leaving me alone and lost, muddled by shades of gray.
It depends my mantra. Of tolerance I'd brag.
I waved my amorality like a sovereign flag.
Like attracts like I learned much to my great dismay.
Anarchistic selfishness thrived on shades of gray.
Experience taught me well. Values, limits, rules -
Breaking and ignoring most is the work of fools.
I suspect I'm tolerant as most you'll find today.
Seldom see black or white. Just fewer shades of gray.
calla lily's pose
art nouveau aristocrat
flawless golden sprite
wrapped within a waxen cloak
garden's undisputed queen
Molly is a puppy.
She likes to run and run.
Molly likes to chew things.
She thinks it’s lots of fun.
Molly chewed the book, and
the corner of the rug.
Mommy spanked her bottom.
All Molly did was shrug.
Molly found a wire--
The lamp missed Molly’s head.
Mommy’s heart stopped beating.
Surprise! They’re both not dead!
Molly chewed the sofa,
Both antique side chairs, too.
Daddy said to Mommy,
“Oh, well. Buy something new.”
Wrote this little poem
while Molly ate my pen
and sat on my notebook
before running off again.
ONE MORE DRAM
Coleman was of sportin' blood, when shined up on his liquor,
keen to smile and quick with guile, his boot knife even quicker.
He dealt his game on felted fields, in barrooms bloused in smoke.
He'd bait his line, and bide his time, to pick some miner's poke.
He claimed he'd never stooped to cheat, but merely played the drift.
"They make mistakes, and I do not. Skill has no call to grift."
But those who lost weren't all convinced he wasn't peelin' tricks.
"It's bad enough to lose our pokes, 'thout bein' played for hicks."
So Coleman always watched his back, and kept a fast horse saddled.
More than once he'd tipped his hat, and into dark skedaddled.
But even men who count the odds will sometimes bust a straight.
And once the Lady Hearts rears up--too late to slam the gate.
Another muddy mining camp, a vein all but picked clean.
Though Coleman sussed he must ride on, to pastures gold or green,
he could not get his boots to budge, so called a game instead;
for one more night, and one more rite of passage in her bed.
Her only name was Queenie, and she sashayed royal airs.
Her pretty face and fine French lace disguised less comely wares.
She made a pact with Hatchet Jack to cook the gambler's goose.
If pulled right slick, this dirty trick, the gambler'd face the noose.
The Queen and Jack had both heard tell of Coleman's hidden stash.
A ransom rife, to pawn his life, and deck the Queen in cash.
Coleman'd dealt the pasteboards clean, but Jack slipped in a ringer.
An extra ace, in perfect place, and Coleman's framed the swinger.
Before the mob could knot the rope, the Queen and Jack stepped in,
and whisked the gambler to a cave, as if to save his skin.
"Just tell us where you've hid your hoard, we'll deem it our fair pay,
and set you loose to slip the noose, and gallop on your way."
Now Coleman'd never lived so long by trusting those who cheat.
He knew his hand was deuce-tray weak, with fatal odds to beat.
He had no cache, no buried stash to bargain for his life.
He'd just one chance to duck this dance--his trusty booted knife.
He never saw Cole's lightning wrist, but Jack soon got the thrust.
One royal scream--turned sightless dream--Queen wide-eyed in the dust.
Some claim he 'scaped to Mazatlan, lived peaceful on the lam.
But that ain't so. You want to know? Best pour me one more dram.