Saturday Breakfast Party

It’s Saturday morning. I’m soon to make my son his favorite Saturday breakfast, pancakes, but today, just maybe, he’ll want a bit more.

Stone Soup

If you’re to attract the finest of friends,
the stones must be smooth, as smooth
as robins’ eggs and as deeply blue.
Ogres refuse to swallow jagged stones

and most sprites are partial to heaven’s complexion.
Serve it hot on cloudy mornings, a bit cooler
when the sun shines. Trolls enjoy sprigs
of dandelions flavoring their feast, while leprechauns

insist on clovers, well grounded, four leafed.
Goblins will bring honey to sweeten your pot
singing melodies of dark places, shadows
and caves. Now go. I said go and search

for those stones, the smooth ones, like eggs,
with a deepish blue hue. Set the water to boil
and listen for songs. It’s your friends,
hungry friends, waiting there by your door.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Me Time.”

Goblin Honey

I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna write a book of children’s poetry – magical stuff!! Perhaps this poem, inspired by a WordPress prompt, will be a part of my book.

Goblin Honey

When you visit, we’ll have tea:
oolong or rooibos, herbal or blooming.
Perhaps hot water flavored with a drizzle
of honey harvested by the goblins

that hide in the thickets when most folk
walk by. I know their names
and they all know mine. There’s Miolock
and Klobinpot, Topinfoul and Lolliot.

Indeed, their fangs, like daggers,
hang from their mouths as icicles
from a gutter and a fur as course
as wire sprouts from the muscled hulk

of their beings, but, if kept busy
hiding from strangers and harvesting honey,
they are happy to dip fingers into the sugar
and savor the sweetness they’ve worked hard

to produce and they’ll share with it with others
whose voices are kind, who, like them,
enjoy the hum of bees and the bobble of wildflowers
batting the wind. Their, in the cubbard…please

take all the honey you’d like, but of course
there’s tea: oolong or rooibos, herbal or blooming.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Local Flavor.”

#poetry

We’ve Seen Enough

Generally, I enjoy a good snow, I enjoy eath’s February complexion, but, today, even I look to to the promise of spring. And yes, it snowed again last night. Looking out the window, sipping my coffee, I began to write.

February 22, 2015

We’ve seen enough
of the snow that burdens
the thin limbs, each branch
coated with a white,
white as bone,
so the trees skulk
like skeletons in the yards,
behind the houses,
twisted arms and fingers
choking, choking.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Plot of Earth.”

Their Hands

It’s cold. This morning, when I left for work, the temperature was four below zero. Sheesh!! I started thinking spring, and trees, and warmth. Now home from work, I share a simple poem, a warm poem, in part, born from cold.

Their Hands

I’d like to nest
beneath an oak,
its limbs as knarled

as an ancient man’s fingers,
consider its shadow
as my children,

bouncing through
the warmth of an aging
afternoon, wave at me,

their hands
rising from the tall grass
like wildflowers.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tourist Trap.”

Back to School

I’ve always been impressed with the poetry of William Carlos Williams. Williams was a leading member of the Imagist Movement. “Imagism was a movement in early 20th-century Anglo-American poetry that favored precision of imagery and clear, sharp language.” Often, I try to mimic the imagist style. Here’s an effort.

School Book Room

Behind the shelves
the shelves

where books
are stacked

like bricks
mice scurry

through an unswept
dark

on feet
sugared

with the bright
powder

of yellow
chalk.

The Worth of Blood and Breath

This is a very experimental piece for me. It’s Tuesday night, 10:58. I need to et some rest. I’ll return tomorrow and see if some sleep altered my point-of-view.

In a Moment

Let the cat
crouch

behind the watering
can, the mouse
gather fallen

seeds beneath
the birdfeeder.

This is where
death

and life
sit, withered
men

in a barber shop
trading stories:
the good, old days

when breath
and blood

retained
their worth.

The cat
will pounce.
The mouse

will live
or die.

Tis the way.
Old friends
agree.

Moment at the Museum

This piece is still evolving. Revisions will be made. It was inspired by today’s Daily Prompt so I thought I’d post it anyway.

Museum

Silently, I’ve asked
for peace. This is more
an advance than a retreat,
to sit, to consider
the swords displayed
in glass cases, the vacant men:
suits of armor, standing
shoulder to shoulder,
clutching spears and pikes.
I listen to their stories,
see the beasts once
reflected in the polished
steel. Here, the dragons
still roar, the stench of trolls
still haunts dark halls.
The battle comes, the trumpets
blare. Blood spatters
the labyrinth’s cold stone.
I’ll bear witness to it all.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wall to Wall.”