Sunday Muse # 145

 pristine and inviting

maybe for some

however

nothing could  lure me away

from a white sandy beach

under a bright blue sky

the only snow i will ever see again

is in my freezer

due for defrosting

Writers Pantry # 55

Weekly Scribblings # 54

 she had always known

life was not a bed of roses

so for most of it

she lived with

her head in the clouds

 

everyone said one day

her feet would  

 hit the ground

with a reality jolt

 

the surprise was

she had managed somehow

to live with

her head  in the clouds

unaware

her  feet were firmly planted on the ground

for most of the time

Writers' Pantry # 54

 socially distanced

on a hot summers day

two shadows

watch the walkers

eyes glued

to their phones

 

none of them saw

the little white sailing boat

which just slipped over the horizon

Weekly Scribblings # 53

 Hatsuyume  ...  the first dream of the new year

 

a dream come true

he leaves

good riddance 

never to return

i hope

 

 

Uzumbi ...buried fire

in nancy pelosi's belly

 

 she's 80

indomitable

fearless 

tsuki zoru 

with  frozen moon determination

she rips

trump's state of the union speech into shreds

 

 

 

zuiun

the clouds predict

a better year

a little hope

on the horizon

 ryokuru

 

it will take time 

to clean up the devastation

after the storm

 one day

the sun will shine

through the leaves again

Lurline Bay.. Writers Pantry # 53

 

a moment's  respite

in a world gone mad

lurline bay

 

 

another blow

the lovely  old ferries are being scrapped

it never ends

early last century

victorians idea of a  a fun day out 

jaws of death

the grown ups

always looked so beautiful

when she was a child

she couldn't wait

Weekly Scribblings # 52 Erasure poem

 

isn't it clear

the black path i walk

 thinking

if the doors of my heart ever close

i am as good as dead

every morning so far i'm, alive

now break the darkness

and burst up into the sky

 

 

 

 

Landscape by Mary Oliver

 

Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

 

 

Benjamin Luxon I will give my love an apple