Tag Archives: Rhyme

Poinsettias (a pantoum)

A vase of red poinsettias,
with blooms all tinged with gold,
sits atop a mirrored cabinet
that reflects her pictures from years ago.

With blooms all tinged with gold,
a glittering of yesterday
reflecting pictures from years ago,
An illuminate display.

A glittering of yesterday
fills a world my mother dreams.
An illuminate display,
her youth, sparkling in scenes.

The world she fills with dreams
reflect the mirrored cabinet:
her youth, sparkling in scenes,
with a vase of red poinsettias.

A noisy door helps me write (a villanelle)

Opening wooden doors that creak, something went awry.
A spatial sense of order, withdrawn in disarray.
Shutting closed I pass on through, the other side blue sky.

On ladders and embankments, I reach or try to climb.
The pieces always ticking while the motions are in play
Opening wooden doors that creak, something went awry.

Tip-toeing down older roads, hopping over grime,
Slipping over some misstep, it’s difficult to convey. Shutting closed I pass on through, the other side blue sky.

Crafting paths on tile and gravel out of sticks and rhyme.
None are quiet, some are speaking loudly in the fray. Opened creaking, wooden doors. Something went awry.

Careful with the word choice. It happens all the time.
The only advantage in supercilious display
closing shut. I pass the other blue side, the sky.

All this confusion while I wander in my mind.
Noises in their speaking voice carry me away.
I opened wooden doors and something creaking went awry.
I shut the door and pass on others, through to bluer skies.

Diversity

A billion snowflakes fallen down; the sky’s pale light sings them aground.

A population filled with wist over winter’s grey-ness, quiet bliss.

Each one designed of fractal flair; together in surrounding air

covering grass and plants and trees

woven in a blanket freeze.

In silence of a winter sleep

until the sun and tulips peep.

Then drips of water feed the ground and life returns in sights and sound.

And something made so singular moves in tandem in the world.

Solitary beauty at its birth –

flowing through to share its worth.

And so in moments cold, dispersed- all in beauty shown diverse

leads to something else, embrace it differently someplace.

Tarantella

Something that whipped in the wind brought me out in it,

crackling across as a swirl in the night.

Stepping and rattling the tambourine rhythm in

arguments fostered in melodious spite.

Here we are dancing an old tarantella

upping the stakes in each course or turn.

The constant accelerate twirling and gaiting

until we are much to invested to adjourn.

The tune that accompanies us in our effort

accelerandos to meet our estate.

Constantly raising the tensed dance hysteria

and we are now breathless and tired of debate.

Wouldn’t a tango be more aptly suited?

Or maybe a waltz or a foxtrot to try?

The steps, they are beautiful, motions in tandem.

No one is upstaged and nothing goes awry.

Here as I ponder the dance steps of politics,

tightening my tambourine skin here and there.

Adding a jingle to increase the rattle

in this tarantella, poetic warfare.

Sowing (for Christmas)

It’s all La-dee-dah until it’s go-go-go.

There’s not much spirit unless there’s snow,

Ornamental twinkles in lights aglow

with fa la lahs and the ho ho ho.

And joy and hope and peace are hung,

reminders of a flower sprung

in our midst. Now with our tongues

the joy, the hope and peace are sung.

Yet those upon this world are tired.

Each and every age transpired

without the love and peace desired,

despite the joy and hope that’s squired.

Though darkness settles, spends the night,

morning always brings us light.

Thus we hope. Our homes bedight

with ornamental air alight.

And in this yearly journey shown,

though some desist and some bemoan,

mankind’s joy and hope are sown

and Love is sprung again and grown.

Scratching Frost

Ahead of my steps in linear course, 
the shovel scritches back and forth
- a sound that scatters with the snow
and bits of debris ground below.

As I amble across the drive
the scratching noise itself derives.
A haul gets tossed to the edge,
bits fall wayside, marking a ledge.

This song in concert with my walk
could not be heard with snowplow squawk-
rumbling in the cold grey air
tossing snow, making bare

the concrete surface on which I stand.
The scraping by a shovel in hand,
the detail frost and snow aligned,
showing what I've left behind.

And as the chore has come to close
I look back at the path I chose.
Leaning on the shovel there,
snow still falling everywhere.

The best way out is always through – Robert Frost

Seasons

Standing next to the brick wall to gain a view on an edge,
I see seedlings of a future beginning to assert their presence in a distant hedge.
A clutch of vines hold firm to their path in runners along the wall.
Green patches vie in the foreground, soon to fill the emptiness with crawl.
It all fosters a belief in rebirth. Yet that requires a conviction in the death of things in every place
when what happens is metamorphosis on a pace approaching eye level.
I see a world that sleeps, then grows to the horizon.
In ten years or so, this garden will all be changed and enlightened
from point-to-point, the severity of existence rearranged.
The florets, grasses, leaves, and life with its meandering display,
just as the vine that climbs the wall wrestles with the moment,
the energy of infinity wins out as nature foments.

*Photograph taken by me in March 2019 at the Gardens of Kylemore Abbey, Connemara, Ireland.

In kind

We were asked some time ago
to cover our ears and let it go.
As sounds of untruths filled the air
boasting promise (false), laid bare.
Asking us to ignore it all
to hear no evil was the call.

Then one day, we’re cautioned: wise
to keep our distance so no one dies,
to simply cover our mouths to spare.
We close salons and bars, daycare
so those at risk among us most
won’t pay excessive, deadly costs.

And whilst we’re dealt pandemic blows,
mankind’s poor character flaws disclose
an image in the mirror mulled.
Never spoken, but we’ve culled
an awful sinful, biased slant
that fills a cup we won’t decant.

And here we are today with this:
in basic calls we are remiss.
Simple facts to call out lies
and to hold account the ones who try.
To care enough to save the weak
and act on what our family speaks.

No politics that I can name
outweighs this simple, common claim:
mere decency should be our aim.

Isolation

Once among a growing cluster
Can a flower bloom alone?

Will a single word not rhymed
still take on poetic tones?

Does a song without its chorus
soar in hearts, fill a home?

Can a single buzzing bee
pollinate without the swarm?

Will I write if no one listens
In our isolation?

The solitary bumblebee
seeks and finds the pollen source.

A melody alone can cause
a tear, a smile from lonely hearts.

While a single word won’t rhyme
another one will build a verse.

And single blossoms here and there
dot and beautify the earth.

And here, myself in solitude
I craft this poem without remorse.

Portamento

As if the sunrise welled and overflowed,
an inkling of light, then creation bestowed.
Anticipation moments pass
from intra-chordal throes,
at last to grounded melody in phrase.

Or let me express in other ways;
a passion builds in smaller plays.

First, the pedal points of tone suffice,
a basis for embracing life.
Like moon and stars and sunlight greet
the common ground beneath our feet.

Tunes of commonality composed
above this founding base suppose
synchronicity imbued,
and many intervals accrue.

Yet, with the suspense here to next
a lingered moment’s desired effect
mellifluous, and tasting sweet,
such to sweep you off your feet.

As memories are long and vast
our songs with portamento last.