Scrapped


Ideas (half-baked) which used to glow

With an inner promise of beauty

When turned around and placed

With their feet on the ground

Dissolved into the dust of the brain

Tossed into the gutter, with rain pattering

against their feeble souls, their ink washed away

And running down the drain

Scrapped and thrown to the side like wrapping paper

on Christmas Afternoon

Undercooked thoughts

Have a dreadful fate.

The Season Loop


“I was tricked!” screamed the tree

As the wind squealed and screamed,

Dragging its new leaves in an unseen bag

He scattered the lot and soon forgot

About the Beech screaming bloody murder behind.

And onto the next, to plunder and vex the great big Oaks,

And the Aspens and especially the Maples

And old Mr. Wind  swept up his collection and got out his paint.

It was a nice clear solution, and he spread it on the cowering leaves backs.

And they turned rusty red and burnt orange and sad

And eventually crumbled to dust.

And that was was when Wind began to laugh and spin

And raged the whole world over

But when Summer’s rays, broke through the haze,

It started all over again.

 

 

Strips of Summer


Strips of summer

Raining down

Like pictures from a photo booth

Fragments of tarnished memories

Long bike rides

Even longer trips in the car

Pool noodles and inner tubes

And the bonfire at the beach

Reading books

And growing gardens

Crazy pyrotechnics

Long green grass

And lazy days….

Memories smothered in summer haze.

News


Fresh, clean

A new sheet of paper

To reboot, recharge, replay

New is empty,

Sometimes full

New year,

New month,

New day.

Quiet and waiting

Eager to begin

With a scent not unlike

The first day of school.

Plummed


Purple, plump

Back of the game board

How pleasant to sit

Under a plum tree

Rotund, casual

Pits aplenty

In the slow

Summer hours

Petite, patient, perfect

Absolutely plummy

This golden afternoon.

 

Rising Asleep and Waking Down


What a backwards world!

We’d rise to our dreams

And plunge back down,

Away from the strange land,

To find ourselves back in our head

At the alarm clock’s call

Waking down in the middle of the night

Is always quite awful;

Kicked out of Cloud Nine

Because our hosting bed was complaining.

Insomniacs must be very down-to-earth,

And deep-sleepers are likely heavy dreamers,

Eager to escape.