Seaside
Painted sails in the wind,
trailing
colorful dreams in their
wake.
Rings around the sun. Sights
of the imagination singing
back to me in a soft voice.
Brisk salt breeze ripping
through my damp hair. The
scent of brine filling my
head.
Sand crusted limbs. Sun burnt
toes. Sound of gulls
overhead.
Off in the distance the
shoreline
vanishes into rows of dune
grass,
as billowy clouds float by.
Visual
Tactile
Aural
Odiferous
Multidimensional facets
stimulating the senses, as
painted sails glide by.
Ritual
Breakfast cooking
eggs.
Sleepy eyed, an attack of the
mundane yawns. Burnt toast!
Where did the paper go? The
cat
looks up and meows. Misplaced
glasses, jangling keys, same
crossword puzzles everyday.
Open the window to let the
world in. Outside, a
butterfly
visits a coneflower. Inside,
the coffee maker burps.
Time to shake off the morning
and step into the day. Same
routine week after week after week.
Breakfast cooking eggs
On the Shelf
I sit here and wait
for someone to come along,
and snatch me up.
like free goodies to sample
at a grocery store display.
The tasty tempting morsels
that everybody wants to try.
Who will grab this delectable
treat and claim me for their
own?
Ive sat on the shelf for far
too
long and fear that I may grow
stale,
forgotten and out of date,
pushed to the back of the
stacks.
So, wont you please
come
and get me while I last?
What We Say
Sometimes words are not
enough
But words are all you have
At times the words are
accessible
Other times they are
convoluted
You cannot take words back
Hoping things will turn out
right
It is impossible to extract
The day out of the night
You know what you want to say
You know what you need to do
But the words sour in your
mouth
And never seem to form
As you wait for the right
time
Which never seems to come
And so you continue to
Swallow your own pride
New Age
Backward spinning, idea turning, time
lost.
Trying to figure out where I
started,
or if I finished, and how I got
here.
Undefined words of peculiar
descent,
falling into sentences that
phases
never recognized, a puzzlement at
best.
Answering the call, the light goes on at
midnight.
Lucid thoughts now scrambled by the dark
night.
Did I ever make much sense
even
when the day light greeted?
Who am I to ascertain the wisdom of the
learned?
I acquiesce to the new age of
time.
A confusing language of their own
device.
Quandary, do they talk the same way that
they write?
Answer, doubtfully my dear!