Spring Whispers

SONY DSC
“Deptford in the Snow: Flowers” by Caroline CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Winter with her lonely air
Coldly scolding us inside
Sighs her last as Spring so fair
Hints arrival by and by
Warmly whispers, “it is nigh”

Soon the flowers, soon the rain
Mossy earth, and trees redressed
Longer days to Summer train
Hatchlings singing in their nest
Life’s green glory full expressed

Whispers fade, and cold winds blow
Winter still, her claim in hand
In her threadbare shrug of snow
Makes a final stoic stand
O’er the frigid, sleeping land

The Old Junk Room

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“Cottonmouth 1” by DMangus, CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The Old Junk Room

Grandpa closed the door,
and shooing me away
said, “Stay away from there.
“That room’s no place to play.”

Musty, junk-filled room,
where dusty webs and grime
and shapeless piles loomed,
just begging to be climbed.

“There are snakes in there,”
he said, and he would know.
He smiled, roughed my hair,
“Now off to bed you go.”

Scrambling into bed,
mere feet away from it,
that room so filled with dread,
I hid ‘neath Grandma’s quilt.

No attic for the junk,
no storehouse for the heaps.
Against the room I shrunk,
fearing slithering creeps.

Yellow porchlight poured,
through curtains hanging slack,
across the thin wood door
that held the serpents back.

What evil, out of view,
with belly to the floor,
would silent slither through
the gap beneath the door?

Drowsy from the day
In bed while nightmares crawled
I slept, which is to say,
I didn’t sleep at all.

The Way Things Go

tetherball
“Tetherball,” image CC0 Public Domain

Who was it that gave me the impression
That things are supposed to go a certain way?
The episodes of life, it seems, just happen
I often feel I can’t affect the day

It’s tether ball with near infinite players
I am but one, and my attempts so lame
To change the shape the path the ball follows
Won’t be missed once I have left the game

And yet I seek the solace of the tether
In metaphor as well as day to day
And to the thought remain stubbornly fettered
That things are supposed to go a certain way

Lon

lon-chaney

My bones don’t fit together
I’m a bit disjointed it seems
Ligaments act as tether
Lashing misshapen beams

My gait is all herky-jerky
With pops and grinds and snaps
I pass it off as quirky
I play it up for laughs

If my outside is ungainly
My inside is much worse
I flail around so vainly
In my inner universe

No tether for these thoughts
No audience for the dance
As I spring and twist and plotz
Through a dark and lonely manse

 

(Happy Halloween!)