The changing seasons always seem to beg for conciseness. And it is National Poetry day.
Seasons are not rounds
Each reflecting the other
Then why these same sighs?
Fall is upon us
Old winter waits patiently
Counting cricket calls
Bees make love
To the last blossoms
Of summer
A slight cooling tinge
A small cricket weariness
Sings autumn to the trees
I am pleased to say that as of this morning, I am a member of VerseWrights, which publishes both established and promising new poets. I’m delighted to be in such good company; some great stuff there. Check it out!
On the arid plains
Of lofty high principle
Reason dies swiftly
Here’s a lovely bit of magic from a splendid poet I just stumbled onto by chance. Enjoy!
*Image found HERE
*Prevod dole! 🙂
At the Pub in My Head
My upholsterer,
my carpenter,
architect, painter,
tailor and gardener
were seated at a table,
searching for an ailment
in the beer,
a tired listener
inside one another.
The architect said:
“You should have seen
the look on her face
when she opened the door
and saw no columns!”
He gulped the hop
and moved in his seat,
closer to the secret.
“She told me that she wanted
a bedroom
the size of a coliseum,
walls engraved in stone leaves
and she wanted
the arches to reminisce
howling wolves,
heck! She even asked me to build
the whole thing
as tho it was on the Moon!
I told her
hearts are not stone
and nobody cares
for their geology no more,
so I built you
a house
with plain rooms and walls!”
“Ha, you had it easy,
just ask…
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exiles child 