Time in Passing

My friend the poet Sherrell Wigal posted a lune today. I had never heard of the form, so I am borrowing inspiration from her for today’s poem. In this form the lune should have 3 words, 5 words, 3 words. I used hyphens to make one word out of two. Cheater!

Was it yesterday

I kissed your baby-fat cheek

now grizzled, stubble-covered?

 

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Behold the Egg

Brown, ivory,

blue, green or white,

large, medium and small,

double-yolkers, pullet eggs,

the occasional surprising shell-less wonders

to surprise the unwary hand gathering without looking,

and miniature mistakes, curiosities laid at the end of an old girl’s fertility,

It’s simple oval perfection, smooth and cool, anonymous, delights my eyes

and leaves open the door to the morning’s question of breakfast preparation:

Fried? Boiled? Scrambled? Poached? Coddled? Nogged? Omelet? Quiche? Nested?

Possibilities  await as I contemplate the red egg basket on a rainy April morning.

 

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Ballad of Burnt House

They say her name was Delsie,

a beauty rare and bright

Her moves like graceful glisse’,

Her skin as dark as night.

 

She was just a common slave,

but oh! that girl could dance and sing!

Watchers laughed and clapped and waved;

and in one heart, love did spring.

 

William was the only son

of John who owned the inn;

he begged and pleaded til at last,

his father gave consent.

 

Delsie came to live and serve

at the Harris roadside inn,

men in secret watched her curves

and envied lucky William.

 

But William’s heart was dark and cold

and killing was his aim,

he murdered peddlers for their gold,

and hid his awful gain.

 

But someone saw and someone told

and William soon was gone.

He sold the inn and took the gold,

and left sweet Delsie all alone.

 

She wept and mourned her missing man,

and called his name in vane

One night she settled on a plan

to put the inn in flames.

 

And when the people saw the fire

and came to put it out,

They searched for Delsie low and high,

then someone gave a shout.

 

“Look! There she is! Up in the tower!”

They watched as Delsie twirled

She seemed held by some great power

as smoke and flame around her swirled.

 

Then in the fiery red-hot gleam

the inn came tumbling down;

The last they heard was Delsie’s scream,

The last they saw her burning gown.

 

Now if you visit late at night,

be sure to take a friend,

For Delsie’s laughter, bold and bright

still rises on the wind.

 

 

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Planting Advice

Plant radishes in the dark of the moon,

plant lettuce in the new;

Sow your cabbage on the day of Saint Pat,

plant beets when the signs are in the heart,

and plant potatoes on Good Friday.

Remember that a late Easter brings a late spring,

and to plant your flowers

wherever beauty is needed.

 

 

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April’s Fool

April’s Fool

Dance!

Spin, whirl

Twist, circle,

Tumble groundward;

Azure light above

Green below; spongy earth–

Roll, feel velvet moss and mud

Taste violet’s purple fragrance

Spin! Spin, whirl, twirl, spin again until

daffodils blur into puddles of gold.

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Ode to a February Thaw

Late last night as I tried sleeping I thought I heard the sound of dripping
Dripping dripping dripping from my roof and eaves
Rain was falling, wind was blowing, snow was melting
Melting melting melting from my roof and eaves.

Listen, said I to my comfy spouse, do you hear that sound from out the house?
That dripping dripping dripping from our roof and eaves?
But he was snoring, sleeping, never listening
To the melting melting melting from our roof and eaves.

I raised the window, stuck my head out, listening to the drip, drip, drip
That melting, dripping, soggy melting from the roof and eaves.
In the yard the mud is showing, gushing, mushing
Turning brown the melting melting thawing as it leaves.

Goodbye! Goodbye! Farewell to ice, to snow of dreadful frozen height!
Soon I’ll be slogging, slogging, slogging down our paths all round the yard
The mud will be sucking, sucking, pulling, tracking
Coating our floors, our boots, our dogs and cars.

Then I will search the clouds and skies, hoping, praying I might espy
Some hopeful sign of falling, falling, falling, gentle whiteness from above
Some sifting, freezing moisture in the form of snow
It’s snow! I’ll cry. The mud is gone! What’s not to love?

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February Morning

Image

 

Ice dangles like chandelier earrings from frozen eaves,

Reflects the gold of rising sun, silver of waning moon.

Blood-red cardinals perch on frosted branches,

Hopeful twitters flutter

Like sparkling crystals in the frigid light of early morn.

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