Where the prairie once spread, apple orchards and fields.
Green, delicious, and red, bred to maximize yields.
Home to mustang and deer, once near endless, immense,
has long since disappeared. Ancient oak by the fence.
Author notes: image from Facebook
I'm privileged to be entitled
and have no fear of going rogue,
and though my passions are unbridled,
they're only so to be in vogue,
I do not fancy being thwarted
nor do I fancy being gagged,
and if I have to be escorted
I would prefer not to be dragged.
A shrink once said I do not treasure
the crown that's sitting on my head,
and waste my time pursuing pleasure,
that I should be a king instead
I should be stronger and not weaker
I should speak up, I should be loud.
But I have broken my loudspeaker
and can't be heard above the crowd.
If eyes are windows to the soul
and walls have ears,
the fridge's a magnet to control
your hopes and fears,
the kitchen sink is all that's been
willing or otherwise, thrown in,
there is considerable proof
the attic longs for a new roof,
the monster in the basement -
a rug that needs replacement
Though some might disapprove
I think it's time to move.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Relentless, ruthless, unforgiving,
the future slips into the past,
reminding all of us, the living,
that living, being, will not last.
That no amount of fervent prayer
will persuade her, or delay her,
this stubborn agent of our death.
That there will be a dying breath,
and then no more, no second coming,
no sequel to resolve loose ends,
to make confessions or amends,
or stall, and life, at last succumbing
to the inevitable will
just slip away…
And all is still.
Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to Gemini
At an out-of-town retreat,
relaxation near complete.
Looking through the looking glass,
staring at a horse's ass
He may whinny, but I whine.
Well, at least they have some wine.
Author notes: image from Facebook
Pause for a moment. Reexamine
whether you merely exist,
the cause of neither feast nor famine,
so unremarkable a beast
that the philosophers cite you
to prove, as expectations shrink,
that while the inverse may be true
I am does not imply I think
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Tuscany, Gascony, Napa, Sonoma
Some call it dastardly,
Some quote old Homer
Some quote the Bible; that's also fine.
The Bible says: Blessed be the fruit of the vine.
Author notes: image from Facebook
She still stands there and waits for his ship to come in,
pass its way through the straits so their life can begin.
Tides keep falling and rising each day without fail,
but the barren horizon will not yield a sail,
nor a bow or a stern. On the cold, rocky shore,
she awaits his return. He had always, before.
Author notes: image from Simple Good Life
You're not free without brie
Mozarrella, good fella
You'll miss if it's Swiss
and you'll sing a cappella
or ask for a shredder
if no gouda cheddar
but please, please
do not scream
if it's cheese
but not cream
A snake appears content to slither
unlike the dolphin and the whale,
though if you bother asking either
the tale is rather of the tail:
for cetaceans, an appendage
and thus a portion, a percentage
of the entire body’s length,
although the source of all its strength.
But for the snake? A harder question:
Where does snake end, and tail begin?
Without a rattle or a fin,
it’s hard to know, but a suggestion
to help the skeptic get it right:
start from the end that doesn’t bite.
Author notes: image by author prompt to GPT
Ballerina, should have seen her
arabesque and pirouette
her appearance, her demeanor,
a Giselle you won't forget
If I could but set the stage, she would leap right off the page.
To rage against the dying of the light
appears to be as popular as ever,
as if the day might fail to follow night.
But it has never failed yet, am I right?
So does it seem particularly clever
to rage against the dying of the light?
And yet they persevere and rage, despite
not making any difference whatsoever,
as if the day might fail to follow night.
Ironically enough, they call it “fight”,
this hopeless, wholly laughable endeavor,
to rage against the dying of the light.
Disheveled, dirty, don’t they look a fright?
As if they haven’t showered in forever,
as if the day might fail to follow night.
It’s plain, in Times New Roman, black and white,
but they continue, so to hell, what-ever,
to rage against the dying of the light
as if the day might fail to follow night.
Author notes: with apologies to Dylan Thomas. Image created by prompt to GPT