All writing

things have gotten so political
they are going to
primary colors

A belly full of laughs is on the menu,
mixed in with the occasional raw tear.
And that's what you expect when in this venue.
What was it in the ad that drew you here?
The actors with their bios and their pictures,
the effervescent, luminous reviews?
The playwright and director, Broadway fixtures,
all smiles in their promotion interviews?
Can anything compare to simple laughter,
forgetting all your major aches and pains
and anything that's still to come, but after,
for now you're here. The Playbill that explains
will try but cannot substitute for this.
An evening in the theater. And bliss.

pollinators
pond with gators
bush or two
and park
curators

Some chocolates in a crimson, heart shaped box.
If ever there's a thing that says I love you
with much less of an effort -- maybe socks,
a teddy or a teddy bear, what have you,
I don't know what it is -- the corner stores,
the pharmacies, the strip malls...and those cards,
in proper shade of pink: oh, she adores,
he cherishes, they worship, with regards,
and on and on. Is any of it real,
or just another method of pretending,
to mask, to hide the way you really feel,
behind the ostentatious, never ending
display of fake emotions. Dwell upon it.
To say I love you, I shall write a sonnet.

Utopia is just around the corner,
feet pacing, she is champing at her bits
and terabytes. We really ought to warn her,
but no, not yet, best wait till she commits,
too late to change her mind, cause we all want it,
despite the protestations and the plaints.
And what comes after? Cannot see beyond it.
The history of shackles and restraints,
attempts to hold the genie in the bottle,
does not inspire confidence or trust.
If anything, we're apt to go full throttle,
oh, sure, some things will break, we'll readjust.
I see she's made the turn, about to find me.
Best practice that fake smile. Get thee behind me.

Awake, the words are swirling in a maelstrom
and fighting off the sentences they're given.
Insomnia, that's where I get these tales from.
Fall into bed, in hopes to be forgiven,
if only for one night, but no reprieve.
Past midnight, I am staring at the ceiling,
and struggling: to give or to receive,
then try the sentence one more time, with feeling.
A volta flashes, an unlikely spark,
exhaustion, or a touch of inspiration?
Whatever, I'm still lying in the dark,
and truth be told, awash in perspiration.
A blink, and I pass out, sleep gave no warning.
The writing down will have to wait till morning.

Our scene: a hunter's cabin in the woods.
Outside, the night has woken up the crickets,
and predator and prey resume their feuds.
A spiderweb laid out atop the thickets
is glistening with moonlit, pearly dew,
its owner absent, swallowed by a sparrow,
or dinner for an overzealous shrew.
A rabbit peeks, nose sniffing, from her burrow,
the crescent still too bright, she's in no rush.
First hesitates, then springing into action,
takes off for parts unknown across the brush,
her bushy stompers excellent for traction.
Each creature's purpose solely: eat, prey, love.
The hunter's here for all of the above.

sprinkled with stardust
the sky effervescent
god as an artist
had painted the crescent
yellow as cheddar

I'm light as a feather

Author notes: image from Facebook

Tuscany, Gascony, Italy, France
brunch in the courtyard, a touch of romance
where are the people, you'll see 'em
they're off to another museum

If life is but a comedy of errors,
then surely there's a happy at the end?
Our torments, struggles, difficulties, terrors,
are all of them, we are to understand,
a way to raise the narrative's raw tension?
The storyteller must maintain suspense,
so we must misinterpret, fail to mention,
tell pointless lies, be genuinely dense --
stupidity is currently in season,
as popular as stubbornness and gall.
Try acting as if you're defying reason,
and being warned, refuse to take the call,
yes, there's no better way to stir the pot.
Such comedies must have a proper plot.

Hyperbole -- it's not an understatement --
enjoyed exaggeration to the fullest,
demanding no reduction or abatement
in any measure where she was the coolest,
or deemed herself to be, at any rate,
insisting that her monologues be heard,
and rumored to be growing quite irate
when losing the attention of the herd,
but nonetheless continuing to prattle,
since as we know from history and books,
persistence's half the key to any battle,
the other half, some do believe, is looks,
so she went on and on, beyond the end,
though surely just exactly as she's planned.

Was Cleopatra smuggled in a rug,
determined to seduce and capture Caesar?
Man gives the rolled up gift a proper tug,
and there she is, dolled up, and when he sees her,
he rids himself of whiny Ptolemy,
no, she will be his empress instead,
and ancient Egypt, now a colony,
will promise Rome her flour and her bread.

The Romans called the queen a witch, and worse.
Caesarian was groomed to be the Pharaoh.
Wise Cicero died warning of the curse
that straying from the path of straight and narrow
would bring onto the crumbling republic.

All swept under the rug to fool the public.