All writing

locked away, our Cinderella
watches people have a ball
every gal and every fella
spurred by drive and alcohol
chat and giggle now and then
Cinderella's only ten

Author notes: image from pinterest

a lonely Ent was homeward bound
he's had his share of war
stopped, put his roots into the ground
and sang from Tolkien lore
lit by the lonely moon
of friends he lost too soon

Author notes: image from pinterest https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ent

ask -- what is it that you seek?
gentle grove surrounds a creek
lazy water swims on by
froggies sing and lullaby
tiny slice of joy, a smidge
and on top of it, a bridge

be the biggest fish
mama koi said to her spawn
until the heron

I search in vain for the divine
my efforts common and mundane
the acid vinegar, not wine
the tongue is tied, the language plain
the plot unravels all too quick
the actors sound as if they're dubbed
the rants too preachy and too thick
the moral disinfected, scrubbed
still searching for a proper close
it's a dead end, a cul-de-sac
oh well, at least it isn't prose
the story done, and fade to black

"please, let nothing come between us"
he says, grinning as a groom
sitting, the prospective Venus --
she had led him to her room
and now calculates the odds:
one must pay to join the gods

The Hudson River Club, September 10th
I must confess, I love the pumpkin soup.
If memory serves right, at any length…
The waiter pays attention to our group –
no, not quite wolves of Wall St., maybe pups --
the sun is setting over flashy yachts.
The river flows, as does the wine.  Our cups
are never empty.  As my buddy spots
some master of the universe nearby,
I signal “check”.  The waiter reappears.
We might just be the last ones.  Buddy’s high.
The night is young: coke, wine, a bunch of beers…
I text my boss: tomorrow, I’ll be late.
She says: I’ll handle it, I’m in at eight.

Author notes: https://www.chefdb.com/pl/4366/Hudson-River-Club-New-York This is an entirely true story.

stripped bare, it streaks across the sky
embarrassed by its riches
if it's to fall, wants to know why
but as for now, it hitches
a ride upon the atmosphere
below, you think your wish is here

Author notes: image from foxweather.com

the snowstorm labored through the night
to build a chapel in the forest
its crystal chandeliers alight
halls decked by a celestial florist
for worshippers to come and see
come see the florist in the tree

Author notes: image from Facebook

the sculptor that first chiseled Bryce's peaks,
with godly hammer and divine techniques,
was it for bobcats and for Steller's jays
is that the audience that sculptor seeks

I drink the landscape in, still in a daze.
the jealous sun looks out, and sends its rays,
lights up the powdered rocks, a candy land,
flambé dessert, the mountains are ablaze.

could he have known, the sculptor, had he planned,
the color, composition of the sand,
so that when man first came upon these hills
he'd stop and stare, attempt to understand

just chance, you'll say, the working of free wills,
but there's the desert, and the sculpture thrills

look at a freshly cut tree stump:

are you the dark rings that accrue
each year, or the lighter layer in between?

the pastry sheets or the filler cream
that makes it a Napoleon?

the poem collection or
just the table of contents?

I'm each and every letter,
from the F in Foreword
to the last period.

No, don't close it yet.

The fresh new snow, as gentle as a rabbit,
descending on the rooftops, sugar powder.
The town folk wine and dine, as is their habit,
excited for the New Year. Toasts grow louder,
but snow keeps falling, as the old year weeps.
The rabbit will wake soon. For now, it sleeps.

Author notes: image from pinterest