Bathing in moonlight, the cobblestones glisten
Crisp autumn air adds a glint to their shine.
Moon hangs down low, as if trying to listen,
searching for lovers who seek the divine:
Come, and be washed in my glow.
But the streets are deserted below.
Author notes: image from Facebook
Large table. Happy faces all around it.
A bit of packaged up Americana.
Back then, when the traditions were first founded,
before prefrozen turkeys, before Santa,
before the Hallmark cards and selfie pictures,
the faces were both dirtier and meaner.
No smiles. A solemn reading from the scriptures,
thanks given, though the tables were much leaner,
then back to the mundaneness of survival.
Some surely feel that way about tomorrow
and brace against the seasonal arrival
of specials that would seek to steal and borrow
somebody else’s misery for sport.
Please give, they say. Could use your full support.
Romeo loves Juliette. Arrow through the heart.
Chalk on sidewalk -- they've just met, can't bear to be apart.
Asphalt buckles, concrete cracks, and soon they're broken-hearted.
Should have known it could not last. Known before it started.
Author notes: photo from The Head Plan
A translucent gown adorning
fertile valleys, gentle slopes.
Dawn arrives. The misty morning,
wispy wishes, fragile hopes,
knowing what it means to yearn,
readies for the morning's burn.
Author notes: Photo from Vecteezy
I once composed a wholly metric verse
to measure length, and that within an inch,
and while the subject matter was perverse,
and might induce a curse or worse, a flinch,
it was, no doubt, a valiant attempt,
and worthy of admiring reposts.
That, rather than the venomous contempt
which I received from the ungracious hosts
of said sad competition. Pound for pound,
my measure, although decimal and metric,
was perfectly reliable and sound
and had no biologic or obstetric
or other obscene purpose except size.
And all for those who'd wish to feast their eyes.
Author notes: Image created by author prompt to ChatGPT
The lion, as he's lying with the lamb:
goodwill itself, and holiday-themed cheer.
The turkey, and the stuffing, every crumb
all welcome the arrival, every year,
of "wouldn't it be nice!" and "oh, what if!"
and "let us come together, Peace on Earth!"
The sermons, some belligerent and stiff,
some gentle, all in welcoming the birth
of one, albeit well-intentioned teacher,
who dared imagine, for a bloody second,
that Man can be a different kind of creature,
and was dispensed with, having never reckoned
what each of us already understands.
That Man prefers the wringing of the hands.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
Sands of time beneath my feet.
Cloudless sky above.
Day would seem to be complete,
but you're not here, my love.
Gentle breeze runs through my hair,
dries an errant tear.
Seagull soars without a care.
Air is crisp and clear.
Bonfire remnants on the beach.
Bottle bears no message,
or is the message out of reach?
Little crab seeks passage,
carried like a stowaway
on the floating bottle.
Where he goes, I cannot say,
but he needs no paddle.
Would that I were like that crab,
carried by the ocean,
days no longer dull and drab,
motionless, in motion.
Waves are rushing to erase
my footprints in the sand.
Why can't I recall your face?
I don't understand.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
Stained glass window, frozen wave,
irridescent glory,
Simple happiness you crave
captured in this story
Would that it were true, alas...
These are merely shards of glass.
Author notes: photo by Robyn Mead Designs
Done with baby, done with little,
done with mermaid at the last.
Every step will hurt: bones brittle
but the ocean is her past
and her future? Balls and princes.
Takes another step... She winces.
Author notes: photo thanks to Shelf Editions
South Shore High: you know why
name was so apropos
Hallways, always the sweet smell of skunk.
Just how did we get by?
Could we guess, did we know
in our typical teenager funk
that our struggles and fights
will make favorite tales
as we sit by the fire, reminisce
during long winter nights,
and when memory fails
try recalling that first kiss we miss.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Unpopped kernel: a riddle.
Were it snug in the middle
or confined to one side,
that might rescue its hide.
But the rascal pulls through
as its brethren pop,
split, and sometimes in two...
Will the microwaves stop
just before its demise?
Every kernel must yearn
for that kind of surprise.
Add more time: it will burn.
And its skin: oh so thin
but its will is like steel.
Watch the countdown begin.
Unpopped kernel...
no meal.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
I can't help running into,
then running out on friends.
And no, it's not my Pinto
and surely not Depends,
though some would blame the latter,
I credit not the notion.
An overactive bladder
is keeping me in motion.
Author notes: image created by author prompt to Gemini