All writing

In Limerick and in Nantucket
They'll spin you a verse by the bucket
when challenged with orange
they'll door hinge and bow range
and some might just pilfer
your gold and your silver
when asked where it's at, they'll say suck it

we tried together, tried apart
tried every weather, but the heart
can't beg to pardon what's not there
a rose bush garden, empty chair

Author notes: image from The Gardener's Center

Were we a pair, two of a kind?
Was that what we were dealt?
Love, an illusion of the mind,
spread out atop a felt
by an occult, cape-wearing mage
who waved his magic wand
the cards reshuffling on stage
and we, forced to respond,
drawn to each other by the spell
unable to resist,
elated, giddy as we fell
each mouthing: you exist!
My preordained, my other half,
my prompted, fated pick…
The audience sure had a laugh
at this magician's trick.
And us, reshuffled in the deck
still looking for our pair
as life skips by each call to check…
As if we weren't there.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

The view: a tranquil ocean cove
a veritable treasure trove
but not of diamonds and gold
of stories that do not grow old:
a hero's journey, pirate's cave,
and on the breeze, a gentle wave.

Author notes: image from Facebook

Expecting her performance to be thrilling,
spectators filled with existential dread,
an itsy-bitsy drops down from the ceiling.
adrift on a translucent, silver thread.

Does her appearance fill your mind with terror,
mouth opened in a stifled, silent scream?
Will you attempt to swat her? Will you spare her,
allow her to continue with her scheme?

At times I think myself that itsy-bitsy,
befuddled by a menacing new broom,
and swatted as my summoner admits he
cannot exist if I am in the room.

But other times I'm caught up in your web.
And you're the spider, watching my life ebb.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

The sea's aglow with distant fire, the wind, soft kisses on my face.
Sun, sinking, threatens to expire, to disappear without a trace.
"I will be back," it swears, "tomorrow. Come back and watch me as I rise."
I nod, and wash away my sorrow as tears of joy spill from my eyes

Author notes: image from Storyblocks

I haven’t found my star-crossed lovers,
nor any Copperfields or Twists.
The prince who finally discovers
the world cares not if he exists
has not yet made his grand appearance,
Still, seized with dogged perseverance,
I vie to call him to the page.
Pen down, I channel hope and rage
into the thankless sheet of paper.

Try as I might, though, words won’t flow,
and what at first appears to glow
disintegrates to ash and vapor,
mild echoes of another’s dream.

Why bother? Cannot write like him.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Compete with wit in just four feet!
Said he, completing three.
Repeat the beat, that's it, they meet
and oui, no fee, for free

We must, nonplussed, and trust, aghast,
awards of sorts, my lords,
robust, (that's just!) we lust, or bust,
towards our words in chords

Moonlight floats on the bay as an old fishing boat
battles rust and decay, but remaining afloat,
longs to sail just once more, feel the pulse of a wave,
and to find, far from shore, her true watery grave.

Author notes: photo from Ray Mackey Photography

It is the season of the witch,
and my pen feels a certain itch:

to capture vampire turning bats
and unfamiliar black cats
emerging from cold, dusty rooms
behind them, witches on their brooms
fly to a coven by the moon.

They'll dance their dance and sing their tune
while scarecrows come to life and wake,
the monsters creep out from the lake,
the jack-o-lanterns smile, no teeth
but something stirs way down beneath
as coffins open, gravestones twitch...

It is the season of the witch.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Wraiths and ghosts will debate
and no matter the cost
and no matter how late
"Who's the ghost with the most?"
It will always come down
to the one with the sheets
from soft silk -- like a gown,
and when this spectre greets
them, and scares them to death
with its whimper and wail
other ghosts catch their breath,
and then ask: They're on sale,
these magnificent clothes?
But the ghost with the most
swears all matters of oaths
and proceeds then, to boast
that the costume is new
like a burial wreath
and then gives them a view
of what lies underneath
Then they see that indeed
the sheets cover but air
They agree, with some speed:
It was quite a scare!

Author notes: wc 124

Resolved to keep on making resolutions,
continuously, not just once a year,
and each one’s full of marvelous solutions
attuned to what the people want to hear.

Some crystal clear and cleaner than a whistle.
Some full of brand new goodies to bring home.
Some urgent: to provide for a new missile.
Some barely a few pages, some a tome.

Do not be shocked that we must keep resolving
Like New Year’s resolutions, few are kept,
And anyways, our credit is revolving.
With time, you’ll learn to swallow and accept

that this is what the Founders had in mind.
Exceptional, we are. One of a kind.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini