All writing

the double helix
opens up like a zipper
for procreation

Can you imagine -- him -- whose perfect verse
has filled our language, phrase by quoted phrase;
was he disposing of some unknown curse?
One hundred fifty four: each will amaze
and humble you with effortless refrain.
His words jump off the page and spring has sprung...
was there a point to two, or three, what gain
was there in sonnet after sonnet sung?
Mere mortals cannot hope to equal these,
yet we continue, laughable at best.
Exuberant when words appear at ease,
and stanzas rest where they're supposed to rest.
What use comparing him to summer day?
We wallow in our discontent and pray.

every hour on the hour
my spell gains a little power
till at last when midnight strikes
I add up all of my likes

Author notes: Wc 24

no one as thirsty
as a plant leaning towards
a glass of water

Pale moonlight oozes from the lacquered grand
as birdlike fingers stroke the checkered keys.
Time seemingly forgets its second hand,
a drop of golden amber set to freeze.

C-Minor echoes through the concert hall,
draped in a velvet burgundy on oak.
The chandelier's on dim as shadows shawl
the audience in leisurely baroque.

The tempo's picking up, a stately dance.
Wrists up and down, a peacock’s mannered gait,
and then, excited, clasping at their chance,
they race across the keyboard to their fate.

Could but a poem match that final note,
the poet, could say, quitting: "all she wrote".

the architect of fertile valleys
and rugged mountains raised sky high
confronts me with a forest alley
a landscape gentle on the eye

snow glories paint its shallow fences
and spill onto its sloping walls
the architect spared no expenses
to canopy its vaulted halls

could you imagine lovers, strolling
their essence permeates the air
the painter, all the more extolling
the architect -- for they're not there

Author notes: 4. Grieg's Peace of the Woods painting by Donald Ayres, a British Postwar & Contemporary painter.

It's medium, I said, the steak
as to the soup, had I to make
something with this distinct perfume...
I said the steak, it's medium

please let me taste these skinny buns
it sounds like they will be the ones
that I can eat, if in due haste
these skinny buns, please let me taste

The same result, that's not a shock
your menu, what a piece of crock
the cook and waiters will revolt
That's not a shock, the same result

the drizzle will soon turn into a downpour
the crippled boy is likely jealous of
sits in his wheelchair, gazing at its grandeur
the velvet sky is what he's dreaming of

But can it be, even the rain is lacking
and he's not jealous, but in pain, and scared?
The author's lying, or is merely slacking
drunk on his words, his poem will be aired.

Quick, turn aside, and the obliging cover
will shield you from the unexpected rain
and you think: "is the boy there", and discover
that he thinks about you, and of his pain

Author notes: Вот дождь идёт и вскоре станет ливнем, наверняка завидует ему Безногий мальчик в кресле инвалидном, в небесную глядящий бахрому. А может быть, ему и ливня мало, нет зависти, а только боль и страх? И автор врёт, как это с ним бывало под рюмочку в лирических стихах. Вот отвернёшься, и речной вокзальчик тебя укроет от иной воды И думаешь: а всё же, был ли мальчик? А мальчик думает: а всё же, был ли ты?

A downpour themed verse -- water drenched:
by consonants dripping with vowels,
would rather my work was entrenched
and labors as needed with towels.

When stresses and accents await
demanding the din of tin roofing
and charred inspiration cuts bait
burnt meat, fur still on, serves as proofing

dig in, swim, or fly up above
embracing this guttural current
this poem about you, but love
for somebody else, whom you aren't

Author notes: Стихи о дожде - из воды: по капле согласных и гласных, согласных на то, чтоб труды мои не пропали напрасно. Когда ударения ждут и требуют кровельной жести, когда вдохновение жгут и лепят из мяса и шерсти. Взлетай, зарывайся, плыви, и слушай гортанную реку, стихи о тебе - из любви к другому совсем человеку.

Bored with the Bard. Now, give me something new!
Preferably with witty metaphors.
Romance imbued intrigue -- its lusty dew
should sweeten the resolving of old scores.
Pose existential questions with panache;
the reader must find answers on their own.
Revive old monarchs, though they are awash
in blood they've spilled while questing for the throne.
That's all I ask, is that a bit too hard?
Can you not, in a modern repertoire,
discover a companion to the Bard,
find someone that at least is on a par?
I'm sure you can, in two shakes of a spear.
Please do, and let me know, I'll stay right here.

Banality of evil -- what a phrase!
Exasperated, we must not abide
as decency itself is set ablaze,
and pragmatism dictates we set aside
the values that were taught to us from birth.
The horrors, reminiscent of a reel
in black and white, charred edges, burning Earth.
Banality, is that how you must feel,
when watching Death's macabre and gruesome smile?
Flies in eye sockets drained of any light,
banality? Let's ponder this awhile...
Give right a bit more time to challenge might?
Never again, we say -- just one more time.
The worth of a cliché is but a dime.

Leap off the canvas -- will you? Come to me.
Embrace me in your gentle, loving arms.
If only you were as I wish you'd be,
more than the sum of rugged looks and charms.
If only you returned a fraction of
the feelings that well up and guide my brush;
the folly, the absurd attraction of,
the thoughts that even now do make me blush...

If only I could draw you as my own.
The paint is drying, and I'm all alone.