form follows function
but function tends to stand still
forming a circle
logic arguments
can stray from the logical
create paradox
sand is a liquid
its dunes, waves of particles
so, quanta, shmanta
this semester's syllabus
have no car, I take the bus
is it a wonder that the world's
most famous monument
was built because he lacked the words
and so, for his lament
he caught her beauty in its spires
and it still stands there, and inspires
Author notes: image from freepik.com
what are metaphors for
and them similes too
I wrote simply before
with to be and to do
but apparently I
didn't follow the rules
those dismiss and deny
as the output of fools
any talk that is plain
in a poetic form
and I cannot complain
I thought that was the norm
now I'm better of course
and my writing is rich
no new talent -- the source
a word processor glitch
Persephone will celebrate the Spring
and disappear in Winter's cold embrace.
Does Hades bring her flowers, does he sing,
or dance with her, with unexpected grace?
A kidnapped bride: does this myth show its age?
And if so, what? Does Hades have to go,
get cancelled, booed right off his hellish stage,
with Gaia, Zeus, accomplices in tow?
Is it a myth of love, or lust, or hell?
It's hard to understand through modern eyes.
The ancient Greek who sought to share, to tell,
of seasons changing, and of Hades' prize,
did he expect that someday we'll recoil?
He likely couldn't. I'll provide the foil.
Author notes: Image from Pinterest
Victoria falls
only to pick herself up
as the Zambesi
The sarong, in the breeze, becomes a wing.
Soon, she lifts upwards, and below, the sand
plays footsie with the waves as sirens sing,
until exhausted, she is forced to land.
Tomorrow, she'll be back here, for the dawn.
Apollo there to welcome her, and yawn.
Author notes: image from stock.adobe.com
What a bike I had -- when chasing -- geese across a nearby field
I remember, my heart racing, gravity appeared to yield
and I'd take off, in formation, answering to every bawl
flapping hands in sheer elation.
Until mother came to call.
Author notes: image from vecteezy.com
she told me: I will not grow old, matter of factlly, distant, cold
I didn't care: those crimson lips promised eternal bliss
and now as my bones bend and break, I understand what was at stake
and as her eyes, unflinching, scorn, I beg for just one kiss
Author notes: image from cbc.ca
Why do monsters choose the attic
and the shade under your bed?
Surely there are more dramatic
places they could hide instead?
Some will choose an old broom closet
and I've heard one scholar posit
that the real monsters hide
not outside you, but inside
heads or tails
the coin is spinning
and refuses to commit
courage fails
just what is winning
probabilities are split
scripted chaos
but the future
is immutable -- the past
it betrays us
cut and butchered
and the coin, it rests, at last
Steep highlands trail. A giant thistle,
proud head, and thorny, purple crown.
I bend to look at it: it bristles:
"Who is this stranger in my town!"
"Beg pardon, Majesty", I utter,
and step back gingerly, transfixed.
The foxgloves, still seized of the matter
seek to evict me from their midst.
A bumblebee descends to hover,
and guard the monarch with its life.
Wind in its back, the jealous lover,
is dancing to the whistling fife.
Two, three steps back, the sunset beckons,
a hint of rain is in the air.
Time ticks again; its precious seconds
remind me: I'm no longer there.
"Stay with me", he begged. "Stay, for when you're gone,
I shall have to be man again, no longer at home in this
magical forest."
So she stayed with him, and the snow sparkled with her
gentle smile, and the trees lit the forest: eerie, cold torches.
And so he sang of his love for her. And the owl listened.
Author notes: image from tarotbycecelia.com