The vase: a gentle splash of periwinkle
reflecting off the walls -- a lime-washed plaster,
that long ago succumbed to crack and crinkle.
The window sill: no quartz or alebaster,
but just an oaken plank whose paint had peeled...
And yet I feel a truth has been revealed.
Author notes: Image from Storyblocks
The bad, though lesser of two evils,
had never liked to see such sport.
Compared to crises and upheavals,
and always coming up, but short,
disdained, the teammate you get stuck with,
and surely never having luck with…
Its very name - the lesser - sucks.
Not greater, faster, or deluxe,
but lesser. Ugh. If it could only,
for once, be chosen for itself,
not merely dusted off the shelf
when greater evils, sad and lonely,
are plain too daunting to surmount…
It would be bad enough to count.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
asking for a form
that doesn't serve a function
wound up with a mold
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