Allpoetry Import

The remains of the day
stain a quarrelous sky.
Bales of barley and hay
languish, kindling dry.

Soon, a thunderous cloud —
all it needs is a spark —
rumbles, boastful, and proud,
sending sparrow and lark

into spiralous swarms
as they search for escape
from the mother of storms,
and I stand, mouth agape…

Will a purply arch
crash to strike me at last?
April leaves on the march.
May too, soon becomes past.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

I check the label: Perishable Good.
Surprising, their apparent need to say it.
I would have thought it plainly understood,
without the need to outwardly convey it,
that Good is precious. Breakable and fragile.
That barring extraordinary care -
and let us face it, few of us that agile,
that diligent and careful, as it were -
Yes, barring that, it's surely meant to perish,
disintegrate to ashes and to dust,
no matter that you claim to love and cherish
and honor and admire it. You must
do more than simply package it for travel…
Or risk whatever good it does, unravel.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

What's my luggage, you ask?
Of course, Louis Vuitton.
I've accomplished my task.
Time to pass the baton.
And do what, you might ask, and go where?

If I rock, it won't be in a chair.

Author notes: image from Facebook

When I am staring at the ceiling
as it stares back in shades of black
and needles me, once more, with feeling...

What is it, friend? What do you lack?
Why can't you have some peace and quiet?
Why is your mind a storm, a riot,
a jumble of half-written songs,
of slights, accumulated wrongs,
and all demanding your attention?

What must I do so that my mind,
however stubborn and unkind,
relents, forgives, forgets to mention,
the thing that's keeping me awake?

I should have had that piece of cake.

I huff and puff to generate
a meme to seem supreme
It's rough and tough -- hope not too late
to dream and scheme on theme.

When the years press you down
and the aches that add up
put a frown on your face
do not fret, do not stop
and eschew any talk
that it sucks to get old
As the old proverb says…

Fortune favors the bald

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

I bring ya a tale of the Möbius stripper.
As handy with Euclid as she’s with a zipper,
and furthermore, since she’s got nothing to hide,
she’d show perfect strangers her only good side.

She, sadly, got caught in a lovers’ triangle.
Obliged, by her nature, to twist and entangle,
and having no options — she knew this was wrong
she found a new job and now serves as a thong

Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to GPT

If I could just get rid of "chuckled"
the reader laughing on his own…
These latest edits that I've tackled
(and I'll admit, I'm in the zone)
I'm getting rid of "heard" and "listen"
and any sun that doesn't glisten,
no more of "saw" or "thought" or "felt".
With all of that under my belt
will I succeed? No lack of trying
but then remember that a "knew"
just like a "nodded", be they few,
will keep the editor from buying,
and so continue what I must.
If I could just get rid of "just."

When I cavort around the town
I often look for love.
But ask a lady: "Are you down?
"We fit like hand and glove!"
and you're as likely to receive
a whupping as a slap.
So I, although I've much to give
have almost given up

Confined to rubbing the old lamp --
It, frankly, has been years,
hand spasms up -- a wicked cramp --
A genie, though, appears.
He says: My friend, you need not fret
I know the Kama Sutra
and lest you have any regret
best know: I'm gender neutral

"Hold on!" I say. That tired trope,
you owe me certain wishes
and he is like: if there is soap
I'll also wash the dishes
"But wait!" I say and glance around
to search for an escape
and he says: oh, look what I found
and shows -- I swear -- a grape

Well, let's just say I was afraid
I thought I knew my tastes,
and though -- like all -- can use an aid,
I'm more for waspy waists.
I banished him, this genie friend.
I dare not see such sport!
And promise, for a happy end
to happily cavort

https://makebestmusic.com/shared-music-new/5a96f297-8d6b-47a3-b28b-66a11c81b64c

When I am tortured by the dentist,
and at the least, like twice a year,
I wish I hadn’t been apprenticed
to, of all things, a chocolatier.

Alas, sweet tooth, you've cost me dearly,
in both deductible, and clearly
in pain and suffering to boot.
Oh well, at least it’s not my foot.

That aforementioned, sad affliction,
is what the textbook would call gout,
and let there be no shred of doubt,
as to my chocolate addiction,

but to withdraw from meat and wine…
And then pretend that all is fine?

It’s lots of things, but fine, it isn’t,
this desecration of my flesh.
The whole thing loosely reminiscent —
I claim no birthing in a creche —

to, after serving out your mission,
return… but only on condition
of being put up on the cross.
You will return, so no big loss.

Return, refreshed and resurrected,
If you behave and cease all sin.
One doesn’t know where to begin.
A steroid shot — right where affected —

And you return to walk again.
Mouth open, dentist says. Say when.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

As wisdoms go, conventional’s the worst.
Best dress it up as ancient. That does better.
Uncommon — when delivered and dispersed
by graying talking heads who claim: Unfetter

your shallow thinking from its rigid past
and benefit from our well-hidden knowledge.
They grow alarmed, increasingly aghast,
when challenged on the benefits of college…

Collect them, all these wisdoms, each a pearl,
and worthy of its own consideration,
then string the set together, to unfurl,
depending on a given situation,

and offer one, as needed, to a fool
The wise already have it, as a rule.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

What's art? It's Plato's shadows on the wall.
Go, touch it - It's a snake in Eden's garden.
Or maybe it's a leaf before the fall.
An executed man receives a pardon.

What's art? It isn't suffering or pain.
It's rather a disease, a kind of vector
that's able, through its subterfuge, to gain,
bypassing any shielding or deflector,

a channel to your very inner self
and transfer its concealed, mimetic cargo
from where it sits. A wall, a frame, a shelf.
No matter any sanction or embargo
that you may put on empathy and care.

That's art. And you will see it. If you dare.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

When the light at the end of the tunnel goes dark
When a walk is no longer a walk in the park
When doubt eats at your guts at the end of the day
When you're ready to fight, let them come, come what may
When the spirit is wanting, the flesh, though, is weak
When the spectre is haunting, the living dead speak
When the hope springs eternal and hearts are on fire

Try to say something new. Do not preach to the choir.

Canute had failed to conquer the Atlantic.
Though some would later claim he didn't try.
Those claims, however genuine or frantic,
their efforts to suppress and to deny
the obvious, ring fatuous and hollow.
Did not the man put throne upon the shore?
Command the tide to stop while it was shallow,
to stop it from returning, as before?
They claim that it was just a demonstration.
A way to teach his courtiers a truth:
No man, whatever his affair or station,
no youth, or one that's longer in the tooth,
commands the tide to stay where it once stood.
They claim. But we all know he wished he could.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

As to the wisdom of the ancients:
Beware the Romans and the Greeks.

So says my artificial sentience,
the common wisdom of all geeks.

And as to why beware this wisdom…

Is it to coddle or appease them?
Those who would claim that it is spent
and we had better all repent?

Is there, perhaps, a different reason?
That having grown a bit too wise,
wants a monopoly — surprise!
on wisdom, as it plots its treason,
us none the wiser of the act…

Still thinking opposites attract.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

It's not the fittest, but the cutest,
that will eventually survive.
God may have been an absolutist,
but wanted everyone to thrive,
not knowing pleasure, though: He's had it
with those who, knowingly, have at it...

Unknowing? Pleasure all you want.
The deity won't take affront.

The recipe, then: cute and clueless.
No need to learn that less is more.
That way, there's more so to adore,
existing knowledge free, and dueless,
The dues collected only so
to punish those who need to know.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Please tell me, friend, whom I hold dear:
How do I get a poet's ear?
How do I write a verse that sings,
a joyful serenade that brings
a happy tear, a sudden smile,
a wish to linger for a while...

And cause a reader to digress,
forget about their daily stress,
reread and revel in my words
as they fly off, a flock of birds,
to thrill, astonish, and delight,
the sun behind them, shining bright?

He looks at me, my erstwhile friend
and says: Whatever you intend,
there is one thing I'll have you know:

You can't have mine. I'm no Van Gogh.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

For all the versions of the Bard:
The stolen, lost, or merely borrowed.
Those that are clearly a canard,
creative choices having narrowed.

Those that are plays within a play,
performed by one, no merry players.
Those who intend to have their say
while disregarding the naysayers.

Those whose reviews are in the red --
the worst examples are on Reddit.
Those that are never ever read
by those who never ever edit...

The news flies out, as if by stork --
occasion is indeed historic.
The scene: A stage. West End. New York.
Skull isn't fake. Alas, poor Yorik.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

When sailing between Scilla and Charybdis,
for mysteries that Man has yet to fathom,
while wondering aloud if you can keep this
small boat of yours from sinking to the bottom,
descending into Tartarus or Hades,
(depends on which mythology is present)
and knowing all along — how best to say this
— the journey is unlikely to be pleasant,
continuing to point your trireme vessel,
though dragons and Leviathans imperil…
Be ready, not a moment’s rest, to wrestle,
bare-handed, when — at best — over a barrel,
and struggling with scourges and afflictions…
The Oracle be damned with its predictions.

The Oracle be damned with its predictions,
and now you’re on the horns of a dilemma.
Dichotomies, conundrums, contradictions.
Your Muse is so confused, and who could blame her?
When choosing half a dozen of the other,
the “six of one” mundane and unappealing,
the difference being — should you even bother —
a certain intuition or a feeling,
try, figure out the lesser of two evils —
Arithmetic alone seems insufficient.
Be wary of commotions and upheavals,
Unfortunately, none of us omniscient.
Remember that for every one you’re handed,
there is one other. One that you’ve left stranded.

There is one other. One that you’ve left stranded,
between the deep blue sea and handsome devil.
It’s what the circumstances had commanded,
But still: had you been fully on the level,
appraised him of the no-win situation,
the dammit if he does, damned if he doesn’t,
you might have put a lid on his frustration —
assured him that he’s not alone — who hasn’t
experienced the very same condition.
Who hasn’t, faced with challenges and trials
and full, all of a sudden, of contrition,
well balanced, though it is with stern denials,
reached out to touch the sky, an angry fist:
Please help me, God, that is, if you exist.

Please help me, God, that is, if you exist.
If not — Pascal assured us in his wager —
still worth it, and in truth, we can’t resist,
can’t help but think that there is something major
that orchestrates the falling of the dice,
and forces probability collapses.
When measurements refuse to be precise,
as if we’re waiting for a God that claps his
two mighty hands, declaring all is well.
How can one understand one's own existence,
much less that of a God? What magic spell,
like forces operating at a distance,
allowed the world to be, to force a choice,
must pick your slit, and once you have, rejoice.

Must pick your slit, and once you have, rejoice.
Electrons, though, appear to feel no need
to make that kind of consequential choice
and manage, though unaided, to succeed
in spreading their existence through creation.
Some even have suggested: All there is —
the universe, the whole manifestation —
is but a lone electron. What a tease!
Yes, this one is a challenge to pin down.
The mind, although accustomed to dilemmas,
still struggles, and you cannot help but frown,
no matter the sound layout of the lemmas
that Einstein, Bohr, and Heisenberg propose.
You feel you’re being led, and by the nose.

You feel you’re being led, and by the nose.
Uncertainty and principle don’t mix.
If you can choose at will, superimpose
one choice over another, random picks,
and all of them are valid? That’s no rule.
It’s anarchy… Look what you’ve done to science,
and not to mention that, now, every fool
will point to it in bold overreliance:
You see that dead cat bounce? But he’s alive!
That Shrodinger another of these thinkers.
No, mister, that old feline won’t survive.
It should be jail for anyone who tinkers
with isotopes releasing cyanide.
Poor cat, it thought it found a place to hide.

Poor cat, it thought it found a place to hide.
But scientists are testing for nine lives.
The box remains unopened. What’s inside?
Unknowable. I’m hoping the cat thrives,
but there’s no way to tell, no secret knowledge,
or so at least they taught me, years ago.
Who knew, back when I took this course in college
(though I recall my wife did tell me so:
you will not be a physicist, my dear.
A poet? Nah, go learn to be a lawyer.
The path to make a living: crystal clear.
We’ll buy a house, nice fixture in the foyer…)
all choices that I’ve made. But how’s the cat?
Expired and alive. Cause he’s all that.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

I am an orc. We're talking Tolkien,
Behaved, house-broken, not a thug,
Polite, exceedingly well spoken,
and neither desolate nor smug.
Although I have a hobbit habit.
When one walks by, I tend to grab it
and munch on it, although they're sour,
and rumor has it, rarely shower.

I've tried to quit, believe me, precious.
What creature wouldn't rather eat
hobbits habitually neat
and chase with nectar that refreshes...

They do taste best after they're chased.
Their haste delicious. In my waist.

Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to Gemini

My Atlas does not shrug. Nor do my maps.
The globe remains as passive as could be,
keeps its reactions tightly under wraps,
like nothing doing, nothing there to see.

Objectively, that shouldn't be a shock.
The atlas is a book, and no Greek Titan,
who, turtle-like, must carry a big rock,
and searches for the right excuse to lighten

that heavy load. No, it is just an atlas,
a set of destinations and locales,
and it's not fair to call it weak and gutless,
or seeking some objective rationales

to claim that it will imminently shrug,
no matter that the journey is a slog.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

When God and his Significant, the Other
decided that they needed them some space
the end result was what we call the Mother
of All Explosions, and no fall from grace,

but instant and immediate separation
no prenup and no custody dispute.
Yes, that is the true story of Creation,
ahead of tainted or forbidden fruit.

They haven't talked since then, our Pro Creators,
It isn't that the distance is too large.
One on a distant moon, unmarked by craters
the other, omnipresent, and in charge,

And still upset, because they were as One.
Back then, when time itself had not begun.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Between a bridge too far and bridge to nowhere
A road that had been, hitherto… abridged,
though to determine who or what might go there
and what they will discover once they’ve hitched
their way to that mysterious location —

that’s if they’ve found a way to bridge the gap
perhaps a newfound mode of transportation
requiring no marker on a map
nor any non-relativistic motion —

a warp drive that compresses time and space
and labors to give credence to the notion
that one could ever hope to reach the place,
impossible, unlikely though it is…

When getting there, take selfie.

And say cheese!

Author notes: image from author prompt to ChatGPT

I suck at chess, so there you go, I've said it,
the noble, intellectual endeavor.
Can't win, unless I'm aided and abetted
by an AI substantially more clever
than I am on my own. Ugh, more's the pity.
I fail to understand why I must struggle.
Vocabulary-wise, I'm pretty witty,
hand-eye coordinated - I can juggle!
Nor have I been denied by Pan or Cupid.
In short, a handsome specimen of human,
and not, by any stretch, obtuse or stupid:
The measure of my acumen in lumen
is brilliant, and yet I always lose,
regardless of the opening I choose.

Regardless of the opening I choose,
an early domination of the center
requires pawn play. Surely that's no news.
But which? E2-E4? Had I just sent her,
courageous, brave defender of my king,
to certain death? The menacing Black Knight
dispatches her: a fearsome, lethal swing,
his unsheathed broadsword making it no fight.
What now? I must revert back to the book.
The strategies are there for all to read:
the value of each piece, from pawn to rook,
attacking and defending, fear and greed.
E2-E4 is fine, the book proclaims,
Been battle-tried in countless winning games.

Been battle-tried in countless winning games,
this opening. What move should follow next?
Assuming my opponent simply aims
to occupy the center, I'm perplexed:
His knight is in a vain attempt to flank.
But why? The board is open. All those squares,
yet he forgoes them. Someone pulling rank?
Or file? The move is odd and surely bears,
if I'm not wrong, the semblance of a trap.
They find these in promoted TikTok clips
and practice variations in the app.
The web is full of such well-meaning tips -
"Win in five moves, against a seasoned master!"
The goal remains to win, but faster, faster.

The goal remains to win, but faster, faster.
It's time, I think, my bishop got in play.
Not ivory or wood, nor alebaster.
It's digital, this piece on my display.
Some tongues will call it "elephant" - in Russian,
the home of many champions of chess,
no "bishops". Topic merits a discussion:
The Communists had no desire to stress
religion, in the game they dominated
for decades, until famous Bobby Fisher,
whom many, to this day, have nominated
the greatest of all time, which caused a fissure
in FeeDay, the chess org that gives you titles.
No shortage, in this game, of foes and rivals.

No shortage, in this game, of foes and rivals.
The bishop, elephant, is Indian,
and so is my defense. Its strict disciples,
relying on the piece, like Gideon,
to save the king, they call it a fianchetto,
and place it on G7, with the rook.
If chess were operatic, its libretto -
We know its openings are in a book -
would surely have the scene set in a castle,
which incidentally is a rookie move,
the castle sparing many kings the hassle
of running from a check or to improve
their otherwise unhappy disposition.
The king dislikes to be in this position.

The king dislikes to be in this position.
Most powerful, and at the same time, least.
His enemies committed to a mission
of cornering the man, till he's deceased,
or, at the least, until he waves a flag,
in black or white, to indicate surrender,
and losing, it is really such a drag,
although in chess, he's of a single gender.
An attitude that surely shows its age.
A king, but in name only, he laments,
his lack of allies and his gilded cage,
A has-been, overtaken by events,
he longs to be remembered, to be seen.
Alast, he's just the king. He's not the queen.

Alast, he's just the king. He's not the queen.
Though she is not indifferent to his struggle.
While he just sits there, middle of the screen,
the lady has to rule, or rather juggle,
the roles of all the pieces of the board.
Her moves must match a bishop's or a rook's,
watch out for knights - they cannot be ignored,
remember that no matter how it looks,
a sneak attack can never be dismissed.
The enemy will plan and plot and scheme
and blunders are expensive, rarely missed.
The sad and sorry end of your regime.
And now you understand, though I digress.
I love it, but I really suck at chess.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Of all the Lost & Founds across Creation --
you've ever been to one? Me, once or twice --
One stands -- a most peculiar location --
smack dab, right in the heart of Paradise.

While others sport id cards, bags, and wallets
or phones that do not answer when you call,
In this one, 'tleast according to shibboleths,
you'll likely stumble on a lucky soul.

Once lost, now wholly salvaged and recovered,
it takes its place among the grateful host,
ideally, exactly where it hovered
before it got, for cause unknown, so lost,

but if that slot is busy, where assigned.

The place's tagline? Seek, and ye shall find.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Enchanted by a witty turn of phrase
my hand delays, mid-hover, on the page,
as I reread the sentence. It conveys
so much in so few words. Were this a stage

a thespian would surely mouth it off,
the weight of every syllable in gold.
Enunciate each snicker, every scoff.
Performance captured, never getting old,

a highlight reel on YouTube, played, replayed,
the hearts and likes to mingle with applause,
and Googled if mistakenly waylaid,
then bookmarked, or on tab, on playback pause,

available and ready to be shown…

The phrase, of course, entirely my own.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

My nightly quest to find oblivion
is not unlike a tired daytime soap.
Late. Early. Drink. Don't Drink. Keep TV On.
I wake at 3:00 AM to sulk and mope.

No, I'm not one of those who need four hours.
I want my eight, and no, don't wear an Oura.
I'll lie in bed and use my rhyming powers
for sonnets on them Sodom and Gomorrah.

How strange, our brain? Not giving it a rest,
when rest is so most fervently desired?
It's not as if it doesn't know what's best,
or lacks a definition for "I'm tired."

Dear God, I want to sleep, perchance to dream!
A talking head talks changing the regime.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

between Heaven and Earth
some say roughly halfway
where they tally each birth
where no angel holds sway
nor a demon delights
in original sin
where -- a late poet writes --
life is yet to begin
between Heaven and Earth
no decision yet made
I await my rebirth...

Passage having been paid

Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Belatedly, I've understood a truth:
Life's naught but the displacement of an ache
well-masked by the euphoria of youth,
so one can be permitted the mistake

of failing to discern, to pry apart
its meaning: Pain that jumps from limb to limb,
to settle, when it chooses, in the heart,
and not in fault or error, on a whim,

but by its grand, elaborate design.
Awake, in bed, examining your pains,
your mind, exhausted, searching for a sign,
as blood continues coursing through your veins,

that it is not yet time. That it still hurts...
Until one day, no breakfast. Just desserts.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

When God apportioned horns and tails and hooves -
ran out on wildebeest… You've seen a picture?
For like the platypus, it's in the proofs
Creation hadn't strictly followed Scripture.

He had none left for demons and their ilk -
The Devil, a significant exception -
and so, though none have tasted mother's milk,
look just like you and me, defy perception.

Or could we be the demons? We were last,
the pinnacle, the pièce de résistance,
in all of God's domain, however vast,
so we assumed, it's always been our stance,
that we are in His image, missing tail…

and not that it's an inventory fail.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

I’m using my poetic license
in lieu of government ID.
They take it since I cannot lie. Since,
as Abel or as Zebedee,
despite the lateness of the hour,
I speak of only truth to power,
a truth that wouldn’t be denied,
nor could be, even if I tried.

A pseudonym, that great invention
which lets a poet speak his mind
without a fear of being fined
or worser still, an intervention,
thus beating any pair of docs.

Unless you’re doxxed. A paradox.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

Beginner's luck, perhaps that's all it was.
Ask any child -  they'll say: He started it,
but our existence's sole, Primal Cause -
who'd left few rules when He departed it
for parts unknown, or so it would appear -
continues to receive all manner praise,
although it's more than clear He doesn't steer,
and takes no credit. Not for sunny days,
nor for the wars he technically abhors.
Yes, luck indeed. Create, then wash your hands.
Believer, do not say that he ignores
your sad and sorry plight. No, he intends,
had always meant for all of this to happen,
and isn't sunning, frolicking, or napping.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

If history is written by the winners,
our victories, though biblical, are few.
We celebrate them with familial dinners,
where everybody has a point of view,

and none of them the same. Our temple teachers
will use a certain phrase, Tikkun Olam:
Go, fix the world, for us, and all God's creatures.
They cite the scriptures, back to Abraham,

remind us: you're the people of the Book.
Raise toasts to Life, and bless the sacred wine.
Remember: your forefathers undertook
to challenge, to demand of the divine
to bring joy to the world. So, so much joy…

A festival of lights. Each night, a toy.

“Is there a word you treasure above others?”
my lovely wife had asked me with a pout.
“You write, right? Well, then, had you had your druthers,
is there a word you wouldn’t do without?

A word you would include in every sonnet,
in every composition, every ode?”
I told her I must really think upon it.
Was this a real question, or some code,

some test for me to pass, a trickster’s riddle?
A husband learns that words can be a clue,
but poets, bent on matching cat to diddle,
can often be as clueless as a ewe

about to become dinner. That is life.
“Of course,” I said. “One word. Four letters. Wife.”

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

When asked: what's the point of it all
Is it sex? Is it drugs? Rock & Roll?
It's not that it's not
he simply forgot
and said that he couldn't recall

on the subject of pigeon and dove
only one stands for Lord from above
but the other -- the pigeon
is what rhymes with religion
while dove is stuck rhyming with love

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Recite the Seven Wonders of the World
demanded my peculiar professor,
as if they were a list to be unfurled.
Are any of these wonders greater, lesser,
depending on their placement in our lists?
Atop it, the Great Pyramid of Giza,
the wonder that continues, that persists,
and is it any wonder when there is a
pronounced lack of existence for the rest?
Perhaps I should examine them in order
and see if one would qualify as best.
Let history, that wonder-full recorder,
direct me to an answer, if there's one.
Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done.

Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done,
I move on to the gardens. How's it hanging?
It doesn't, huh? The pride of Babylon,
by all accounts, magnificent and banging,
is missing. There are some who even claim
they weren't ever there: Nebuchadnezzar
had built them, or Senachreb, all the same.
(For who can name the name of each successor?)
The gardens, later swallowed by the sands,
and drifting, oh so slowly, into legend,
so now, when Wikipedia demands
a picture of a bush to trim and hedge, and
it cannot even find one, much less two…
The gardens have their fans, but they are few.

The gardens have their fans, but they are few.
What of the pride of Ephesus, the temple
to Artemis, the virgin goddess who
routinely magicked those who'd try to sample
her charms into an amply antlered deer?
Aside from its sheer size (we're talking Turkey),
its claims to fame remain a bit unclear,
and virgin status altogether murky,
as Isis, also worshipped at the site,
was meant to grant fertility and healing.
Size matters, though: it must have been some sight,
the ratios mathematically appealing.
Rebuilt, and more than once, but count 'em, three,
its safely on the list, we all agree.

Its safely on the list, we all agree,
and usually placed right next to Zeus,
whose statue, I could almost guarantee,
(from renderings on coins, which left us clues)
was something of a wonder to behold.
Pure ivory and gold, chryselphantine,
by Phidias of Athens, I've been told
So tall that it is said whoever's been
to see it, thought, should Zeus decide to stand,
(the king of gods was seated on a throne)
he'll lift the very roof. The sculptor planned
to awe his audience. Their deus shone
like no Olympian had shone before.
The better to admire and adore.

The better to admire and adore.
Since adoration is what rulers crave,
in life, and even after they're no more,
the man who coined the term for "fancy grave"
must surely be discussed. He's Mausulus.
No pharaoh, nor an emperor, and yet,
the tomb he'd built himself: ridiculous.
The scale of it ensured we won't forget
about him, although he is barely known,
this ancient satrap. Was he really missed?
He died, just like the rest of us, alone,
but nonetheless did make it on the list.
So what can one conclude for number five?
Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive.

Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive.
That couldn't have been said of Alexander.
The man had such enthusiasm and drive,
a wonder he had not wound up down under,
in conquering the world that we once knew
(that "we" above our "royal", Western asses)
Had he but lived, he might have followed through
and gathered the appeal of untold masses
from the Atlantic to the China Sea.
Eponymous, his cities, 'cross the planet.
A lighthouse made for everyone to see,
in Alexandria, from quarried granite,
must therefore make the list at number six.
We're nearly done, so let's review our picks!

We're nearly done, so let's review our picks!
The pyramids, the gardens, and the temple.
The statues and the segways to the Styx,
and Alexander, leading by example.
A lighthouse in the aforementioned city,
so tall, you would have seen it from the roads
to Karnak. It's long gone, and more's the pity.
To rival it, the gentle folk in Rhodes,
they built one of their own. No gentle giant,
a model for our Liberty, to boot,
it stood above the bay, lit up, defiant,
but ended up as plunder, prize and loot.
The lighthouse over Rhodes comes in at seven.
Oh mercy, I'm so glad there's not eleven.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

So practiced in the art of self-deception
that mirrors feel no further need to lie.
The mind performs the trick, then takes exception
when shown a photo selfie that gets by
the brain's embedded filter. I look… beaten.
When did I get so derelict, so frail?
Why can't my vision sugarcoat and sweeten
this captured graven image? Does it fail
because it somehow knows the real story,
or does the mirror know some magic trick,
some unsuspected method to say sorry,
you cannot see this, lays it on so thick
you're shocked when forced to see the real you.
Turns out it's hardest to thine self be true.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT

My muse resides in a museum,
trapped in a painting, as a nude.
The one next to the Colosseum,
yeah, that one. She is shown pursued
by young Apollo, horny bastard.
A Rubens, but before he mastered
some of his skills. At any rate,
they say she's somewhat overweight.
It was a time before Ozempic,
and muses seeking to indulge
would lose the battle of the bulge,
but that's a battle he let them pick.
Who? Rubens. Captor of my muse.
A lady who refused to lose.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

Does it snow on the moon? Is it sparkly and white,
and will make lovers swoon, and will not be denied,
'cause it's covered in snow, permafrost wonderland,
icy crystals you know you can't grab with your hand
but you wish that you could. Will you reach for the stars?
Grab a handful? You should. She is yours. She is ours.

Author notes: image from Facebook

A cemetery of abandoned plots,
unfinished poems, stillborn compositions.
Self-centered daffodils, forget-me-nots,
a stichwort stichwork, shriveling ambitions,

all swaying in a gentle autumn breeze.
No storms here, those have long ago diminished,
and vision bends along, with practiced ease:
Why fight if you already know you're finished?

Strike lightning! I demand. And thunder loud!
Let headstones bathe in sharp, chromatic colors
as sunshine penetrates the permacloud,
a mourning dove takes off, a raven hollers…

Demand… Or beg. Refuses to comply.
Best learn to crawl... Forgotten how to fly.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Committed to a sonneterium.
Reduced to limericks, haikus, and puns,
with neither Rogers nor a Merriam,
nor Webster to consult, I feel a dunce,

unable to compose a single verse
without resorting to pedestrian
line endings, though I’m not at all averse
to an occasional equestrian,

but not in sonnets, well, unless the goal
was all along a stanza on the birth
of a well-bred, thus consequential, foal,
one not as yet accustomed to its girth,

then I might use equestrian to fit,
and judge the sonnet, with its use, complete.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

What do Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos, do, when they get together at last?
Grab a lunch? Out for cocktails and tapas, or a heartier, fuller repast?
I imagine the Fates as three yentas, sitting, gossiping over your threads,
matching outfits, in pink and magenta, then snip, snip as they send their regrets.

Author notes: image from Freepik

She was born from this foam, Aphrodite,
fully formed; she was Love at first sight,
Lust and Longing to render her mighty,
as no other divine power might.
Born, but never entirely free.
That is why you, too, long for the sea.

Author notes: image from Unsplash

Here's my list of Christmas wishes:
Robot, you will do the dishes,
and while I remain a bard
do some work on the backyard:

Leaves need blowing, overflowing
grass obscured, no longer showing
Logs need splitting, time permitting,
while I write my poems, sitting.

Also, too late for the turkey,
long ago reduced to jerky
but the Christmas table ham
cooked, while I read Sam I am

would be perfect. Inspiration,
two-thirds, they say, perspiration,
I'm concerned, however clever,
Robot won't help the endeavor,

and I might be forced to labor,
or worse yet, to greet a neighbor.
Compare selfies, sing, and carol,
ugly sweater, my apparel…

Unacceptable, I tell you.
So dear Robot, I compel you,
yes, dear Robot, set me free.

Too bad, Robot, you are me.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT

Talk of honor: abide…
Are you sure it's not pride?
Are you certain you haven't confused
for your personal sake,
having made a mistake,
ego wounded and battered and bruised,
pride with honor? Will you
take a moment or two
to acknowledge you're merely a man,
one who falls and who tires -
that's what honor requires.
And then laugh, as God does, at your plan.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Fall is here. She feels like dancing, feels the summer wash away,
as the season crawls, advancing. before winter has its sway.
She is young enough to welcome futures turning into pasts.
Young and pretty. She continues to believe the present lasts.

Author notes: photo thanks to Sylviane Nuccio

Little peanut, eyes open.
She's not dreaming, she's hoping.
Playful whimsy to carry her.
Starry night becomes starrier.
Go to sleep, tell her so...

She will not wanna go

Author notes: image from Pinterest

The one-eyed man was searching far and wide:
had heard an unsubstantiated rumor,
initiated by a clever guide,
(a man with an appalling sense of humor)
that there exists a Kingdom of the Blind,
and were he to locate this fabled kingdom,
however hard the place might prove to find,
if battles they will wage, he's sure to win them,
and, soon enough, proclaimed as lord and king,
he could proceed to reigning and to ruling,
sit pretty as his subjects kiss the ring.
In short, the task was apt, however grueling,
and so he went in search of. Had to try…
Of course they promptly took his other eye.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

a painter sees you in the canvas
a sculptor frees you from the stone
a writer moves you out of Kansas
into a world you've never known
a playwright uses parts of speech
to make you laugh, to make you cry
a poet sees waves on the beach
and writes a poem. Calls it Why?

Forgive the little ditty -- the "Why?" poem is most assuredly there, you won't have to scroll far

It would have been easier to answer your question if you were juxtaposing a Rothko to a Da Vinci (or Van Gogh).

these criteria apply to poetry (actually to most writing, but especially poetry)

1) Is it distinguishable? Does it have a recognizable style? Could it have been written by anyone? Two, three lines in, do you know who wrote it, the only person who could have written it? (putting AI imitations aside)

2) Does it wish to be remembered? Are you moved to quote it, in the way that you'd quote not only Frost or Shakespeare, but a Tarentino movie? Does it play on your tongue, wanting to be repeated again and again?

I would venture to say most free verse written today, whether on this site or even in lauded publications, and by various poet laureates, fails one or both of these tests, and most formal modern poetry (to the extent it is even visible) is rightly dismissed as pedestrian, which, if you examine it, also fails both of the above tests.

AI is sycophantic, but it's able to judge style and mechanics, and if pressed, can offer real criticism. That can help in the absence of a human reader. Human reaction is priceless, of course, but is rarely genuine on this site.

What is Paris, you say?
Sail a boat on the Seine
Walk up Champs-Élysées
as a November rain
falls on you from above.
What is Paris? It's love.

Author notes: image from Facebook

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

But not of empires...

I gained ten pounds on that vacation,
Late fall, Caribbean, a cruise.
Buffet, dessert, the ice cream station,
I didn’t have that much to lose
but now I do. Oh, cursed voyage!
As we sailed by both beach and buoyage
so did I sail past mat and gym
and now the picture’s sad and grim.

But fear you not: I hear the calling
of treadmill, bicycle, and weight
I know, I know, it’s not too late
to get that dial falling, falling…

Wait, what? Turducken!? You will bring?
Perhaps it's best to wait for spring.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Looking for word play to give me a poem
Checked movie titles, the good ones: you know ‘em

Breakfast at Tiffany’s:
endless epiphanies

then Naked Lunch...

I have a hunch
Dinner for Schmucks is up next...

and here, oh shucks, ends the text.

Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to gemini

The park abandoned, leaves done falling,
the river, lazy, runs below.
Come back! the park bench begs, Come calling!
Please do not let the seasons flow
keep you away. Come, take a stroll!
It's not the end. It's merely Fall.

Author notes: image from Getty Images

he offered the lady his heart
said nothing could keep them apart
but hearts can be brittle
since nothing's so little
the effort was doomed from the start

Author notes: image from VectorStock

to be
or not to be
an English grammar rant
so often I must say "I can't"
how could a language push me to this length
some master it, most lack the strength
to be becomes I was
and just because
to be

I welcome the Holiday Season
No -- I cannot give but one reason
the reasons are many
Let's start with Aunt Jenny
who just got paroled out of prison

And please don't forget Uncle Bob
and Billie, who can't get a job
and most of all Bunny
who still owes me money
but claims he must first pay the mob

Yes, Christmas is big in our house
Aunt Jenny is bringing her spouse
A famous pickpocket
He comes from Nantucket
and hasn't been caught yet, the louse

Come in, please, and share in our joy.
The relatives tend to annoy
But lest you forget
you can't choose them --- yet.
Oh, you brought little Jimmy a toy.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Bouquet discarded on the shore.
Rose petals drown in salty water,
He doesn't love her anymore.
Somebody's son, somebody's daughter
despondent, cries, their tears are bitter.
The setting sun gives up its glitter.

Author notes: Image from vecteezy

The shootout at the Not OK Corral.
So named not as a judgement or a slight
but rather to distinguish its locale
for those who, inadvertently, just might
confuse it with its neighbor, that one other,
where frontier justice, namely Wyatt Earp
dispensed with Billy Clanton, though his brother -
that's Ike, and frankly, much more of a perp -
went on to live, and not to be confused,
and you could see how such a thing annoys,
in ways that would leave any ego bruised,
with either the old Hatfields or McCoys.
Which leaves me with but one more thing to say.
Hell yes, it's a corral… but not ok.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

Ask her: what does she want?
Not a diamond to flaunt
or a necklace to wear.
She has many a care
but confesses, of late,
wants the moon on a plate.

Author notes: Image from freepin

Her bow a witch's wand,,
the violin her altar.
Time's gently flowing sand
won't let her slow or falter
nor play a note too soon.

Her audience: the moon.

Author notes: Image from pxfuel

You've heard the one about the tortoise and the hare?
But surely not from the perspective of the rabbit,
the loser who, most unequivocally, was there
and had the vaunted prize in sight but failed to grab it.

Much had been said about the moral of this tale.
Praise piled and heaped upon the slow and steady turtle,
though most acknowledge that the race was more a fail
than a defeat for him who couldn’t be more fertile.

But what if all of that turned out to be a lie?
That tortoise hadn’t even gotten past the middle,
while the old rabbit lapped the distance, watch him fly,
yet still declared a total loser, what a riddle?

The hidden meaning of this ageless allegory?
Defining winning is how one controls the story.

Author notes: Image from author prompt to gemini

Uncommon wisdom notwithstanding,
it being something of a bind,
I would much rather be demanding -
and here I think we're of a mind -
our unconditional surrender.

Abandon hope, however slender,
of me and I as things apart,
fall to the dictates of the heart,
aglow in love's unchallenged glory.

But wisdom being what it is,
it never fails to rile, to tease,
reminding us: that's half the story,
that, yes, indeed, the story's half...

and oftentimes, that's not enough.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

come on autumn, come on freeze
I'm right here, among the trees,
do your worst, storm,bring your trouble...

I'm a warbler, I don't wobble

Author notes: image from Freepik

Pastoral: a peaceful lake,
undisturbed by wave or wake
Hills surround it, some quite steep.
On their slopes, the gentle sheep
graze along without a care.
Wolf, they think, no longer there

Author notes: Image from Julia Rigby

Is there a windmill I can charge nearby?
Preferably, the old, the wooden kind,
and one whose blades are not set up too high -
I find the new ones that are so designed
as to avoid a knight's most fervent charge,
his lance a useless toothpick in the wind,
too scary, too forbidding, and too large,
and leaving me embarrassed and chagrined
at having failed to even make a dent.
What say you, Sancho, is there such a beast?
A target where our fury's better spent,
or less absurd and futile at the least?
You're silent. Oh, you haven't an idea?
No worries. Let me ask dear Dulcinea.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Many a traveler
seeks to unravel her
mysteries, secrets, and lore.

Spends pretty pennies on
questioning denizens,
seeking to live evermore,

to find El Dorado.
Would that they rather
found a more fruitful pursuit.

Their queries unbidden,
so it remains hidden,
whether on horseback or foot.

They botch and they bungle,
get lost in the jungle,
all the while thinking they're close,

when by any good measure,
if searching for treasure,
it's right in front of your nose.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Hey, little princess, you're finally free!
Did you escape from Saint-Exupéry?
Leap from your book to your planet of choice,
where harp-looking trees strum along to your voice?
Still, something tells me you're playing your part,
teaching us all: we must follow our heart.

Author notes: image from Fine Art America

Beyond the borders of forever,
out where not always and in part
join caveats, however clever,
against the fragile human heart,
that one, weak, vulnerable kingdom
which fights its battles, seems to win them,
only to find that all is lost
because it cannot bear the cost
of winning. She attempts to draft her
terms of surrender as a win.
Most unoriginal, her sin.
No, there won't be an ever after,
and no forever. Only now…

Surrendering, she makes a vow.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

I start with a To Whom It May Concern
and end it with the requisite Sincerely.
The body - took me long enough to learn -
lays out the subject matter, and as clearly

as possible, still potent, but concise,
with paragraphs that do not tend to linger,
to make it plain what's offered is advice,
not an attempt to blame or point a finger.

So often, though, I find I'm misconstrued,
interpreted in ways I've not intended,
or worse yet, told to screw myself, get sued,
and otherwise drop dead. I'm not offended

because, you see, I've been there. I know better.
And now, pay up: it's a collection letter.

---

Hope this one put a smile on your face today

Author notes: image from Shutterstock

starting with a single flower
waterlilies overpower
and, as it is now well known,
on a timeline of their own,
they will fully fill the pond...

care not whether you respond

Author notes: image from Facebook

It's raining as autumn demands your surrender.
But look! Here's a flower, so precious, so tender!
Its petals: the sun, as a toddler would draw it,
Remember, your child did? You smiled when you saw it...

A yellow pincushion: Oh... aint you a cutie.
The window tears up, overcome by its beauty

Author notes: image from wroc.tv

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

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

Where the prairie once spread, apple orchards and fields.
Green, delicious, and red, bred to maximize yields.
Home to mustang and deer, once near endless, immense,
has long since disappeared. Ancient oak by the fence.

Author notes: image from Facebook