Slow Life

Old man sits in the shadows
Covered by a hot tin roof.
Thick heat sits round him
Makin' life slow and heavy.
Carpenter bee moves slowly
Almost see wings beat.
Diggin' tunnels and workin'
Into the cabin' mud chinking.

Night Flight

Last night I dreamed as I lay asleep
I stood on the edge of a chasm deep
And I leapt into the sky as on a dare
Into the invisible arms of elemental air
And I flew, graceful and free
Unfettered by the chains and bonds of gravity
I laughed and flew higher still,
Called on by joy and force of will
Flying higher than I knew I could,
Higher than a flier should
Barrel rolls and loop-de-loops
I flew.

Frog

Spring peeper
Lilly pad leaper
Tongue tangler
Fly wrangler
Eye popper
Belly flopper.

Tobaccer Field

That tobaccer field
Cursed and hateful
Stooped from labor
Pullin', plantin', cuttin'
Broken by hard work
Hangin', sortin', gradin'.

That tobaccer field
Evil, wicked tempter
Hidden lies, addiction
Nicotine robber, killer
Leavin' old men breathless
Eatin' out their insides.

That tobaccer field
Laid food on the table
Good money for the mortgage
Sent nine youngin's to college
Built this house an' home.

Snow Blossoms

White flakes curl and swirl
Gathered up by willow wispy winds
Blowing, whirling, scattering
Dancing in the dusk
By the light of a street lamp
Crab-apple snow storm
Fallen blossom blizzard

First flight

Near empty nest
Winds blow hard
Wings spread - open
Feathers rigid
Shoulders hunched
Feet push off
Into the empty sky
Wings catch hold
Pushing air
Miraculous first flight

Easter Basket

As I ponder this Easter basket, still filled with crinkled cellophane
The satin bow now hangs lopsided, lovely purple with saliva stains
Smudged with chocolate, muddy pawprints from a wound up child
Hyped up offspring with doubtful lineage scaring Grandpa, sugar wild.
Rummage through the chocolate wasteland, searching for a jelly bean
Carefully feel the bottom, search for treasure left by kiddies wicked, mean.
Yet still unbroken in all its glory, swirled with purple one single Easter egg
Single survivor of the ravage, stuck to a fuzzy, questionable chocolate bunny leg.
Should I, dare I, it mocks and tempts me, room temperature - week old treasure
Run, hide, crack the shell, then salt and pepper for this stolen pleasure.
Yet calmer thoughts and woeful memories come unbeckoned almost too late
Reminding me of other Easters, other spoiled eggs that I should not, but ate!