Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Poem: God's Mind

God’s Mind

God’s mind is good

God’s mind is great

Enough for two thoughts

On his plate

Anger and pity

Doubt and belief

Thunder’s crack, a falling leaf

Laughter, tears

Yellow, blue

Music

Science

God made that too.

                                 by Jane Rockwell 

Monday, April 27, 2020

Poem: Haiku

bent grass tells of flood

spent before the morning sun

          frogs croak for their mate

                                           by Carol Phillps
                                            first published in Haiku Journal Issue #22

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Poem: Flowers Mean May

Flowers Mean May


April’s rimless wet
                                wagers grief’s roulette. 
Blooms rattle,
                       frenetic mesh.
Prod imperfection;
                               spatter flimsy rosette:
desperate for a kindly set
                                         to count-off
and confirm us.
                            Hold dear.
Tactic of desire –
                             odd-numbered
to denote She Loves Me. . . .


I stroll the peristyle
                                 encircled
with springtime bouquet. 
                                          Piecemeal fragrance
to wilt all winter weed. 
                                       Appetite of delicate petals
on cue:
             summon like addiction. 
Snatch a daisy
                        off the edge,
eager to dissect our fate.
                                         Each casualty
may heal, while any sum
                                         must be forgiven –
abide pledge
                     as she may love me not.

                                                         
                                                     by Sam Barbee



Saturday, April 25, 2020

Poem: The Media Circus

THE MEDIA CIRCUS

It’s Super Tuesday all through the land
National Media says it will be grand.
Just follow their lead
They’ll tell us how to think
As they make their bold predictions
With a subtle nod and wink.

Talking heads, empty thoughts, just puppets on a string
Prognosticating, prophesying, on each and every thing.
They tell us what is going to be
And how the vote will go.
Unless, of course, the polls are wrong
And then they just don’t know.

Hours and hours every day they ramble, rant and rave
The tell us what we’re supposed to do, and how we should behave.
Follow our lead, here’s how to act
No worry, bother or fuss.
But if the vote should go wrong
“You surely can’t blame us.”

We read the polls, we poked and pried, we questioned everyone
We even have opinions from the chauffeur’s younger son.
His daddy drives the candidate
To every campaign stop.
He surely has some real hot news
That no one else can top.

Where is the scoop, the nugget, the juicy little bit
Something that our network has, but no one else has hit.
It may be true, it could be false
We can’t take time to test.
We’ll just put it on the air
And hope it’s for the best.

If we should be mistaken, in a statement strong
We’ll just ignore the error for we cannot be wrong.
Pretend we did not say to you
Which candidate will win.
Our experts have informed us
That 4 plus 5 is ten.

Should Candidate X say black is white, and candidate Y says no
We’ll love that little argument, for we can make it grow.
We’ll twist their words, and mispronounce
Whatever they might say.
To keep our jobs requires we have
New stories every day.

Although we may not always be exactly true
We are National Media, no one would dare to sue.
So all day long we’ll tell you
Almost man to man
The things you have already heard,
And will shortly hear again.

Would not it be a strange little quirk
If these reporters really had to work?
If they dug a ditch, built a house
Saw how real workers fare.
It would do much for Global Warming
By eliminating much hot air.

                                                       by Al Manning,
                                                        aka: Resident Curmudgeon

Friday, April 24, 2020

Poem: The Eyes Have It

The Eyes Have It

No one will know if you flossed today, 
Corona has taken such close looks away. 
Teeth and gums are safe from inspections.
Now we cannot assess dental conditions.

Spinach or kale may lurk undetected,
all kinds of food could there be collected.
That mask hides lunch or dinner from view,
and those fragrant wafts of garlic too.

Yes, it’s good to be safe from virus infection,
but we miss what lips add to words’ inflection.
Lost are our own oral expressions; the spice 
that reveals if smiles be naughty or nice.

Now it’s the eyes, windows to soul and heart, 
that send out our feelings, while six feet apart.
Words muffled and filtered by cloth and fear.
We long for the day when again we draw near.


                                                                by A. KISSEL
                                                                04-2020

Thursday, April 23, 2020

Poem: Tritina: Consolation


Tritina: Consolation


The dogwood scatters snowy petals on our path,
sacrificial carpet underfoot. Swept into the garden,
they decay there as summer subverts spring.

When your jaunty step loses its spring,
and you lose yourself wandering a vague path
with frozen thoughts, stiff bones, the garden

still will offer up its consolations. To garden
is to dig Ecclesiastes. So toil, till, ʼtil spring
negates your winter. Clear your own path

through the garden’s fading petals, a path to your next spring.

                                                           by Jeanne Julian




Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Poem: What I Remember


What I Remember

bout Rock Creek, West Virginia
in the summer, late 1940’s
is a porch-sittin of an ev’nin
wi Mamaw an Papaw,
aints, uncles, cousins,
neighbors a comin by
an ere’s talk a trucks
runnin good or broke down
an how to fix em,
corn knee high by
the Fourth of July
grinnin n laughin
teasin n singin

Papaw a blowin into
his ol pitchpipe “do so mi do”
women a harmonizin
an men a playin spoons
an clackin bones
Mamaw a stringin beans or
servin up sweet tea or lem’nade
us kids a playin un’er
‘at big ol weepin willah tree
or a swingin on ‘at air arn gate
an a sneakin gooseburries
a growin on at ol wahr fence
grinnin n laughin
teasin n singin



till Papaw‘d say,
“You younguns git up
onna porch now—
snakes’ll be comin’ out!”
Oh, the heart-poundin thrill
a sneakin down them steps
one
at
a
time
then a racin out into
at ere snake-infested yard
an back agin fast as yer legs’d go,
laughin n squealin like li’l piggies

Later, hauled up inta somebody’s lap
an lulled by the swayin
of a glider or a rockin cheer,
last a the sun a disappearin
behind the hills,
skeeters an moths
drawn ta the porch light,
moon-lit Creek down b’low
water a rushin over rocks,
night songs uh the katydids
an crickets an folks’ voices
all a comin together
in a low hum
softer an fainter alla while 
yawnin an’ fightin
to
stay
awake
                                                                             
                                            by  Jeannie D’Aurora