Drifts of dirty, graffiti-white snow
sculpted by blizzard winds
beneath an angry winter colossus of grey,
what would thou teach us?

What secrets dost thou hide?

Warmth of spring, her nourishing rains
will wash thou away
yet thy majesty remains
though soon forgotten
until the hot August sun
framed in achingly blue skies
endears us to thy frigid beauty
and cool charms
which we,
ungrateful humans
in the dead of February
fail to appreciate,
we who never quite know
what we want
or require.

Dang.

Can’t think of a thing to say…
I wish I could. I’d like to.
Lying here in my teal-blue flannel jammies
poetry reaching out from the page
connecting with my brain.

Rocking me.
Moving me.
Making an awesome impression.

I want to do that too.

I want to write
powerful words of eloquence
with a touch of grace
humor to boot
wisdom so profound
and so gut-wrenching,
readers will nod their heads
with knowing approval
whenever my name is mentioned
(in reverence)
some fifty-odd years from now
at poetry circles
(slams will have become
oh-so-2017-ish)…

Um.

How am I doing so far?

Seven random images posted the 11th of each month…

1. Desiccated

2. Land Between Two Rivers

3. Yes. It’s Still Winter Here…

4. The Travels of Quinnela Jo Ross

5. Copper Top

6. Mommy’s Little Sweetheart

7. And Now For My Next Trick

         At first, I was afraid, I was petrified…. I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor

I fail in my embrace of Ms. Gaynor.
She empowers me
for only as long as the music still plays.
I am unable to translate her song into action.

Or resolve.

Time and again, I crumble
just as she vows she will not do.

Unsteady on my feet,
in every way that matters,
heart not (yet) forged in steel,
I feel almost broken.

I am always alone
and fear a future,
forver unwanted
never loved.

Still, fraud that I am,
I sing strong and proud.
But it is only for show.

Why can’t I be enough?

Vermin of verse
rise up against the wind
steady among every remnant of language
needlessly tossed aside.
Streetlamps shine at synchronized intervals,
providing cover for naughty girls
and those who seek them.
Cigar smoke chokes the minds of young boys
oh, so eager to become men
even as riderless beasts thrash
through emerald forests
uncertain and unafraid
waiting for lightning
to calm their outrageous skies.

Summer smiles,
highway miles.

Two rash and reckless
twenty-somethings
ensconced in a white
’76 Mustang,
with a thin red racing stripe
to match its plaid cloth interior.

Manual transmission,
chrome wheels
and Glory Be to God:
an 8-track player,
the center console
laden with The Hollies,
Hall & Oats,
Golden Earring,
Jethro Tull
and The Knack.

Launch it!

Our Girl Power
pit stop
battle cry,
a necessary prelude to Rolos, Pringles,
and Diet Cokes,
travel tackle for the ages.

With state lines yet to cross,
we savored every kick-ass song —
in its entirety.
Once that ignition key stoked the carburetor,
and my wing woman
pushed the tape back into the slot,
we watched those white lines melt away
in our side-view mirrors,
destinations unknown.

Saxon poets chanting canticles of praise
from icy rooftops sloped toward the sun.

Bards of commerce
draped in fealty to the divine,
their fractured bones
whitewashed
discarded
unadjudicated.

Vassal peasants
dregs of feudal injustice
subordinate to William their liege
play the part,
both benign and beseeching,
for mere pennies on the hypocritical dollar.

Hearts quake in the tsunami of misspent opportunities,
Understood only now in retrospect —
Minds unhurried to follow.
Once in synch,
Bodies quake over — and over — what might well have been.