By |

Sitting in a cushion-comfy Adirondack
in the shade of two white oak trees and a beloved maple,
I peer into the thick green canopy overhead,
the gentle sway of leaves in the late-day breeze
mesmerizing in its own right.

Bisecting a slender stem of new growth,
a small, textbook-perfect acorn catches my eye.
I love the solitary position of this tiny specimen
tucked among the umbrella of spirally orchestrated leaves.

Are there more, I wonder?

I sit quietly, focusing on each quadrant of the crown.
Looking past the gestalt of this god of thunder,
I drill down to each branch, each twig, each leaf.

I am patient.

Then, I find it. Another acorn,
a branch or two higher,
just to the right of the first one.
Two of them. Might I detect a third?
I do. Then a fourth, and a fifth.
Clusters of acorns, too, become apparent.

My discerning eye begins to see.
The longer I sit here,
persistent and with intent,
the more I start to notice.

Birds also enter the range of this fresh, new vision.
They stop at the feeder, oblivious to my presence,
a nod to how motionless I’ve become in my revelry.
Sparrows striped in buff, black, brown.
Purple finches, red-winged blackbirds, a spectacular male cardinal.
At the base of the maple, a mourning dove returns my inquisitive stare.
I burrow deeper. I enjoy their song.

By |

Bella greets each new day
B.O.A. — Bored On Arrival.
Cashmere closets no longer inspire.
Morning mimosas have become blasé.
Angkor Wat – what a snooze.
Yosemite, Yemen, Yellowstone?

Yawn.

DIY violent death?
Google search engine
In full throttle
Messy, macabre.
Might just be memorable.

Looking, looking…

Here’s one she finds particularly amusing: Pomegranate Razor Smoothies

Bella, I wouldn’t go there if I was you.

By |

permission granted to float
buoyed spirits now soaring
wave upon wave
hectares of ocean
turquoise, wide sea
dreams corralled
nurtured
sustained
keel-hauled trappings
illustrious currents
moon shining across the water
coconut palms, indigo flight

calm, calm

By |

                  In forty years,
my first book of poetry
will have been published
this day.

A lean volume, with work
I’ve deemed my best
without — at last — a care in the world
for others’ thoughts or estimations.

Words joined and fastened
as I wish them to be.
No regard for rules,
                           or voice,
         or form.

My poetry tells the stories
I’ve wanted to write
my entire life
caring little if at all
as to who might wish to read them.

Judge me,
judge me not.

                  In forty years,
I’ll be 102.

Writing then
with abandon
as oh! How I wish
I was brave enough
to do so now.

*************************************************************************************
Inspired by a July 28th story in the Washington Post about a woman, Sarah Yerkes, who published her first book of poetry on June 15, 2019 at the age of 101. She began writing poetry in her 90’s.

Her book is called Days of Blue and Flame.