Dawn.
Waking
To
The
Hush
Of
Snow,
Deep
On
The
Lawn,
Rendering
Shapes
Imponderably
Humped,
The
Trees
Slumped
Under
The
Freight
Of
Frosty
Weight.
I am
Marooned
On
An
Island
Of
White,
Far
From
Where
Others
Are,
Solitary
And
Distant
As
A
Frozen
Star.
Chill
Dawn. Waking To The Hush Of Snow, Deep On The Lawn, Rendering Shapes Imponderably Humped, The Trees Slumped Under The Freight Of Frosty Weight. I am Marooned On An Island Of White, Far From Where Others Are, Solitary And Distant As A Frozen Star.
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Manuscript
Writing On The Clouds, Hoping To Make A Mark, And Every Day, Overtaken By The Dark. ‘Futility,’ I cry, As A Thousand Clouds Pass Me By. My Task Is Large, My Skill Is Not, I use What I’ve Got To Chase Away My Clouds Of Grey. I chart The Puffs Of White Until Night, For When The Sky Is Sunny Blue, I have Nothing To Do. Iced
The Sostenuto Of Winter Goes On, Sustained And Uncontained. Piano, Piano, I say, Go Away. Incognito
Folks At The Market Don’t Know I’m A World Famous Hero. They’re Not Aware Of My Renowned Art At Walmart. On Facebook, I’m Just Another Face, Not The Winner Of Life’s Race. In My Books, I catch The Crooks, Marry The Prince, Suffer Battle Wounds And Never Wince. In Story, I possess Every Glory, But I’ll Pass You By, And Never Catch Your Eye. It Will Be Me, But Likely, You Won’t See. Goodbye, I’m Off To Capture A Wicked Spy. Nasal Blues
Warm Days And A Gentle Breeze Have Brought That Gift Of Spring, The Sneeze. At Night, Our Trees Grind Out Pollen, And By Morning, I have Fallen, Attacked Through The Nose By Everything That Grows. Anti Hista Mine Makes Me Feel Slightly Green, But I can’t Make That An Issue. Pass Me A Tissue! *Ah Choo!* Contrast
Sometimes, A Painting Has To Age, Be Put Aside At A Half Finished Stage, Until It Can Be Brought Around, And A Way Ahead Found. Writing Is A Single Strand, Drawn Out Hand Over Hand. Once Work Is Begun, It Remains All One, Until Its Done. True Or Not, Its What I’ve Got, And How I spend My Days, Finding My Way Through The Maze. February 14
That Year, In A Far Flung Place, I was Given Roses, The Flower Of Grace. All Around Us Was New Fallen Snow, But We Moved In A Valentine Glow, Gliding Across Crystal Ice In A Northern Paradise. Roses Fade Away, And Often, Lovers Will Not Stay, But To Remind Us, This Heart Shaped Day Finds Us. Debate
I consider What Should Be Done When Death Has Won, Taken Me Into His Arms, And Wiped Away My Earthly Charms. A Pavanne Of Chemicals And Stains, To Preserve My Piteous Remains? Or Should My Second End Be In The Flames, With No Funereal Games, Toasted Into Sparks And Smoke, To Become A Cosmic Joke? Or Slowly Decay In Clothes That Were Snappy In My Day? Or Choose The Fire, And Simply Blow Away? Ah Me, I may Arrange A Burial At Sea. Then Fish Would Nibble What Was Left, And Such A Thought Leaves Me Bereft. All That Said, Between Me And You, When I’m Dead, I won’t Care What They Do. Duty
I rise At Dawn, To Rake The Lawn, Before It Rains, Or Snows, Or The Wind Blows, Or The Sun Is Too Hot, And Steals What Energy I’ve Got. Alas, I’ve No Excuse, I’m Guilty Of Lawn Abuse. If I continue To Pass It By, The Lawn Will Die. In This Land Of Rock And Sand, I’m Lucky To Have Grass At All. So, By Tomorrows Dawn, The Pesky Leaves Will Be Gone. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
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