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 Stormy
On The Last Day Of June. Planes Ascend Through Crowds Of Low Clouds, Metal Wings Beating To Rise High Enough To Gain Open Sky, And Escape Earthly Rain.
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Took Mister G. A Long While To See No Angel Was Coming, Strumming A Lute, To Set Him Free, And To Boot, His Lofty Schemes Would Never Bear Fruit. No Fortune Would Fall Into His Kick To Allow Him To Pick His Way Through A Thicket Of Doubt He Could Do Nothing About, So Mister G. Took The Easy Way Out. Dumped His Work In The Trash And Made A Mad Dash To Escape His Fate, Ran Into The Gate And Fell On His Ass. The Lesson Here Is Decidedly Clear. You Have To Know Which Way To Go, But Mister G. Will Never Know.  Searching
For The Perfect Word, Something Of Note Recollected From A Quote, Or Overheard From A Nearby Table, A Lyric Recalled Just In Time To Rearrange Into A Rhyme, Or Fit Into A Piece Of Prose, Who Knows? That’s How It Generally Goes. You Get On The Track, And It All Comes Back.  I’m
Holding Back Creeping Age, That Great Down Sizer, With Lots Of Pricey Moisturizer. Cunning Arrangements Of My Hair Disguise What Is No Longer There. All That I’ve Got Left Of Style Is In My Lopsided Smile. I Can’t Know The Public’s Reaction, But I Take Satisfaction That I Still Remain Fairly Active In My Brain.  The
Mighty Sun, In Exhalations Of Fire Burns The Land Drier As Dire Wind And Sand Conspire To Rob The Air Of Water Stolen From The Trees And Streams, And Blown Away Like Thirsty Dreams.  *Iris* 16" H X 12" W Acrylic On Canvas My
Father Gravely Ill, The Household Fractured, We Criss Crossed The Country In A Black Car No Longer Manufactured. Tall, Ash Blond, A Wholly Decent Man, We Wandered Through The South, Emotionally Hand To Mouth, Until, Worn Out By The Ride, He Died. On Father’s Day, I Think Of Him With Love, And Deep Respect, And With Great Pity For Fate’s Neglect Of His Precious Worth, To Lift Him To The Stars, Leaving Me Alone On Earth.  From
My Room, I Can See The Mimosa Tree In Bloom. Scentless Blossoms Fade And Fall To Gather In Clusters Against The Wall, Or Blow Away In Feathery Flight, As If They Might Seed The Struggling Earth And Be Of Lasting Worth.  *Nickolai Petrovich Bogdanov-belsky Measured
Words Are Never Wrong When Bent To Fit A Treasured Song, Or Distilled Into Metered Verse. Certainly, I Could Do Worse Than Scatter Syllables That Matter, When Voices Rise To Sing A Lilting, Subtle, Rhyming Thing, And Gently Pluck The Heart’s String.  Beauty
Unfurls Like A Flag, As Music Rises In Devout Praise To Lift Us From Our Humdrum Days, Sweet Jubilation Of No Nation But Godlike Humanity All Around, In Perfected, Exquisite, Sound.  *Lisa Purvin Oliner* In
The Shrubbery Here And There, Silver Spider Stairs Swing In Brisk Morning Air, Soon Falling Into Disrepair, But The Spider Does Not Care, And Spins Another Silken Strand To Safely Land And Slyly Pose Upon The Petals Of The Rose. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
October 2021
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