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 Monday Weather
High Winds Blowing A Hole In The Sky, Spinning Papers By, Song Birds Unable To Fly. Then Raindrops Pelting, Melting Dust To A Circular Crust On My Car, Like Desert Scars.
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 Leaving
Writing Of London Today, Since Things Are Bad In The USA. Politics Are In Such A State, I need To Mentally Emigrate, And Breathe The Air Of 1817 Mayfair. You Know What I mean, Create A Past That’s Ever Green. I’ll Give It A Try, And Just Say Good Bye.  *Catriona Millar* The Good Listener Echo
Read Aloud In A Quiet Place And See If You Can Find A Space Between The Words For The Other Voice Once Heard, The One For Which You Long, Hidden In A Song.  *Sally Rosenbaum* Woman Writing Hello Again
Just When I fear My Brain Has Gone Dry And I’ve Nothing Left To Try, By Glory, I begin Another Story. How To Explain This Proclivity Toward Creativity? I’m Guessing It’s Some Kind Of Boon, A Remembered Tune, A Refrain I retain From Long Ago, That I am Blessed To Know.  Waiting
The Morning Glory Vine Twines And Trails Over The Porch Rails, Reaching Like A Lover For Any Surface It Can Cover, But Blooms Not, Since It’s Too Hot. It Hesitates And Waits, Until The Sun Looks Away, Then Will Flower Every Day, And Grow In A Heavenly Blue Glow.  *Study In Red And Yellow* 16"H X 20" W Oil On Canvas Hmmm.
Watercolor Sky For Friday, Nothing Much To Say. Government In A Roil, Politics On The Boil, A Tumult Of Comment Insult. Tempted To Just Turn Away Until Some Better Day, And With A Sigh, Let The World Go By.  Stressed
Watching The News Gives Me A Mental Bruise. The President Is An International Prick And His Supporters Are Deathly Sick. The Ruskies Are After Us Like Rabid Huskies, And All The Republicans Do Is Gloat Over Our Sinking Boat. Dear Hearts, Get Out When You Can, And Vote. Protest, And Cause Some Aggravation, Or Soon, We Won’t Have A Nation.  *Clive Uptton* The Sower Of The Seed Sower
The Sprinklers Are Running Again, Costly Upside Down Rain. Coaxing The Desert Grass To Grow, Which Is Mighty Slow To Push Up A Fresh Blade Or Two, As Grass Is Supposed To Do. I give It What It Needs, Fertilizer And Expensive Seeds, But It Either Turns Brown Or Stays Right In The Ground. Still, I water The Pesky Stuff, Though Its Obviously Not Enough.  Saved
The Road Runner Comes Early In The Day, Seeking Its Prey. Namely The Dove, Symbol Of Love, Which Stands In Place, A Vacant Look Its Face. The Predator Comes Around A Bush, Moving Fast, Takes A Big Push, And Anxious To Help, I yelp. At The Last Second, The Dove Jumps, Wings Pump And Up It Flies. The Road Runner Stares With Beady Eyes, Then Trots Away, A Little Miracle For Saturday.  Monsoon Thursday
The Desert Sky Today Is Swept In Folds Of Gray. Over Night, As I slept, The Trees Wept, And Moisture Lingers In The Air, Touching The Grasses In Damp Fingers When The Breeze Passes. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
January 2020
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