Fact,
I keep
My
Hopes
Intact
Reflecting
On
Those
Who
Reached
The
State
Of
Doing,
Being,
Truly
Great
In
Events
Handed
Them
By
Fate.
As
For
Me,
I stumble
Every
Day
In
Some
Humble,
Tiresome,
Way,
But
When
I fall,
Tell
The
Devil
I gave
My
All.
In
Fact, I keep My Hopes Intact Reflecting On Those Who Reached The State Of Doing, Being, Truly Great In Events Handed Them By Fate. As For Me, I stumble Every Day In Some Humble, Tiresome, Way, But When I fall, Tell The Devil I gave My All.
0 Comments
Although
It Is Hot And Sunny Every Day, The Soft Fruits Of Summer Have Slipped Away. Peaches, Cherries, And Plums Succumb, And The Choices Grow Thin At The Season’s End. Then It’s Apples, As I grapple With Summer’s Loss, September Soon To Be Nature’s Boss. The
Fat Lady At The Market, In A Tee Shirt Of Red, Emblazoned With An Image Of A Legend Long Dead, Blocks The Aisle With A Vacant, Benevolent Smile. The Shirt Bears A Biblical Curse, Various Blessings Likely Locked In Her Purse, Her Mind A Hash Of Sour Mash I inhale As I squeeze By. Oh, Lord, How Long Will Fools Use Your Word Like Song Lyrics They Think They Have Heard? I consider
The Mimosa Tree, The One I see As I drink My Morning Tea. Last Year I was Told The Tree Was Too Old, And That Was Why Branches Had Gone Dry, And Pieces Of Bark Littered The Lawn. ‘Cut ‘Er Down’, Said The Fellow, Showing Me Leaves Turning Yellow. I did Not Listen To Him, Sprayed, Sawed, And Trimmed, And To Boot, Spent A Bundle Of Loot, But This Year, My Dear, The Tree Is A Glory, End Of Story. Setting
Out On My Trusty Steed, Fulfilling The Daily Need To Slay The Dragon Doubt As I may, In What I write Or Do Or Say, And Though It May Seem Quaint, Life Is A Canvas, And I am The Paint. Struggling
Humanity, So Given To Inanity, Praying For A Change In Luck, Pining For The Perfect Fuck, Warlike, Greedy, Endlessly Needy, Constantly Bereft, With Loss And Death Hand In Glove, Nonetheless, We Love, We Love. A
Windless Day. The Light Lay Latticed Beneath The Pergola, The Calm Bay Gathering In Distant Wrinkles Toward The Resistant Sand, Your Hand In Mine, Blessed By Sunshine. Far Below, There Was Resounding Woe. The Two Canadians Deep Diving Off The Reef, Going By Mutual Accord For The Cherished Record, Perished, Vanished, Stolen By Poseidon’s Thief. And The Wind Lifted Sharply, As If To Say All This Would Blow Away, Danger The Constant Vice In Paradise. Late
August Means The End Of Peaches, But I am One Who Reaches For The Last Fragrant Globe, Flagrant With Juicy Flesh, Designed To Refresh. Then They Give Way To The Faithful Apple, Dappled By The Sun, And Fall Has Gastronomically Begun. My
Companions, In Beauty Found A Flaw. I stood In Awe, They Did Not See The Perfection Apparent To Me, That Had Endured For A Century. How Dull The Eye, How Small The View, And There Was Nothing I could Do Or Say To Wipe Their Vision Clean Enough To Observe The Skill And The Artistic Nerve. Avoiding
The Serrated Edge Of Worry, I try Always Not To Hurry In An Unseemly Way, And Remain At Ease In My Day, But Oh, The Night, The Small Hours And Their Fright. I do My Best And Seek To Rest Random Troubles In A Cask Of Painted Tin, My Task Every Moment To Begin Again. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
|