|
|
 It
Appears That, Still Alive, I Will Survive Evil 2020, Year Of Plenty Of Lies And Violence, And Of A Ghastly Silence From Those Elected To Protect Us. Fight On! Keep Hope For 2021.
0 Comments
 I Recently
Read Scientists Have Said That All The Alien Races Are Dead. Too Late To Make A Fuss, It Turns Out There’s Only Us. Some Say They Blew Themselves Away, While Other’s Claim That To Their Shame, They Wasted All They Had In Mindless Greed And Suffering, Perished In Dire Need. What Use To Fly To Mars And On To Distant Stars? It Seems There Is No Other World To Share, And Absolutely No One There.  Low
Clouds Form The Feathered Breast Of A Massive White Bird, The Rest A Trail Of Rippled Wings And Miles Of Drifting Tail. Rare Plumage, Sailing South To Be Warm, Far From December’s Storm.  Mrs. G.
Admired Her Christmas Tree, Faithful Pets At Her Knee. Needless To Say, No One Was Coming Today, But What The Hell, The Turkey Was Swell, Enjoyed By The Lady, The Cat And The Dog, Politely Agog Beside The Table Set For One. When Done, She Addressed Her Furry Friends. “Not To Worry. When This Virus Ends, And Time Moves On, We Will Have Won.”  I Cannot
Grant You Leave To Rant In Service To Your Cause, Exhibiting Sharp, Poison Claws. You Shout Your Message Everywhere, No Surprise There, But It Involves A Multitude Of Lies And Rampant Theft, Reveals A Soul Bereft Of Life, That In A Fetid Breath Preaches Death.  *Picasso* Portrait Of A Woman A
Painting Can Divide Space, And Add Elements Displaced, Enclose One Corner Of Repose, Suggest An Inner Pensive Glance, A Captured, Precious Memory Perchance, Although Contained And Rearranged. The Colors Please, And Speak Of Time And Ease To Disconnect And Just Reflect.  *Sally Rosenbaum* Thoughts To Myself An
Old Friend Sent Me A Poem, And When I Got Home, I Read What She Had Said. It Wasn’t Perfect, Just A Few Very Refined Lines, And My Husband Remarked, “It’s So Much More Than Nothing,” And The Line Stuck In My Head. I’ve Written Several Million Words, But The Tenderest Praise I’ve Heard Was All In The Simple Phrase That I Recall, As I Strive To Keep My Work Alive.  To
Write, We Must Carry Our Own Light, But Words That Are Right Can Guide Us Through The Night, Lift Us From The Daily Pit In Which We Sit, Should Time Permit. Otherwise, The Urge Falls Dumb, Laboring To Overcome Forces That Stop Our Speech, Each Hopeful Effort Extending Our Reach.  In
The Happenstance Of Taking A Chance, Lady M., On A Whim, Gave Her Heart To A Dastard Prince, And Ever Since, Has Paid The Price, In That The Fellow Was Far From Nice. Because This Is A Fairy Tale, A Coin Dropped Into A Wishing Well, The Rogue Fell Headfirst From His Horse And Was Interred With Scant Remorse. Although It Borders On Absurd, Here Came Dashing King Goodword, To Carry Our Lady Off In A Dance, And That’s The Beginning Of True Romance.  *Autumn In New York* 20" H X 16" W Acrylic On Canvas Where
Do You Go When You Wait? For The Elevator, Or The Gate, For Waters To Rise, Then Subside. For Trouble To Forget You, For Regret To Flee, To Have Enough To Go Around, And For Once, Stand On Solid Ground. Then, Somehow, You Find The Way To Make It Through Another Day. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
June 2021
|
RSS Feed