A Northshore Christmas 2020

So thinking of a present for Christmas,
Maybe a lil something in rhyme,
But not sure it’s right,
That this might not be the time.
But the good is worth remembering
And the great was sweet given by your leave.
So, here’s a little something,
But in magic you still must believe.

Puppydog had come before the rains
A sweet bit of plain good heaven
A-jumping and a-tusslin’ all day
From dawn’s seven until dark’s seven.
One day Puppydog was gone!
The door had somehow been left open!
Crushed, she looked all over and all under
But P’dog was gone, tweren’t no reason for hopin’.
The days sore passed one over the other
But there’s your 2020, don’t you know?
Hearts curl upon themselves these days;
For the happy, sometimes there’s nowhere to go.

So, a cold blustery empty kind of a day
Brought the Northshore Christmas Eve—

Trying to nap in the bunk beds,
She thought she’d heard some skritchin’?
She lumbered to her dead-tired feet
To open the door off the fine kitchen—

Puppydog! Yelping warm holiday greetings!
Oh, such reunited hearts awash in love’s tears.
So, I wish you a very Merry Christmas
And a bundle of the happiest of New Years!

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Poet’s Last Word

Oh, where in the world can your poet run
When the words fall flat, and the rhymes won’t come?
Oh, what hard trials arise to squash younglet poetry,
Like a weeded up, oak-wilt, unlovely and broken tree?
No thesaurus, no dictionary, nor dog-paged Bartlett’s
Can save a poor rhymester when the scansion he forgets.
Arched over his blank page, a pen rusting in his hand,
He remembers clever phrasing that once lofted grand.
But today, too many hours passed, when imagery faded away:
No paragraphs soar to shine, no dark truths for a heart to sway.
Just letters on a keyboard accompany the page gleaming white—
Is it old age, or a brain cancer, or Alzheimer’s that’s blanked his inner sight?
Swirling leaves, the pelting rain; no, just tears to wet another empty page.
Crashing thunder, volcanic explosions; no, just writer’s blocked impotent rage.
Was all this alleged talent just Life’s joke on the unwittingly absurd?
What do you say to the one who cannot find the poet’s last word?

Wait On Tomorrow

In the flat awful of your newly broken heart,
Find that space for a (yes) scant new start.
It’s a hard surprise, a twist in the plot;
It’s your chance to show ’em what you got–
A vision true to see over the far yonder hill:
That happiness can still find you, I know it will!
So repair to a bed that druther entertain two
That is again graced with the joy of just you.
Wait on tomorrow.
See the new day.
Start a new poem!
Whattaya say?

Aloning on New Year’s

Tried to share her in a poem,
But the heart would not scan.
Trying to forget all about her—
I fail, trying as hard as I can.
Winds turned to colding;
The heater runs all day;
I can see each wispy breath—
Singled out in about every way.
Staple-gun together some words,
But joy and doubt won’t rhyme.
Aloning it again on New Year’s—
It’s Love for sometwo else’s this time.
But, it’s all good for this po little coda.
And, yes please, a lil more rum for my soda.

Sky Too Green

Sky so green
Grass too blue
What I may tell you
May not be too necessarily true
Poets often wrinkle
And scurry over the rhyme
So sue me tangential
Versification has never been a capital crime
Riddle me plastic
Cauterize those peeps of joy
Life tarries aslantlike
I hope they have a baby boy
Roses be red
For her with eyes so too blue
Oh, another butterfly release—
Could you free me one day too?

Waylaid in the wrong parallel life

Ever been waylaid in the wrong parallel life
Such sadness, such death, and curdling strife
Cho killed Emily. Why. Who ever knows.
Tears still bedew at the nape of your nose
Petals before full bloom are buried too soon
Remember your friends erelong rises the next moon
Forgive, forgive the heart that lost its mind
I hope better times, brighter sunrises, all may find
But to understand, to unearth the seeds of hope
Some reason to live, some method to cope;
The solution may be much closer than you think
So forget gods, witch doctors, drugs or drink
When next waylaid in this wronged nonpareil place
Find ye the answer alive in any child’s face