Just A Summer Storm

It’s just another forgettable Summer storm;
Let’s stay inside where it’s safe and warm;
We’ll have another coffee and sit a spell;
Our Angels are about to keep us safe from harm.
OH! The old tree fell in the backyard!
While the rain pelts down so very hard;
Windows are all closed, it’s just as well—
Happy to be high and dry is this simple bard.
MY! How the lightning FLASHES and CRASHES so!
Outside, right about now, is where I’d rather not go;
But things are getting better, you can sure tell—
Those high winds seem to be blowing a bit more slow.
It is just another Summer storm that’s just passing on thru—
See ya tomorrow when again it’s sunny and our skies returned blue.

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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?

Looking Up

Looking Up—
I see the Sun has come out
And chased away every Cloud
The cousins Rain and Thunder
Had been playing most very loud

Now the Rays—
Have warmed and dried up the whole place
Dogs and Birds and kids have all came out
No dour faces; no, not a single trace

I know not what may be this calendar season
Just want to run and play without a professed reason

On the horizon—
A rumbling and tumbling of clouds approach
It just might rain before we take our leave
The Sun’s rays scurry and hide beneath dark folds.
So, again come the rains, we do believe

Flashing and splashing—
Rain and Thunder make the scene
Such splendid commotion dazzles the eyes
And the roaring crashes so smite the ears
A thunderstorm is a glorious thing, I surmise

I know not what may be this calendar season
I just hope in the morning I’ll have a nice reason
To be

Looking Up—