Piles of snow and ice tenaciously refuse to melt on the north sides of buildings and trees
Fallen branches from the ice storm mock the emerging crocuses
Beauty emerges within the storm’s beastly remains.
Grateful for low tech tools
The fireplace, the printed book, the battery-operated radio
We stay wrapped up in the magic warmth of blanket throws
And wait until the weather warms enough
to deliver tornado season.
Alas, that’s spring.
an elemental poem
Water isn’t blue.
It only appears blue in the distance —
— except when it has a high phosphorus content, making it look green, which leades people to name the bay Green and name a city after it and a football team…
But back to water.
Water isn’t blue at all.
Its surface reflects the color of the sky —
— which appears blue because nitrogen is the most prevalent element in Earth’s atmosphere and nitrogen appears blue when the sun’e rays reflect on its molecules
H two O.
Water can look clear
In a tub or shower. —
— The drops cling to the wall until they fall, sliding into one another and joining to puddle at my feet because the drain is clogged and I keep forgetting to treat it…
Oh. Yes. Water.
Water isn’t really blue.
It’s really colorless –.
— but its clarity can still hide micro-organisms that can make you sick even though you can’t see them in the apparently clear mountain spring…
Blue? Not water.
Water isn’t blue.
When a lake freezes, it looks white —
— from the gradually growing ice that spreads across the surface of the lake, insulating the water beneath to house fish and all other kinds of marine life, thickening to hold the shanties of ice fisherman who spear for the sturgeon, prehistoric beast, trophy for walls, provider of fine caviar…
No, water isn’t blue.
This is a “stolen lines” poem, created from lines “stolen” from a class collection of poems
If something sounds familiar, it probably is.
We stroll past the colors that transform a field
sometimes green and sometimes gray.
Where the sky is a page of water
with an in-your-face honesty to it, a clarity free of reflection.
We search out every horizon
through a veil of distance
in this vast and wondrous land
where everything is clear and still.
Now into the forever shadows,
the canopy lush and thriving above, a carpet beneath our feet
something less tangible courses here,
as we wander through woods that hold no breeze.
The soil is full of marvels and above it,
buckeyes, sycamores, and one black walnut
let their cello depths emerge from the cycle we call life.
Nature, great providder of the rainbow, sends
saffron leaves rusting, cresting into their moment
red-brown pine needles inches thick, a black beetle quick
to burrow back under the rich brown loam.
We listen, we believe,
oh stranger of the future,
oh friend of yesterday,
while a kind of twilight begins to permeate the air
As one hour sweeps into the next,
here it’s proven that time requires
this fleeting moment of eternity be savored — where
fact and fiction are indistinguishable in the moonlit night.
Girl Scout brings cookies,
Yummy, sweet deliciousness.
Back to it…Who’s next?
You have secret staff.
Made of yummy chocolate.
If you haven’t guessed, Girl Scout cookies arrived recently. I had a box of thin mints at my desk.
In the garden
Bottled water, analgesics, thermometers,
Batteries for the flashlights and radios,
And emergency rations, enough to last six weeks or more.
Nuclear Power Plants are nearby,
Quarantine is inevitable.
But now —
Closets packed with canned food,
And cases of bottled water?
Shop, yes. And replenish the woodpile, too.
But I’ll buy a bottle of wine
A good book,
Cheese and crackers.
Seeds and seedlings for my garden,
We’ll cozy up by the fireplace,
In our favorite blankets and quilts,
To enjoy each other,
And take care of our family.
We’ll continue living our lives.
Common sense, love and caring,
Make survival after any disaster
originally posted in March 2007; originally published in WSRA Journal in 1997
When we were young
And could pick up a book,
A man with a gift
Made us all take a look
At a cat with a mission,
A feline with style,
Dressed up in a hat
With a hint of beguile.
The cat made us smile,
The Grinch brought a tear.
While the Whos down in Whoville
Inspired a cheer.
Those red fish and blue fish
Or green eggs and ham
The Star Bellied Sneetches
And that Sam-I-Am
The poor little boy
Wearing five hundred hats
Got caught in the oobleck
That fell and went splat.
His stories had morals,
Were strong with conviction,
Even though written
As young readers’ fiction.
A clear point of view,
The compassion he saw,
Like”…a person’s a person,
No matter how small.”
The elephant Horton
Who said what he meant,
That he could be faithful,
One hundred percent.
And think of the Lorax,
The one who said, “Please,
Oh, Please stop destroying
The Truffula Trees!”
His creatures were special,
Both comic and tragic,
Some small and some large,
With an aura of magic.
Think of the characters,
Ageless and timeless,
And how he could make
Something rhyme that seemed rhymeless!
The point of my story,
I’m sure you have reckoned,
Someone quite special
Was born on March second.
Creator of Yertle,
And Thidwick the Moose,
A talent unequaled:
The dear Dr. Seuss.
Take one dark and dreary day,