he comes and goes as he pleases
it’s a mystery to me
what he does when
he’s not here
sometimes
he brings clues though
a lemon scent
a gleam in the eye
a flattening of fur
today it’s
a paper chain
strung around his neck
pink confetti
in his mouth and ears
were you at a party
or in a parade
i ask
he looks at me as if i’m nuts
(from Dog Series)
Seema Chopra
.
Modest moon’s mid-day pale
smeared white-out
clipped fingernail
flung on a blue sheet
This famous ruler of night-
light of Rome and Egypt
Debussy, Beethoven, Apollo Eleven
assuredly unspectacular today
D.E. Stevens
https://stevenspost.wordpress.com
.
It can’t be true that I was born this fragile.
Jennie always seemed the hothouse bloom
perceived as soft (where I was seen as agile)
yet now I fear I dare not leave my room.
I cared for her, had time for little else,
my weakness something I could ill afford.
Untended left the cuts the scrapes the welts
yet now I have become so eas’ly floored.
Yes, I was different on the very morrow
but not one-size-fits-all funereal grief.
Do not mistake my feelings for plain sorrow.
There was, I will admit, a strange relief.
It’s just her illness was my sole foundation.
In truth we are no thing in isolation
c.m.anderson
http://allpoetry-classic.com/catimini
I peek cautiously through the kitchen blinds.
It’s like a BBC 2 jungle documentary out there,
A green canopy growing wild and untamed.
Nature is reclaiming my garden,
and I feel like
this is a job for another day.
I tentatively open the cupboard door.
It’s like an explosion in a skip,
no antiques or heirlooms here.
This is Tutankhamen’s stuff for the tip
rubbish unfit for any afterlife.
Another job for another day.
I’m no Attenborough or Carter
Fearlessly investigating or excavating.
Instead I brave the TV channels
to visit far away lands
armed with a cup of tea
Sitting comfy in my armchair.
Richard Archer
https://skaggythepoet.wordpress.com
although the nearest neighbours
are a mile away, I tell myself
these silent occupations
are designed to not wake them.
What is there to do at 5 am?
I scan the room, decide to proceed
with a needed floral funeral
to remove the now-colourless
and wizened jonquils that once
were inserted precisely
to add colour to philodendron cuttings
set in water to grow roots.
The viscous brown stems
now in the shadow of a cannister
are living worms, seemingly mobile,
soft and ready to wiggle
on the kitchen counter.
I shudder at the ghoulishness
of an autopsy turned vivisection
but manage to distract myself
with the amusing paradox
that plants must be sunk in the ground –
buried – that they may live.
c.m.anderson
http://allpoetry-classic.com/catimini
you stand against
an open window
i can barely discern
the outline of your body
merged with light
it becomes light itself
powdery and fragrant
like talc
the foreground
is a vase of tulips
a lavender-blue
light strikes
and disperses
from their stalks
still life with woman
who writes poems
and buys herself
flowers
she likes the
calm proportions
what stirs inside
their closed tulip hearts
Seema Chopra
I
Perched, its shadow
bleeds the bough,
spring is rising sap
and blackbirds waiting.
II
On the highest bough
a caterpillar contemplates
the possibility
to butterfly.
III
Bless the tender twigs
clinging to the bough
who tend to dewdrops
before they fall
IV
The circumference of the bough
is larger than
a soldier’s arm.
V
Can boughs dream of
being carriers
of eagles’ nests?
VI
Poetry is born from
timber, boughs and pulp;
paper ink and muse;
it’s wood and blood.
Björn Rudberg
https://brudberg.me/category/poetry
TheParkBenchReview 