Into the Woods

photo by PSC
 

Preamble

Preamble

How could there ever

truly be

(can you even imagine)

any more perfect prelude

to the coming eve

than (we two

strolling into)

a sunset

by the sea?

PSC / 2019-Apr

Good-bye & Good Riddance

(photo booth photograph)

Good-bye & Good Riddance

Unlike its semi-synonyms

“exile” can be voluntary

or in-.

So, as you crave my absence

and I wish to leave,

my departure becomes

a “win-win”.

PSC /2019-Apr

Complete the Limerick

 Complete the Limerick

There once was a ______ from Nantucket

who carried his _______ in a bucket.

(You can say what you will,

but, no matter the fill,

I will still take this poem and chuck it.)

PSC /2019-Apr 

Let Freedom Ring

In a Bottle

PSC photo - modified

In a Bottle

am i

the

only

one

who

wonders

if it Might be

a lovE letter

Sent out to

Somebody

at seA, or

a messaGe

from somE

mermaid

meant sole-

ly for me?

PSC / 2019-Apr

Tattoo

public domain photo

Tattoo

Most see scars

where wounds have been.

One spies the beauty

hidden within,

sketches, etches it

into skin.

PSC / 2019-Apr

Stygian Sky

public domain photo

Stygian Sky 

When the welkin

is at its blackest,

(sans even the

slightest intrusion

of light pollution)

it extends

a most superb backdrop,

tendering the grandest

ebony canopy,

a vault ideally suited

for star gazing

(and also perfect

for the blissful

enjoyment

of heavenly bodies)

PSC / 2019-Apr

The image is a work of the Forest Service of the United States Department of Agriculture.  As a work of the U.S. federal government, the image is in the public domain.

 

Poetry Police

all photos by PSC

Poetry Police

This poem is a stinker,

a rotter, a lout.

His muse (fed up a week ago) 

done threw the bounder out.

This poem is a scumbag;

he’s a ratfink and a swine.

(Please, forgive me if I whine.)

He’s been on a spree for days

and he’s got me in a funk –

because this poem is a dirtbag,

a blighter, a skunk.

Seven days carousing,

now he’s wholly stinkin’ drunk. 

(I’d like to clout the punk.)

This poem, this weasel,

this dang unlucky schmuck

(who spent the whole week

swigging gin)

has plumb run out of luck.

He had himself a joyride

(fully soused, inebriated)

‘til the cop done pulled him over,

and his license – confiscated!

PSC / 2019-Apr

A Little Taradiddle

A Little Taradiddle

She smiles

all the while, she’s

telling you:

it’s OK,

I’m fine,

it’s all good,

and you 

don’t doubt

that she’s sincere

(because

her words

are just exactly

what you want

to hear)

so you keep on  

believing

even long past

her last

leaving.

PSC / 2019-Apr

The Muse Moves On

The Muse Moves On

When the lady

absconds

there’s no need

to ponder

whether or not

it’s (perhaps)

on account of

she’s been

sufficiently pleased.

You already know

the reason

the muse has

vamoosed.

PSC / 2019-Apr

Vestiges

photo by PSC

Vestiges

The attic remains filled to the rafters,

still brimming with boxes, bins, & crates,

bits of mementos of their conjoined life:

pressed flowers, dancing slippers,

a heart-shaped locket, scrapbooks

of news clippings – births, weddings,

graduations, and funerals; as well as

a wealth of baby memorabilia:

hand carved toys & rattles, tiny shoes,

a wisp of blond curls, and a feast of

photo albums overflowing with “firsts” –

first steps, first teeth, first day of school.

Another corner holds an accumulation

of vacation souvenirs: found feathers,

smooth stones, beach glass, and many

penny postcards from far off places

the whole family gallivanted together.

Then, for good measure,

there’s a swatch of ancient keys,

uncoupled from lost and forgotten locks

but linked, by the most fragile of cords,

that no one seems

quite ready

to let go of

just yet.

PSC / 2019-Apr