Two Tanka

And then there are cats … those impossible I’ll-do-it-my-way critters that comfort and engage, show-off and welcome … can’t help but love them … Yes, I know people love dogs too, but it’s a good thing we’re all different, even our preferences …

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Two Tanka                                                    

morning by morning
they curl
behind my knees -
the cats purr
contentment

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cat sprawls
at the foot of the stairs
ready for attention
actor bows
at the curtain call

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A Summer Father … poems as deceptively simple and cunning as a sniper’s bullet. This book is a Remembrance Day poppy.
Dave Margoshes

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The Reach of Words

Where does poetry go? Who listens? What does it do?
Are we right to express ourselves in poetry?
Questions I ask myself every now and then.
And here’s my answer …

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THE REACH OF WORDS                                         

I saw the dauntless poem
step forward into the world
to stand upon a high-rise
and forth-tell to many crowds

words rang in rhythmic phrases
that carolled upon the wind
and spun a forward vision
for the listening multitude

the poem roamed the summit
speaking out in many tongues
with laughter and with music
to the hearts of those who heard

with insight and with wisdom
that inspired their daily work

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photo by Robert J. Weston

The Willow Tree Girl… why does a girl from the past linger in the present? where has part of the treasure disappeared to? … questions Weston disentangles in this fast-paced book.

 

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Waiting for Summer

I’m waiting for the long lazy days when I can sit outside,              
paint, watch the wind, listen to the sky, and taste
the scent of roses. It’s coming, coming soon …

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WAITING FOR SUMMER

these mornings
when robins sing dawn alarms
and joggers run at first light

before heat shimmers from tarmac and hills         
candy-wrappers flower in gutters
and castles rise on beaches

I uncurl the day into green lawns
thrust fingers into worm-turned earth
and discover summer

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first published in Quintessence

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The Willow Tree Girl … Weston doesn’t miss a beat as she untangles past and present, ghosts, missing treasure, and her young heroine’s longing for success.

The Yellow Crayon

Anytime is good to send the imagination winging in every possible direction
and nothing is what is seems, even ordinary things have a gift beyond themselves,
anything can be something else … …

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THE YELLOW CRAYON                                   

the child drew a bird
with a yellow crayon

she knew it was a blue bird
because she had seen it
that way      there was no
blue crayon

she saw the bird
tied to white paper
by yellow lines

it flew loose
into the air of her room
blue against
pale cream walls                                                                                 

circled once
and soared out through
the open window

she looked at her hands
picked up the yellow crayon
and drew a scarlet bird

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first published in Atlantis

If Only I Understood

I’ve had one of those sessions when the computer over-writes when it shouldn’t, turns single- to double-space, blanks out on websites, chews up emails, won’t upload photos,
i.e. driven me crazy. And that only leads to poetry …

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IF ONLY I UNDERSTOOD

I’ve caught
the final virus                                                  
geeked out
on a blogroll
got an app
with software rot
that glitched
my first egosurf

had to go meatspace
then start an upboat
thanks in batch mode
with a code monkey

where I hacked
a huge hand-wave
long before I could
look under the hood
and find a whiz-bang
time sink
in my four-colour-glossy
useless nagware

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Haiku

The end of April, tax-time, and other strange events, I mean,
who expects snow on daffodils? Here are a few snapshots of
things that have happened this month, always remembering that
summer is definitely on its way …

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spring morning
daffodils bend
under snow

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garage sale -
her well-traveled
treasures

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sea lettuce                          
and broken shells
beach picnic

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my grandson
makes a big splash
new boots

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Looking For

Have you ever had a child go missing? Can’t find her/him in the house anywhere? Call, shout, yell … no answer. Panic … heart-race … run outside … and … guess what and where?

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LOOKING FOR                                      

fast out into sunlight
to find air drenched
with the smell of lilac
weighted and warm
spring heavy
against my skin

but the earth     soaked
by winter’s overspill
squelches underfoot
as I run in search
calling       calling

and look up
to trees doused
in emerald     olive                                               
acquamarine
all the painted greens
hide branches     birds
and my five-year-old
singing

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