A year ago a messenger
Was sent to Earth to slow us down,
A little airborne passenger,
Upon its head — a thorny crown.
“Be still,” it said “and you shall see
What Earth looks like without the haze.”
“This is the state your home could be
If you’d employ more mindful ways.”
We shut down factories, grounded flights,
The smog dispersed, exposing skies.
Soon images from satellites
Revealed the truth before our eyes.
The mess we’d made, a shocking sight,
In just one month the dark was gone! …
With “memories,” April is done,
A month that’s been a lot of fun.
The nation’s month of poetry,
Turned out, was something new for me.
The publications for each day
Had prompts for us with which to play,
In verse that rhymed or just was free,
As long as it was poetry.
I’d have to say some prompts were tough,
My inspiration not enough
To weave them into something good
Like any able poet would.
Once dance began with given prompt,
The thoughts and words inside me romped. …
We crown the month with honesty,
Without it, what is poetry?
With words and verse we bare our soul,
To touch a reader’s heart — our goal.
Like black and white and A-B-C,
It’s always clear with honesty.
No hidden thoughts, all in plain sight,
Just thinking of it stirs up fright.
Now honesty, as some might say,
Can come in diff’rent shades of gray.
With white — pure truth, and black — pure lie,
They blend the two to just get by.
To be pure white, a noble goal, Lets others clearly see the whole Of us, a human…
A baby child arrived today
From pristine heavens far away,
To start its journey on life’s road,
Its body free of toxic load.
It gasped for air, then took a breath,
And so began its march toward death.
The fumes of cars out on the road
Filled up its lungs with toxic load.
Unlike the manger with the hay,
The fibers on which baby lay,
From crude oil, into fabrics sewed,
To wrap the child in toxic load.
The moment baby felt unrest,
They hooked it up to mother’s breast. …
The soul eternal, so it’s heard,
For that alone, a special word.
Three homophones of similar sound,
Their meanings scattered all around.
The sole, a fish, under the sea,
With darkened top and white belly.
Do fish have souls? I wonder why
Their eyes are pointed toward the sky.
The sole beneath our foot in shoe,
It goes in life wherever we do.
Do shoes have souls? I wonder why
We throw them out but sometimes cry.
The sole just one, unique and only,
Travels solo, feeling lonely.
Can souls be sole? …
Masks (Part I)
This Earth Day’s so different
With masks all around,
In bushes and sewers
They litter the ground.
They’re thrown out by humans
(I’ve got nothing to say …)
Who unloaded 4 grams
And then went on their way.
I sense there’s confusion,
Perhaps they don’t know.
They’re disposable — yes!
But on the ground — no!
So we wait for the day
When this all will have passed.
We’ll breathe 4 grams lighter
And no more masks will be cast.
It’s Tuesday, April two zero,
With 20 prompts, 10 more to go.
I’m sorry I arrived so late,
‘Been on vacation, slept ‘till 8.
To write a poem about a fool
On April 1 would make me drool.
Oh well, we’ll wipe the drool away
And save that for another day.
A sillier prompt I never heard,
Than that which fell on April 3rd.
Already silly as can be,
I’ll backdate this to April three.
The “resurrection” prompt for 4 — A topic that is bound to bore The folks of faiths not clung to cross And three days mourning…
A mother left heirless,
Her daughter too careless,
Left alone, fell airless
’Cause mom didn’t care less.
A tragedy perfect
Upon which to reflect
How failing to protect
Is practicing neglect.
Mother soon would atone
At a lonely tombstone
Of a daughter unknown
That she’d left all alone.
The lesson here deathless —
When one becomes breathless,
Have we been too careless?
Come to, or use air less!
Author’s note: I was reminded of this potential tragedy by a warning label on plastic packaging stating the packaging is a potential suffocation hazard and not a toy. The final line of…
In the land of Green Blogs
Where the listicles earn,
A young one among them
Had started to yearn
For a place where the writing
Was original and free.
It had heard of this land —
It was called Poetry.
So it set off one day
To the faraway land,
Where with verses it played,
Making lists in its hand.
It served up three listpoems,
Never seen here before,
When consumed by the poets,
Their jaws hit the floor.
My 3 favorite hacks for writing a poem: One, set up a space that’s quiet at home. Two, use action verbs…