Sounds of footsteps
drawing near.
I am being followed!
I walk faster,
clutching my laptop tighter.
The footsteps get louder.
Closer.
And closer…
I run.
Afraid.
What do they want?
My laptop?
No! My unpublished blogs!
I hold the laptop to my chest.
Behind me.
Many feet running.
Faceless, unknown people
gaining on me.
I can’t run anymore.
“What do you people want?”
“Easy dude, we are just following
your blog.”
What if we were backwards?
Backwards were we if what?
That I cannot imagine
Imagine cannot I that.
Now seriously!
Seriously now!
Backwards I say!
Say I backwards!
This is confusing.
Confusing is this.
Walking backwards
Backwards walking.
Talking backwards
Backwards talking.
This sucks!
Suck this!
Hey I said sucks!
Sucks said I, Hey!
I got you!
You got I?
Never mind.
Mind? Never!
Forget it!
It’s forgotten.
Hello Spring that never came,
Would we ever feel your rain
To wash away the winter’s snow
That I see through my window?
Hello birds that wouldn’t sing
A welcome song to signal Spring.
My rose garden buried deep
with my flowers still asleep.
* * *
Hello Summer lurking near
Waiting for Spring to disappear.
But Spring has yet to show his face
For Winter occupies his place.
Hello Sunshine, nice and bright
Though Winter’s clouds shadow your light
Wait…Is that a drizzle that I feel?
Yes! Spring is here! Spring is real!
By the Author. April 17th 2013
Boston Marathon 2013 … Confronting Terror in Boston — Find ways to help (April 16, 2013 / 6 Iyar 5773) … (Photo credit: marsmet547)
Arms raised in triumph
as the finish line hurries to meet her.
“I did it!” She screamed. No sound.
Too winded.
She summons up the last bit
of energy for that last hustle
then boom!
The sound shatters the sanctity
of the moment.
She sits up. Bruised and battered.
Body parts everywhere.
Blood splattered pavement.
No! She screamed.
Out loud.
Why?
The best day of her life
suddenly turned black.
Pain-filled screams
of the dead and dying.
And the hurt.
Finish line is inches away.
Her dream. Her quest.
Forgotten.
She must help.
Who did this?
What sick person
or persons?
International terrorism,
or home-grown?
Does it even matter?
So many questions.
No answers.
Shattered dreams.
Destroyed lives.
Only one question
Is relevant.
Why?
The Author. April 16th 2013
Dedicated to everyone affected by the Boston Marathon Tragedy 2013
The scream.
Was it a dream?
So shrill.
Echoing still
In my brain
again and again.
Eyes wide.
look outside.
No one in sight.
Only the night.
But I can feel
that it was real.
Back to bed.
Thoughts in my head.
Was it the night
screaming at the light
of approaching dawn
announcing the morn?
From the deep
I reached for sleep
Evasive.
Illusive.
Finding none
I wait for the sun…
The Author. April 14th 2013
I searched my mind
came up empty.
But it’s only day 13!
alas woe is me!
quatrain
cinquain
I have none.
An empty vessel
my thoughts are done!
I can’t think
irony or satire
nothing.
my mind has retired!
My pen is on strike
No ink!
Ideas reached for the surface
but sink.
Nothing.
I should go.
There’s still hope
for tomorrow.
The Author. April 13th 2013
In my secret garden
Is where I find solace.
When I’m feeling sad and blue
It is my happy place
The roses are a cherry red
Filled with nectar sweet
Hummingbirds they hover
As they enjoy the treat.
I feel like I am in heaven
As I walk among the trees
Playing with the butterflies
And looking at the bees.
My bench is in a corner
Sometimes I sit and read
My imaginary secret garden
Is exactly what I need.
There’s never any snow or sleet
No storm of any kind
Too bad my utopia
Exists only in my mind.
The Author. April 13.2013
Written for day 13 of the National Poetry Writing Month, using suggested prompt.
I once knew a kid
Who didn’t shower,
What a pig!
Went to his bed
Stinky sweaty
Yes he did.
His friends held their noses
When he passed
And go “Phew!
“Take a shower dirty boy!
You smell like poo!”
The boy didn’t care
That he had an odour
Like a skunk.
You could really smell him
From quite a distance away
He really stunk!
No amount of cologne
Or his sister’s perfume
Couldn’t mask
The smell of his armpits
And you know where else
So don’t ask.
I don’t know what happened
To that dirty little kid
Anymore
Maybe he finally showered
Or took a hot bath
I don’t know.
Loosely based on a real person.
Written by The Author. April 9th 2013
Written as part of National Poetry Writing Month, Day 11.
I hate your cat,
Can’t you tell?
The one that wears
The silver bell.
I hate the way
He looks at me.
If looks could kill
I’d be dead already.
You treat the thing
Like he’s your baby.
Giving him more love
Than you give to me.
I am sorry sir
William Tell
But you make my life
A living hell!
My girlfriend is
Not yours to steal.
When I’m at her house
I am the third wheel.
Why don’t you play
With your own kind?
What’s yours is yours
And what’s mine is mine!
But William Tell
That ball of fur
Looks at me
Lets out a purr
It’s as if he’s saying,
“I hate you too!
I own your girlfriend
What you gonna do?”
Honey, I’m afraid
One of us must go,
William Tell or me
Just let me know.
My girlfriend said
I had issues,
And I was a prick
For making her choose.
Now I rarely go over
To her place.
I can’t stand to see
Sir William Tell’s face.
I think sometimes
He winks at me,
Saying, “In yore face!
Now who’s yore Daddy?”
By: The Author. April 10/2013
NaPoWriMo’s prompt for today’s poetry is an un-love poem.
“I couldn’t have done it, detective”.
She said in a whispery breath
Her face hidden behind a smoke shawl
As she drags on a long skinny cigarette
Perched precariously between pearly
White teeth.
“Want to share a drink with me?”
Well if she didn’t and he didn’t
Who did?
Perplexed and tired, he grabbed his
Briefcase, straightened his tie and walked
Out of the loud bar room.
As he leaves, a pair of eyes followed him.
The man in the black trench coat
Sitting at the back of the room.
trying to look casual but alert.
Could it be him?
Trench coat guy got up, downed
His drink and walked out behind the detective…
The Author: April 9th 2013
National Poetry Writing Month, day 9th prompt. A noir poem.
xpressions of my mind 