The Sandy Shore

On this early November morn

I walk along the sandy shore

my senses seem to be reborn

On this early November morn

upon a path extremely worn

where many folks have walked before

On this early November morn  

I walk along the sandy shore 

A Lone Goose

 

A lone goose frantically flew across the morning sky

loudly proclaiming its presence

and I wonder was it lost

or left behind as the flock flew South?

Was it banished for not being a team player,

for not pulling its own weight?

Maybe it was a rebel trying to start its own flock.

Maybe it decided not to go South this year.

Maybe it was just out exploring its surroundings, sightseeing.

Perhaps it was getting in a little exercise before the other geese were awake.

Maybe it was a forward scout plotting out a flight plan for the rest of the flock.

Maybe it’s just my mind overthinking things.

Maybe I really didn’t need that third cup of coffee.

Door To Door

I tried selling poetry

door to door

long before it was given away free

on the internet to anonymous people.

I had only one client

a retired English professor,

a widow who lived alone.

She would read my work

in exchange for me stacking firewood.

She would offer her critique

in exchange for me staying and eating supper with her.

She would provide her assessment

in exchange for sitting and drinking Scotch

with her while she watched game show contestants on TV

and corrected their grammar.

That was long ago.

She is dead now.

I still write poetry only now I give it away for free

on the internet to anonymous people. 

Waiting For A Bed (Villanelle)

we all are waiting for a bed

both day and night we bide our time

a peaceful place to rest our head

 

some wait in anger, some with dread

some so comfortably sublime 

we all are waiting for a bed

 

we think about the lives we’ve lead

our brains are working overtime

a peaceful place to rest our head

 

no one can say what lies ahead

within this present paradigm

we all are waiting for a bed

 

we ponder all the things we’ve said

the mountains that we’ve had to climb

a peaceful place to rest our head

 

we think of better days instead

when we were young and in our prime

we all are waiting for a bed

a peaceful place to rest our head 

November Rain (Villianelle)

I wake up to the beat of rain

the metal roof echoes the sound

November can be so mundane

 

my happiness I can’t contain

it isn’t snow upon the ground

I wake up to the beat of rain

 

continuing the same refrain

a steady pattern can be found

November can be so mundane

 

the price we pay for summer’s gain

dead leaves are lying all around

I wake up to the beat of rain

 

I’m in control of my domain

although sometimes I feel housebound 

November can be so mundane

 

How much water can we sustain?

as we expect another round

I wake up to the beat of rain

November can be so mundane