Your prayer can be poetry, and poetry can be your prayer.
terri guillemets
composed by yours truly
Iridescent
the years sprint, sail, drift, fly —
days melt into sleep
decades we no longer know
by taste or smell, yes
but hard fast memories tend not to keep —
youth lives on — yet, is long gone
birds chirp each spring anew
but our hearts sing the same shades
of childhood colors we once knew
Starlings
European starlings
multiply like weeds
they are avian Borg
assimilating resistlessly
they are teenage girls
who will always travel
to the restroom together —
from yellow beaks
oddly alien noises
and so much chatter —
one or two are cute
but the whole crowd
is so flocking loud!
Verdin
the tiny birdie verdin
wears his heart on his sleeve
and sunshine on his head —
a hyper handsome hopper
with acrobatic feats —
calling chip chip chip
and singing dulcet tsweets
Grackles
A trio of virile grackles
skyward tilt their bills
puff up blacklit plumage
shriek and cackle and shrill
fan their great-tailed fannies
as knights in shining ardor
they strut around each other
just to try and get the girl!
Logic all
If the world were all logic, poetry would starve to death.
Running scared
Jogging is for those who don’t have the guts
Pearl grey
Aging—
grayer shores
calmer deeper waters
Narrative
Age composes poems
upon our faces —
with more meaning
and fewer rhymes
every passing year
Aside
Sometimes imagination pounces; mostly it sleeps soundly in the corner, purring.
Springfall
a seed, conceive
to sprout, we’re born
a leafy green new life
trunk and roots, further sunk
nourished, loved, great height
full, vibrant, ripe
moulting, colours, beauty
the crown of wit
autumnal slant of light
mellow, wilt, decay
bare branches, skeleton buds
frost without a fight
repose, accept, goodbye
Alteration
she sees west
glances north
east goes past in a blur
south appears
and she wobbles —
this is not exploration
it’s spinning —
the gentle rotation
of youth
has accelerated
out of control —
middle age, presbyopia
gray hairs speed by
dizzied by menopause —
motion, sickness
rapid changes kicking
out the support
from under her
she has a stand to take
but cannot make it
she’s fallen & can’t get up
it’s too far down too fast
she needs to rest —
here she sits — still
nauseous, unsteady
invisible, irrelevant
dried-up and empty
no map, and broken
compass — vulnerable
existing inside out
with seams showing —
tired, thready, torn
Real funny
My life is half reality show, half Saturday morning cartoons.