Rainy day

The day began silverfish grey, with black whipped clouds mottling the horizon. The wind, chattering snappishly at the windows, spit angry wet bullets that homed in on any opening. Heads tucked like shy baby birds, hands jammed into pockets in an effort to anchor themselves to the earth, the people seemed to walk through a charcoal drawing, every once in a while dotting it with a bright red or yellow speck.  

NaPoSoSo

Well, at least I haven't given up completely...

8:30 Sunday, the wistful hour. The breeze, like ghosts’ sighs, floats in through the window and whispers sorrows into your hair.Outside, on the asphalt, grey fences make disproportionate shadow ladders that feed into themselves. Walking past an evening garden party, the guests are silent and staring, a sad washed-out pantomime. The day dies, the week dies, nothing to be done but mull over Monday’s responsibilities and commiserate with the ghosts on the air.

Snot

NaPoWriMo has been on hold due to vacation and now sickness. Hope to be back on when less snotty.

8

I leave you with this...It is arguable whether or not it is a poem, but it is certainly a truth. I will be on vacation until Saturday, when I will return with waterfall-inspired poems!

Observation from the Bus

A wiener dog with elephantitis is a sad thing indeed.

7

I am still off by one day..ahhh.

Walking home

Some of the marigolds are already closed up.

Some are still stretching, straining over

The curve of the hill to catch the last rays of sun,

Which has broken its yoke on the tip of the pyramid

And runs gooey-golden down the steps. 

6

April 21, 1509 

The blood right being most tenuous,
Seemed better to proudly wave the flag of right of conquest.
And of course, it did not hurt to mingle the red and white roses’ petals,
Though two pale buds be snapped off the bush in the process.
The play between bastardy and legitimacy exhausted,
The royal palette preferred Rioja to Bordeaux,
Albeit Malus Intercursus never did seem to roll off the tongue.
Curse the Spanish ability to survive or die when the time seems right,
Curse the draftiness of Ludlow castle, bless Pope Julius II, and
Pray the hybrid rose take root in the pomegranate’s arils.  

5

 I was out of internet range last night so today there are two. I am having fun with my British monarchy poems.

April 9, 1483 

The saint’s mad cackling long ago ceased to ring off the walls of the Tower,
The bloom on the cheeks of the last red rose is decades faded
And modus et ordo reign in England.
Private executions in a butt of wine, brothers wed to enemies,
French treaties and another child king…it seems the name Edward
Is out of favor with the Fates and, alas!
A Tudor in exile is nothing the same as a Lancastrian dead.