SEPTEMBER 2021 = FAVOURITE THINGS
grown girl running down
the slick sidewalk
laughing as the rain
drenches her hair
and soaks through
her thin jacket
splashing down into
a deep puddle
causing a wave
cascading down the side
of the street
pushing the paper boat
followed by the
his boots matching
the ones she wears
hers now gone around the block
running towards home
still laughing at the sky
as the boy keeps splashing
in the city rivers
flowing from one corner
and he imagines himself
captain of his boat
as it soars into
and the raindrops
splatter his face
MY FAVOURITE THINGS
The smell of coffee roasting,
The sun shining bright,
The notion of acceptance
And it’s going to be alright.
The hard-work paying off,
Seeing friends succeed,
And the true joy you acquire
From a satisfying read.
Learning from mistakes,
And truly laughing hard,
Being the authentic you
And letting down your guard.
Dancing in the kitchen,
And running for no reason,
Dressing for the autumn,
Cause, that’s my favourite season.
Not having to explain yourself,
But communicating with a look,
And know you made your point,
An expression’s all it took.
Playing tennis and doing well,
When the ball is in full swing,
Knowing that in this time,
The brain won’t fear a thing.
Writing all the poetry,
Offloading inner chat,
These are my favourite things
And I’ll leave it as that.
IT’S ABOUT UMBRELLAS IN THE RAIN
Linda M. Crate
one of my favorite things
is the memory of my
best friend telling me that
she loved the way my face lit
up when i talked about
the things i loved and was passionate
or when she told me that i was
so pretty that she wanted
to take a picture;
everyone talks about grand gestures
but it is really the little things
forgotten and buried
in the subconscious that bring me
the most joy—
because sometimes it's not about who
can move mountains,
sometimes it is who will bring you
an umbrella when you are caught in the rain.
COMING OF AGE
A book of nursery rhymes
dog-eared and faded. Building blocks
well loved, tin cars,
bent jigsaws, a train set,
tissue papered in the toy box,
Do you still watch the door?
After all this emptier time
what should we make of our days together.
I don’t know why it is
me staying, you going.
We had the same gate in our step,
mine, a chronic shamble,
yours, with a confident plumy tail.
And we teamed in the woods
where, around the burn barrel
you guarded with one eye open,
Yes, content, both of us.
As seasons change, the days shorten.
Let this morning bring what it will.
I’m going for a walk now.
Your leash is still handy.
I get used to changes.
Published by The Poet Magazine / Summer 2021
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Doughnuts are my favorite food;
raging pleasure and delight.
Me? I’m always in the mood,
fondly eating, day and night.
Solace with each bite I chew;
lots for me and none for you;
teeny crumbs—here, have a few!
Now it’s time to eat more dough, dough, dough,
d’oh Nuts! It’s all gone!
A warmth in my hands, a sigh of contentment, I’m mesmerized by your sight.
A gentle blow to cool, my senses soaring, holding on, embracing tight.
Will I dip a biscuit or two, a digestive, a bourbon, a tasty ginger snap.
Maybe half the packet will get consumed, as the saucer rests on my lap.
Your wonderful colour, just the right shade, milked to the perfect degree.
A hug in a mug, the answer to all, heaven in a cup to me.
“Fancy a cuppa”? “Time for a brew”? “Shall I put the kettle on”?
Always a good time, for a cup of tea, night through to early morn.
One of life’s pleasures, a way to show you care, a hot soothing liquid gold.
Makes a bad day better, a morning brighter, a warm cuddle in the cold.
My favourite thing, an everyday must, a delicious cup of tea.
How do you take it? I’d love to know. No sugar, just milk for me!
CAMPSITE AT WELLS
there then, there always
baking under a faithful mountain sun
like that old tent shouldered on the hill
Sitting Rock, Elephant Rock,
Whale Rock, named before I was young
for more years than known—
gentle boulders unchanged
surging rapids, high summer,
jumping rocks - chancy footholds
still humming in high summer
and scent of pine needles
each and all
a seasoned adult now too careful
a teen’s first crush,
and still there at eight
SHE’S NOT THAT THING
Your saxophone is long gone, sold, never forgotten though
your lips are still here, but they are dry
like a forbidden kiss
given beyond the tomb.
A sinuous piece of brass will always be
your favorite, I can see it in the corner of your mouth,
no matter how much a woman throbs with love for you
she's not That Thing that makes you really breathe...
The beast you gave yourself to
stripped off your personality
and now you stagger in a tormented maze of memories
seeking for proofs
that once you were alive.
HOME ON FOUR RUBBER LEGS
Branded with the mark of downsizing
(I remember pressing each seed underground.)
and what was sold to grow to fit to sink to away.
Who owns the sentimentality I traded for cash.
Silver webs tie the trees together in chaos,
(I imagined dying easier than creating older versions.)
seen by the sun, weight shifted back and forth:
glinting, glinting, gone. Broken through and spit out.
Sitting in the company of mayflies ,
(I divided with the water across three oceans.)
transparent wings and upturned tails,
clear and symmetric seemingly without effort.
A daughter to paint with, another for company.
(I wanted two kids when they weren’t real.)
It’s remarkable I own two pairs of scissors
when I only need one.
Snorkel mask pulling my upper lip taunt
(I search for those pieces I lent to the rivers)
swallowed like breadcrumbs broken in the water
by tourists wanting color plated fish to need them.
Do you remember where you went?
(I note what to ask my dying self.)
Did your warm-blood survive off learnership?
Will you come back?
Blown across the street, king tided on shore,
(I navigate past and through and towards.)
parked in front of a gate, asked to move,
everywhere is home without being home.
THINGS I LOVE BEST
Kathy Jo Bryant
There are certain things
I love the best
My favourite things
Above the rest
My favourite things
Just tickles my heart
So it truly sings
Family is awesome
So I love to know
Lots more about them
As research can show
Sewing and quilting
Are really a blast
Just make sure your fabric
Poetry is awesome
Poetry is grand
Really, only a poet
Can best understand!
ODE TO MY PERNAMBUCO PENCIL
If my pencil
had an odometer
it would return to 0
after a million words
had a GPS
it would find
the Coast of Bohemia
had a tire pressure gauge
it would blink
when there is a low leak
If my pencil
had a 1962 Alfa engine
it would need to be filled
with high octane lead
had standard transmission
it would be able
to switch gears
had cruise control
it would be able
to pick up the pace
if my pencil
had a DMV manual
it would qualify
for a poetic license
had an owner’s manual
it would specify
its parts of speech
had a jack and air pump
it would fix
If my pencil
had a trunk
it would have a place
for indefinite articles
had a car radio
it would play a Greek lyric
on a classical station
had signal lights
it would never
make a wrong write turn
If my poem
had power brakes
it would know
when to stop
it is completed
like the day
a favorite thing
my Pernambuco pencil
is now put away
MY FAVORITE COLOR
I don’t particularly ever prefer
one color to another, but I can assure,
a great printmaker like Albrecht Durer
created prints with colors much purer.
Colors are something to open the mind,
you’d miss that all if you were struck blind.
A color is not a reason to condemn,
colors not us, and colors not them.
When my nephew was quite young,
he made a comment, the laughter stung.
“My favorite color is pink!” he said.
His classmates laughed, was his face red?
Is pink really the color of girls?
Not every time, do pigs have pearls?
“Do not cast your pearls before swine,”
What kind of saying is that to define?
Colors leap out at us from every angle,
look around you, things start to dangle.
So many colors to see with your eyes,
but you don’t think anything a surprise.
Films used to be black and white,
but Technicolor made it more bright.
In those days movies had a good plot,
nowadays, sometimes just not.
As a painter, the color scheme I use,
may not be perfect, it’s bound to confuse.
But if the sky outside shows a tint of blue,
then that’s a good reason to love the view.
Martina Robles Gallegos
My garden is small but full of life.
Besides the weeds I pull out each day,
I get to watch hummingbirds and butterflies
feed from my flowers, milkweed, and zapote leaves.
I enjoy watching the small off-white butterfly
my cat tries to catch, or the big monarch
she actually did catch, and I rescued.
I sit under my guava tree and wait for the hummingbirds,
and when they arrive, click, click, its picture time,
and I know they’ll be back in fifteen minutes.
And while I wait for the hummingbirds, I snap
pictures of bumblebees that feed on the magenta
And when neither the hummingbirds nor bees are
around, I go after the tiny butterflies my cat scans
and tries to catch but misses.
And when no creatures make their presence,
I snap pictures of different kinds of leaves,
front and back to see the different designs.
And because at times I get bored, I go weed
my front yard because weeding relaxes me.
And I avoid going inside the house at all costs,
because nothing else is more relaxing or enjoyable
than being around green or colorful things.
I was there when the forest floor glowed like vigor —
Its brilliance a mystic change from dull to bright —
A chance discovery where no thing was altered but all was born in light —
Not a moon’s reflected glow but a spark emanating from within —
A cool but constant effulgence that turned the mundane to delight.
I can’t forget the angelic brightness within the night’s dark curtained scene.
Green eyes blazing as forest floor cast shadows into the gloom,
The untouchable thing that turns the unnoticed to fascinating and unique —
A new thing not to be ignored full of a timely brief magic
That is freely given — then as quickly removed.
To have that yet again would be my greatest thrill.
But then this life ends — Its attraction disappears.
The darkness resumes as the excitement clears.
All fades along with the glow — Its fire extinguished —
Its life complete although the bodies remain.
The daylight replaces the mystic spark, overpowers the delicate incandescent blush.
Like life itself, special and delicate and brief only there for a moment then cooled and dark, Gone as a memory with nostalgic longing — Fairies luminescence — A cool and fiery bliss no more.
MISS YOU MOM
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you my dear super Mom
Miss your selfless love and goofy songs
The unconditional and unique bond
For me you are A lady with magic wand
High toned , diligent, couther July born
Who performed every task with great aplomb
You are the backbone and my pillar of strength
A lady at times cool
At times a bomb
Whenever I was down with no hope
You were there with your encouraging words and support
It's you who gave me the strength to get back on my feet
Those precious memories I cannot delete.
Though today you are not alive
Your actions and words I have kept in my hearts archive
Your blessings and your positive vibes
Are enough for my life to thrive.
God on earth .....my mom
My life line
THE WAY WE WERE
Ball kicking, flower picking, kite flying, laces tying, rounders batting, racket smacking, race running, tunes humming, hill rolling, cricket bowling, sea swimming, jokes grinning, roller blade skating, new friends making, bike speeding, knees bleeding, over the top, no time to stop, your lunch eaten early, a huge Curly Wurly, wagon wheels, Vesta meals, trips to the zoo, an advert that’s new, chomping cucumber, cars like a Humber, Vauxhalls and Fords, Holidays abroad. Golden beaches in Spain, an old steam train. Days at Clacton, last tram to Acton, Museums and sites, the Christmas lights. Santa’s sack, playing right back, eating your dinner, never getting thinner. Skin on rice pudding, Coats with a hood in, cold days at school, the itchy feel of wool. Your nan’s knitted jumper, Bambi and Thumper. Airfix models, doing it’s a doddle. Sticky gluey hands, elastic bands. Black and White films, old brick kilns. Days out in Kent, the smell of wet cement. Doing a bunk, caught there’s a thump. That first cigarette, your fluffy little pet. In the woods after dark, a kiss for a lark. A first sip of cider, your best girl beside yer.
All gone now, but never forgotten, an endless showreel in the privacy of your head.
BREEZE WITH SONS
Anila Arun Pillai
Unaware I laid
Perhaps longer than longed
Trifles kept along.
Flowers smiling and delighting,
Wind that soothe,
Seldom graced for long.
Forlorn was owned.
With life in me,
Those known unknowns
Wondered why feel wondrous than remorse!
Shunned were the deep tight upheld grief.
Started loving two beats kicking within.
Drizzles never sound so cadence.
Flowers never had made fell such delight.
Full circle of my life achieved or not
Life started been worth living and precious.
Waited for life with each awakening.
Children the greatest joy
I sensed and imbibed.
Learned and preached myself too,
That I needed to be with them without expecting them to be another me.
They added light, colours and cheer
With them I lived the way life had to be lived.
With them I grow and thank life.
They gave purpose with sorrow and joy,
Equally I accord with feelings such.
There jumping with joy for jelly
My hiding tricks when need to travel
There bursting out on my very presence
My cuddling them whenever I feel
They’re surprising me usually with the same bake
My delight to share for hours when they sleep
Each and every moment I feel graced
What more would I wish than to keep them health and blessed.
THE RHYTHMIC SOUNDS OF BIRDS
The rhythmic sounds of birds
That hums through the woods
To heal all scars and wounds
With its sweet and gentle melody
That wipes a woman's tears
And washes away all the fears
As it never goes moody,
It hums all day on its feet
And never tires nor go to sleep
It hums all day proudly
And no one gets tired of its sound
And crys all day so loudly
While every note has its boundary
And to heal it is bound
As it hums with its gentle healing sound
I'm surely bound to heal all wounds
And it's sound is full of magical breve
While humming aloft a beautiful rowan
Every sound is one of a kind
And still continues to blow my mind
The red of our barn was only the color of a building.
There were no losses to count on my fingers, only
mother's growing belly and then you came out.
One was for the view of corn top rows from father's shoulders.
Two was for little girls who dance pigtails and romp bottoms
and the sizzle of fish pop popping the fry pan every Sunday.
Three was whistling into blades of grass to bent air sing.
Four was for lemonade ice cubes swirling mother's tea.
Five was the crackle of marshmallows
in the fire and scary stories being just that.
What I remember most is that
the door to your bedroom was
the door to mine.
*The final three lines are borrowed from "I Remember" by Anne Sexton
WE ARE THEY
Zaneta Varnado Johns
This is our season
our summer in the midst of winter
where we shed our coats, our boots
We leave behind the joyful chaos
of family and friends
We shed the stress
of everyday life
We steal away to our happy place
We arouse years of memories
our minds free, schedule clear
ready to create this season's story.
Do you remember that couple
the elders we admired in '97?
We are they!
From the restaurant's lanai
we watched as they walked
hand in hand
Their stride as one
moving in blissful unison
down that tourist filled
sidewalk in Kona
Perhaps returning from dinner
or strolling for exercise
I imagined they were residents
fortunate to live there
In that moment
I claimed that sidewalk for us.
Twenty-four years later
we are that charming couple
walking hand in hand
claiming sidewalks wherever we go
We long for that sidewalk today
in Kona or Kihei, Kapaa or Princeville
We long for days without structure
no boundaries or stress
Only joy with time devoted only
to us, that elderly couple in Kona
Occasionally we part
only to enhance
our savored time together.
Hours and hours of favored music
songs repeated and songs anew
Our wondrous day rides
enthralled with island splendor
Our bewitching nights
enthralled in glory—ours
Sunrise awaits with roosters crowing
tropical birds serenade our walks
fragrant flowers, brides, and grooms
lava flows and tropical mist
We're seduced by the ocean
enticed by waterfalls
intrigued by rainbows
mesmerized by sunsets
radiant and golden, just like us.
What we need this year
to encounter the pleasures
of that sidewalk in Kona
Here we are
better . . . wiser . . . cautious
held captive by winter
with willful summer mindsets
Still holding hands
Still hearing that music
Still seeking rainbows
Still enjoying our sunsets
Because you loved me
with both your heart and mind!
MAN’S BEST FRIEND
Hilary McRee Flanery
A man's best friend
If you please
Is not a dog
But cheddar cheese.
A cheese whose taste
Runs sharp or mellow
Why cheese with beer
Can help a fellow
And make him look
Like a handsome hunk
When he passes some
To a girl that's drunk
In the local pub
If truth be told
When the girls get silly
Then cheese is gold
Where drafts of beer
Make you look better
As she gulps them down
With a side of cheddar!
Julie A. Dickson
Feathers etched across blue sky
Air cool with promise of Autumn
Violets and purple iris, vibrant view
Orion’s Belt on a starry night
Red Rocks in Arizona desert
Ice cream dripping down my hand
Tears shed during romantic film
Elephants wild in a herd
Torrential rain-washing pollen away
Holding hands walking a path
Infinite piles of books
Nobody going hungry
Grandmother’s cherry pie
Silence of early morning
lazy sunday mornings
cuddles with flannel
with closed eyes
and tousled about hair
where the toes
but the brain
to an abandoning
after six days of being on
succumbing to a fluid
sit in glory
with no way
with no arm
of my soul
filled with a
BIRTHDAY PRESENTS FROM STARRY NIGHTS IN HELL
These are a few of my favorite things…
You know, my birthday is in September.
Falls in the season of falling leaves,
crunching under my feet
after they’ve lost their green of
spring youth and
hope without abandon.
Falls in the season of apples
ripe off the tree,
collected in a wooden basket
and made into a thousand different concoctions
that involve slicing,
and - somewhere along the way - adding
so much sugar
that we forget the tang
that comes with consuming something with
Falls under the boiling sap steam
sent wafting into the air
from the maple barn of the
Vermont State Fair back when
there actually was a fair to go to and
plenty of cows and goats
to feed all the grass and oats to.
Two words: Hoodie Season.
…If you know, you know.
September is the month where
it’s still warm enough
to forget that winter in Vermont fucking sucks
and that I hate shoveling snow
but cool enough to
campfire AND a blanket
to help the beer along in warming my body
once I can see my breath after dark.
September…used to be quiet.
The quiet of starry nights with only cricket chirps to accompany them,
of children sent to bed early because school nights
are back to being a thing parents can use to get their adult time,
of staying in to read a book because there aren’t five different BBQs
I’m obligated to attend…
once upon a time,
the quiet of not having war, politics, and xenophobia
gift-wrapped in the American flag and
left on my doorstep as my
first and most persistent present come
the morning of my birthday.
Eleven is no longer my favorite day.
La-didi-dada, first-world problems
to bitch about birthdays when thousands of others
no longer have them.
Which is precisely why I celebrate,
don’t you get the insult in refusing them?
I’m not sorry for the day I was born.
I’m ALIVE - and that’s how I can honor them.
And you will see me plug my fingers into my ears,
sing la-di-da-lala over my nation’s tears,
but make no mistake,
for it has nothing to do with guilt,
or pity on my name
for having to feel happy on the day when
others can only blame
the languages they can’t speak
or the faces they can’t tame
with the values of my ancestors in the quest
to conquer their lands.
Make NO mistake,
I don’t want to hear of it,
but it’s not because I can’t handle the truth
because the truth is that humanity’s evils
will always fall before reaching
past the la-di-da’s when there are
still so many things to save me.
I plug my ears to the nationalism that
threatens my ability to live gratefully.
MY FAVOURITE THINGS
To spice up my monotonous life,
to escape from the humdrum routine work
I flee to various garths
with verdure, plants bearing luscious fruits
and freshly blossomed flowers.
Then I pick a piece of paper
and pen down my unsaid words,
my hidden bruises and bleeding wounds.
Sometimes what I write reaches
some deaf ears: I make them listen
to their voices of conscience.
Sometimes my poems reach blind eyes:
I make them see the naked truths
of oppression and tyranny in this world.
Sometimes my words soothe tormented
souls, or even bring smiles
in their faces, or suppress a tear.
I love to empathize with people
in their joys and sorrows
and speak for them with my pen.
THE LONELY BOOK
I took a book out of the library,
Where it had stood amongst
Its brethren for 25 years, unused,
unborrowed—I know this because
Its pages were crisp, never bent
By a greedy reader, and were yellow
From time’s effect, a drug that
Ages books as it does readers….
Someday I guess all books, both
The virgins and the overly used,
Even abused, will be no more: all
Replaced by sterile zeros & ones,
And my future self will never again
Have the soft pleasure of turning
Crisp pages and feeling tangible
The words of a stranger’s mind.
FAVOURITES OF THE PRIMARY SCHOOL CHILDREN
Literacy and Numeracy
Cake and candy
Toys and presents
Teachers and friends
Lunchbreaks with play mates
Sleep overs and Play dates
Colouring and rhymes
Prayers and lullabies
Bonnet hats,Santa and snowman
On Easter and Christmas Fam-jams
YELLOW TIN BOXES
My mother called me at work to say,
“Bill is here. He’s taking everything!”
My uncle came to his mother’s last apartment,
to load pickup and station wagon.
His two sisters had triaged and cleaned.
The trio’s parents were both dead now,
leaving neither castle nor treasure chest.
To the truck went appliances and furniture.
Even tiny inheritances prove grace or greed.
“If you want anything at all, tell us right now.”
I had coveted nothing but could quickly answer,
“I want her recipe box and the photo box.”
May he have as many fridges as he can use.
I curate a century of faces of family and friends,
and the tin box of hand-written index cards,
each holding one of Mabel’s food moments.
Bill got the loot. I got the treasure.
We both got what we wanted.
Wow! So many
Love of friends and family
And all things that convey it
Of course, love is not a thing
But such a deep emotion !
Expressed in words, gestures, touch and look!
In the smile of my mother
And the said words of my late father!
The glitter in the eyes of all my pups ,
And in the voices of the kittens in the neighbourhood
Glistens the moistness of happiness and my favourite things!
And when a stranger begins to endear
And the body has a new sensation
Of course, falling in love
Is the prettiest of feelings
More fulfilling than watching a flower bloom!
But till that happens
There are flowers around!
Colourful and beautiful
Charming and graceful
Symbols and motifs
But flowers are flowers !
Always and nonetheless!
Taking your hand
Into the wilderness
Asking so loudly to never be tied in a bouquet!
The wilderness is so dear
So peaceful, so healing
So calm, so pretty
Its my favourite place
Am sure its yours too!
Nothing like a walk among wild unknown flowers
Clouds floating, pollen laden breeze, scent of rain on dried soil
River gushing, the cry and call of birds
The fall of the waterfall
Space enough to bend and sit
Lie down and laugh, without being stalked ,
Space is the dearest of all things!
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THINGS
Painting nature is divine.
Moments we don’t forget.
Hanging up spooky bats.
Is what we’re after.
Please, grant our wishes.
It’s fun to be a little daring.
Meatballs and spaghetti
Let’s toss rainbow confetti!
Ordering delicious poké bowls
The smell of warm apple pies.
Going on winter getaways.
Spending time in the Florida Keys.
Are each part of my life-maps.
Are what set my soul free.
Each day is a brand-new start.
Faith and wings
Are the most beautiful things.
In paradise, all lovely things come to be
Shining lights and, perhaps, angels to see
Some people’s ideas of paradise is different
perhaps earthly, irreligious, irreverent
spirituality found in the smile of an urchin
lost cause of mother earth to fight for and win
activism beyond the hapless keyboard
cleaned up space, to declutter and unhoard
smile first thing, every morning, to none
leisure walks in the woods, a stroll, or a run
paintings to draw and projects to try
tears of happiness and buckets to cry
fragrant nights of drizzles and petrichor
cups and cups of endless tea to pour
to wake up in the arms of love
even if my own, that is enough
finding pareidolic solace in the clouds
a lone raft of assurance in a sea of doubts
my mother’s hands cupping my cheek
good hair days and eyebrows on fleek
silly laughter I share with my brood
a novice’s baking or experimental food
Gratitude after a long hard day
These are a few, I daresay
Favourite things are blessings to count
Treasures to be cherished and memories to be found
Keep them close and simplify the wants
The ‘Cans’ don’t challenge as much as the ‘Cants’
Favourite things are relegated to a ‘later time’
Why not ‘now’ is your time to shine?
Come now, give yourself more reasons to smile
Life’s running all this while
That walk in the park, that meeting with friends
That hunger to read which never ends
Own it now, live this life in your favourite things
Tomorrow too late for the delights it brings
A FAIRY TALE (HAIBUN)
I ate the chocolate without sharing it with him. It upset him. I know he was pretending, yet I felt bad about not sharing the chocolate with him. But that was the last piece of chocolate in the fridge. And, it wasn’t such a big piece. Moreover, it was my favourite chocolate.
“Dear ________, Please find attached the video recitation of my poem for your anthology. Hope it comes up to your expectations. Regards, __________”
I shouldn’t have eaten the chocolate all by myself. Maybe he wasn’t pretending to be angry. I have never known him to make such a fuss about chocolate. He knows I love those sweet treats.
I am not going to think about this anymore. It is making me feel miserable. And it diverts me from this email I have to send out.
We made my recitation video together today. In the little space we have in our cosy, one bedroom apartment, he arranged for me to sit as if in luxury and placed the tripod so cleverly, that the light fell full upon my face without creating shadows. I read my poem like a queen. I had let my long hair down, untied, not in its usual braids.
After the recording, we sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the finished video. He took my hand in his, snuggled his face in my long tresses and proclaimed he was falling in love with me all over again.
Little did we know we would quarrel over the chocolate in a while.
And seductive philtre cascades
THE BEST MEMORIAL
(On Robert Frost farm in Derry, NH)
Derry farm bears a boy’s will,
as he poetized his experiences on this farm.
It retains its originality along with the verses.
The kitchen with old cups and plates,
The dining table with forks and spoons,
the bedrooms, and more--
each sight of them seems to evoke a verse.
And complementing this,
the ink bottle and beside it the pen with its nib.
Each sight surrounding the farm
seems to capture the light of those days,
of a strolling bard of New Hampshire,
on this farm.
This homestead with its farm,
bordered by a rocky fence,
breathes an air of fragrant yester years,
to immortalize itself as the best memorial,
as ageless as the poet and his poems.
My three-year-old grand-boy, moody from his nap, drags his blanket to the patio, sits down to wake up, watches me watering flowers. Suddenly he jumps up, points, no longer half asleep, “Papa, you’re making magic!”
Carl “Papa” Palmer
garden hose rain
showers flower baskets
spraying pastel prism mists
onto rays of summer sunshine
papa painting rainbows in the sky
papa painting rainbows in the sky
onto rays of summer sunshine
spraying pastel prism mists
showers flower baskets
garden hose rain
STARRY NIGHTS CAFÉ