Springs Both Ways

My grass gets tall, I don’t care
My neighbor’s old, I have no fear
A porch to sit, a pen to push
A comfy cushion for my tush


Singing birdies in the bush
A barking dog, I whisper “shush”
A gentle breeze across my face
A stolen moment from the human race


My mind’s racing to outer-space
Thoughts flowing at breakneck pace
A blink of an eye, I hit a wall
My brain is blank, nothing at all



Pastel Poetry Please

The pallete overflows

Colors no-one knows

A spectrum of hues

Whatever I choose

But the grays get in the way


Wheels of color roll on the ground

Colors don’t matter if wheels ain’t round

Drawing time from sketchy books

Gradient defines good, shady or crooks

And the grays all have a say


Canvas pure, time no-more

Palletes bare, nothing to share

Thinking of more, brushes galore

Morning’s bright till dark of night

Yet the grays still paint my day



Bird Brain

I saw a bird in a tree.

I said “hey bird talk to me.”

He turned around, we had a chat.

I wrote it down and that was that.

We said good-bye and I flew home.

I sat right down to write this poem.


But lost the notes stuffed in my vest,

And whence returned I found a nest.

“My birds prose lost, how can this be?”

I said “hey bird look at me.”

She looked down so she could see,

A babbling bird brain talking to a tree.


I yelled “give back my notes in your nest.”

She returned the anger, on my vest.

I started to yell one more time.

Then thought; save the vest, forget this rhyme,

A cozy nest is better than a talking bird poem.

I just hope I think of something else when I get home.




Was a cold winter’s day and there’s nothing to do.

Same as yesterday, nothing’s new.

So I took a trip to the attic to look for words and a view.

The crisp winter color of sky and water, reflected in deep icy blue.


The cobwebs hang heavy, there’s nothing new to explore.

Cold and flustered I stumbled back to the steps and slammed the door.

I went back downstairs and took some time to reflect.

Those things worth finding shouldn’t be that hard to detect.


Unless of course what seems lost, was never really had.

Though loses always remembered, it’s the forgotten that make us sad.


I went back upstairs where memories go to rest.

Pushing through the spider’s webs, to that place I like best.

It’s just a seldom seen pane of glass that compares to no other.

It’s a picture perfect painting, painted in the seasons changing color.


I sat upon a shaky box hiding something long forgot.

Steamy breath fogged the glass creating what can’t be bought

I viewed the shifting shades of pinks and blues that end every day.

Then I shared the chill with the fading sun falling into the bay.


Turning from dusk to shades of infinite grays with shadows intertwined.

I lightly step, hands outstretched and leave my little pane behind.