Tag: #poetry

That Perfect Cup of Coffee

Your favourite mug
is a must,
It adds a hug
so softly touched.

Pour it dark.
Pour it black.
Add some milk
to bring it back.

Those little beans,
harvested by little hands,
Bundled and brought,
from far away lands.

Who knows what's in them?
We don't care.
Just make it quick
While I stand,
and stare.

Drink it alone, 
or with a friend.

Black coffee
Espresso 
Latte, hot or cold
Americano
Cappiccino
Mocha
Cafe Au Latte
Macchiato
Flat White
Irish coffee
Frappe
Cold brew
Affagato
Red eye.

Or prehaps a large, half-caf,triple-shot,caramel,mochano foam, extra whipped cream, extra hot, upside-down, caramel drizzle, with seven pumps of caramel syrup and seven pumps of mocha syrup, double blended frappaccino.

Just make mine with a large splash of milk.
My mug adds a love that is forever felt!

Scars

And the tree moves closer….
A scar
is but a jagged line.
Left for years 
to refine.

The pain is big.
The pain is small.
Sometimes,
there is no pain at all.

Broken…..

There is a scar
in the tree,
from where 
this branch used to be.

The blue birds move
nearer the tree.
Nearer the tree,
but further from me.

Oh, to be a squirrel….

Oh, to be a squirrel

Find a comfy branch

Give your tail a swirl.

Find a nut!

Sit on your butt!

Keep your mouth shut!

Maybe, a chair

Can relax your hair.

Knowing that there is nothing

You need to share.

When you don’t have a nest

But need a little rest

Sit on someone else’s house

Leave a big mess.

Give a loud scream

You’re not very mean.

Oh, to be a squirrel

In this crazy old world.

When Your Right Hand Can’t Right….

Instruments for Writing 
What do you write
when you're writing hand
can't write.

Try as you might,
you just can't get it right. 

It's either too dark,
or maybe it's too light.

Or prehaps I'm gripping 
my pencil to tight.

It's becoming a fright,
this inability to write.

I may fight,
this desire to write.

It gives me a fright, 
as I sit here all night,
bathed in artificial light.

Studying this hand on my right,
which, at this moment, 
cannot write.

Try as I might,
I can't allow my left hand
to take over for the right. 

To write.....

Fred, the Fly.

Fred, the Fly

There was a little fly,

his name was Fred.

He flew into a car,

looking for some shade.

There, he saw a little girl

who decided to become his friend.

Fred and his new friend

She allowed him to explore.

She allowed him to fly.

He sat on her orange juice lid,

and he looked her in the eye.

She shared with him

her bright orange,

orange juice.

He stayed close by her side.

Sharing orange juice

He took a little sip.

He shook his little head.

He was a little tired,

so he went straight to his little bed.

She decided to let him stay.

She decided he could go.

It was his decision.

This she let him know.

Fred, the Fly

Today, he is still

in the car.

Wondering

where you are.

Versions of Me

Wax on wood
There are so many versions of me 
That I feel lost at sea.

There is me, and there is you,
There is myself, a little elf,
and a broken shoe.

They all try to surface 
They all are submerged. 
There are too many
I feel the need to purge.

Who needs to go 
Who needs to stay
Who needs to be kept 
For a rainy day?

All of you,
I think.
I'd want all of you,
in a blink.

You are my ink.
You are my pen.
You help me think.
To begin, again.
Acrylic on board

A Bearded Birdhouse

Housecleaning….
Once upon a bearded birdhouse 
Socks had been hung out to dry.
He was shaking out the rug 
When dust got in his eye.

He cried to his momma 
He cried to his pop. 
Nothing they tried 
Could make the pain stop. 

Along came a pretty lady
With a hop, hop, hop.
She spotted the tiny tear
And decided she must stop. 

She kissed the wet cheek 
She pecked the wet ground. 
Up popped a juicy worm 
Which she quickly found.
 
They all had dinner 
Their dishes wiped clean.
The dust eventually settled 
A tear was nowhere to be seen.

This is not a true story 
Just a bit of nonsense 
About a bearded birdhouse 
Filled with incense!