Who is the poet of the flower?
The answer changes by the hour.
Petals of
blue,
and of white,
and of pink.
The scent of the flower,
Cause the poet to think.
The stem,
The stalk,
Where in
The flower's beauty
Locks.
Grown
In sand, and soil,
And rock.
God's paint brush
Moves,
With grace and ease.
Beauty, found and sought.
To Mothers,
From far and wide.
Here on earth,
And in the sky.
To those who mother
Other people's children.
To those who benefit
From other people's mothers.
From the goose
With her gander.
To the Mother osprey
Who yelled at me.
Happy Mother's Day
To all of the women
In this world!
Stumped
I am stumped
Totally stumped
So stumped.
Stumped
By all the things that I have heard
When people say
Not a single word
Like flower petals
They grow on dead wood.
They love me
They love me not
And the waters swirl
As the world turns
And
Everything stands
Still.
I love this rock,
With it's wood and rock.
The ice that clings
Like a woolen sock.
It'll stay there
Til the weather is fair,
When it will melt away
Like a frilly frock.
It is so much fun
To see the slush
Form
Beneath your shoe.
It will make you wet,
But what they heck.
A tasty treat,
For those fast red feet.
Of the elusive red squirrel
If it comes near the house,
It will be treated like a mouse
AND!!!!!
Happy Spring Everyone !!!!!
Shadows in the snow,
how sullenly they flow.
In the depth,
of winter blues.
The colours,
varying in hues.
One war
is almost over.
Another one
may soon begin.
The clouds open,
and shadows form.
The forecast,
as unsure.
As the winter
is long.
This old tree.
The forest.
And me.
Following footsteps.
Of those who walked.
These trails.
Before us.
Let your imagination.
Go wild.
And you will see.
Dragon wings.
And other things.
Listen to the wind.
Listen to the trees.
Listen to the sounds.
Floating on the breeze!
I Know Not Why
by Morris Rosenfeld
I lift my eyes against the sky,
The clouds are weeping, so am I;
I left mine eyes again on high,
The sun is smiling, so am I.
Why do I smile? Why do I weep?
I do not know; it lies too deep.
I hear the winds of autumn sigh,
They break my heart,
they make me cry;
I hear the birds of lovely spring,
My hopes revive, I help them sing.
Why do I sing? Why do I cry?
Pink
Some people think
That I am a dink,
on a rink, wearing pink,
with dirty dishes in the sink.
But in a blink
I could make a stink
and call them a fink
because that's what I think.
As I wear my mink
Down on the rink,
neither of them
the colour pink.
Maria Tuttle
Raindrops in the forest,
upon a wilted leaf.
The freshness reinforces
everything, I believe.
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
Return to the earth,
everything must.
And into the air
up in the sky.
On into Heaven,
go you, and go I.
Raindrops in the forest,
upon a wilted leaf.
The freshness reinforces
everything I believe.
Maria Tuttle
Looking at the World
Looking at the world,
through rose coloured glasses.
As the winds, and the clouds,
roll by.
Like thoughts, and ideas,
they make smooth passes
My feelings;
like dots in the sky.
Surrounding yourself pleasantly,
is difficult sometimes.
The flowers, and the trees,
aren't always in rhyme.
My expectations are like chimes,
in what the world finds fair.
So different is the light,
that my daydreams share.
Maria Tuttle, September 2021.
Groovy Tales of a Well Adult 