?

Mister Young

I got up off the ground

without making a sound

when I finally found the disaster

While unbending my knees

caught my hair in the breeze

in one hundred degrees melting plaster

Watching girls of the world

raising dresses unfurled

while the questions were hurled so much faster

I was writing a play

on a sweet summer day

to her own known dismay so I cast her

She took talent and poise

from her suitcase of toys

said the mirror enjoys her reflection

Keeping up with the styles

weeping under her smiles

leaping over the piles of rejection

We clacked day after night

and came close to a fight

hoping she would invite my direction

But she took all the fame

even blew out my flame

she was playing the game of deception

The Wrong Answer

Disgusted, she flipped me the feather

and said I wasn't worth the whole bird

she knew she could always do better

she walked away not saying a word

What I'd done, was it really that wrong?

What'd you do if you were in my place?

I wanted to try to get along

she wanted never to see my face

Would a dozen roses make things right?

Should I try to explain my own side?

I knew I didn't want a big fight

She wasn't going to let me slide

if only I could realize

I needed to... learn to live alone

~

The Singing Sun

Ask a wise one what lies behind

the smiling round face of the sun

Plato would explain how goodness

is the reason for all the fun

Goodness made visible by light--

comes from knowledge learned in your youth

gold sun and goodness illumines

the intelligible with truth

Listen to young sun and you'll hear

how low she sings, out into space

cup your ear to her mantra chant

a song pulsing in rhythmic bass

Pierce the darkness, break the silence

Add her song to all your time sensed

~

Young William

Simple and graceful lyrics rise

from times most young boys do despise

numinous morality grow

from nature in a land of snow

A cottage where he hopes to find

philosophic songs for the mind

educated unstinting growth

witnessed by God and Country both

Ullswater Lake he stole a boat

a peak looked down and stole his cloak

pantheism thought teased his brain

spectacular visions on which to train

London was not the place to be

the Lake District had set him free

Untitled

Black silhouettes row to sunset

where the orange ball ripples and waves

one light kiss of salty nape sweat

while one hand slightly misbehaves

Often knees begin to get wet

from the droplets where the oars lave

and brush under a bridge rosette

as all the bells ring from their graves

Scrape the bottom, drunken keel debt

there's nothing here the water saves

row until morning songs forget

anoint the forehead kneeling knaves

I wanted to thank those who commented on my cannonball poem last week.

My delinquency in voting best answer is not a reflection on you.

I enjoyed every comment and I had a splash of a time with you for those moments.

Your comments I take to heart.~Andy

Of Venice

Just a sun-puff across the square,

past the wild pigeons of St. Mark's,

is a quieter place for us,

a short journey; we may embark.

We dance in step up stairs and stop

atop a bridge where we can talk,

as gondolas slip-slather by

beneath our feet; below the hawk.

Bells resonate, peal demonstrates

we all ring-run down the calle.

Eclipse the noise, we find a shop

of finesse and delicacy.

Artists and craftsmen, hands of skill.

Glass beads, quite splendid and unique

made before eyes filled with wonder

made in the Bright Soul boutique

A deep blue forever keepsake

I clasp in gold around your neck

to honor your beauty and love

and show my eternal respect.

Can we glide together aboard

a gondola that slips through dreams

making love tunnel memories?

It can't be as hard it seems.

~

Bbbzzzmmm

What has come to me

and what I have left behind

are a shoulder glace

~

Plant a Seed

Mid-summer, when peaches are ripe

and heavy with tasty respite

Fruit stands pop up by the side of the road

Tended by kids off from school

country faces with family rules

Shrewd and savvy as car salesmen might bode

Thirteen for three dollars, a steal

a quarter a piece, still a deal

I paid five dollars for a basket load

On checkered cotton table cloth

I placed my basket by my troth

Guests at my picnic could eat á la mode

Fruits from a tree, fruits of labor

shared with loved ones who can savor

and appreciate happily, seeds sowed

Her Water Can

She knows I like, having her read

the poems I haven't written yet

Picking fruit straight from the seed

Toying with time's cause and effect

Affection near, before I am

Every little thing she does

I know she likes her water can

and overlapping ripples' love

Her basket fills with fragrant buds

she hands them to me one by one

We care not the reason because

our time allows us to be fun

.

The Late Twentieth Century

Day after day of sun baked, heat of a drought

the thermometer's about to burst

puffy white clouds float in bright summer blue skies

not a drop to quench our building thirst

Baby, is it still hot out there on the porch?

'cause I'm burning up real bad inside

Maybe we could put some warm breeze in our hair

I'd do anything to go for a ride

We packed a lunch basket and we loaded the car

We headed to the hills west of town

Before we had driven, not half the way there

Huge raindrops had begun to come down

We stopped the car off from the highway a bit

Got out and danced wildly in the rain

People drove by us honking their nosy horns

They probably could think us insane.

Soon quite soaked to the bone in cool wet release

Unspoken and just laughing away

We took the long way back home, followed that cloud

When its hot now I think of that day

The Moon is Laughing Again

I looked at the moon, it looked past my eyes

I pulled my black hat down tight

I said, “Hey old man I'm looking at you

'back for you later tonight!”

The “ Play Pool Here” sign lost a few letters

The first P and last L, gone.

It was dollar drinks night for certain girls

my guess, I could get along

Of course I was minding my own business

That's my usual story

She did the sly-glance, over her shoulder,

her bracelets, her perfume inside her wrists,

her hair, the locket around her neck.

She moved across the room to be nearer

her blink, the sway of her heart tatted hips,

her shoes, and the shade of her own lips.

when I came to later on

I told the moon, “Old man, don't look at me.”

june bug

simple general spontaneity

she doesn't carry a script

a playful sense of curiosity

a diamond above her lip

a fashion minded spirit wearing jeans

to humor me and my hat

two-step across the oak knotted floor beams

a music note as her tat

we sang with the band and howled at the moon

waking with the morning sun

she fixed breakfast then left me around noon

our first date was the third one