These poplars stand straight and tall
slim branches bare in early winter
seeds whirly-birding as they fall
confetti for all who choose to enter.

Gray trunks a match to cloudy sky
as their limbs applaud the wind
and maybe me as I pass by
on my way to journey's end.

I've come here often in the spring
as newly minted green leaves sprout
and this copse's love birds sing
while mating squirrels run about.

Here's another oldie I dusted off.........

I'm sitting here beneath a tree
that must be thrice as old as me
and as I sit I think about
how this huge tree was once a sprout.

Through all the years that it has grown
how many fields have farmers sown ?
and since it was a mere acorn
how many generations born ?

Beneath its spreading summer shade
what lovers' promises were made
while out upon an evening's lark
and carving names in smooth beech bark?

So, you say you tried.
Don't give me that bullshit
It didn't require
someone who'd try
and you shouldn't get in the habit
of trying anyway
just get it accomplished
display some damned
adaptibility
and some gumption
make it happen
The outcome should be determined
before you even start
and then your effort
produces a finality
and a completion
The result doesn't have to be perfect
or even pretty
what matters is that you
see it through, to

It's a lonely, truthful journey
finding your voice, with which to sing,
even worse, then there's the journey for your song;

but, we all sing from our essence
to share the truths each heart may bring,
so sing out loud, sing out clear, and sing out strong.

After a while, you may meet someone
who may fancy the same "life tune",
but, their performance of the song does not ring, true:

what fool must he be
to ignore lovely eyes
as yours

you have four boys
and
a girl
keep your family intact
each one is a pearl
including him
for whom your poem
now you unfurl

hope he does awake
from the slumber
in which he basks
and
its high time that
now he unmasks

`

Curses lick with jest
at the small
of your back,
then they sear -
stinging hot:

Look around,
oath on jaundiced cloud;
kids with eyes
big as watermelons
hold the prods of hell's burning.

`

I am the blue porcelain bowl
got in China
with a chip inside
rim of my bottom ring

only I know it's there

there was a defect
in firing when I was
made -- left a fissure
so small it went unnoticed

lady from San Francisco
who bought me in Guangdong
brought me home
never noticed invisible crack
under me

on trans-Pacific voyage
a little piece fell off --
packing box never told
about sliver of blue

Pale eyes peer down
from leafless oak
beneath the watchful gleam
of ice-chip stars
on moonless nights,
when they dance
their whispered death
on silent wings of hunger.

No quiet hints
of tiny feet
escape attention,
no faintest rustle
dim in darkness
evades anticipation,
no silence paused
on edge of fear
will lose the focus
of sharp ear
when they listen
for patterings of prey.

.
chatterbox jiber jabber yak attack clackin' clatter

this can happen on paper too
it does all the time
I know
I do

as the verbal vandal, striking again,
I ramble and amble to
no logical end

practice and practice
that's what they say
and I could be named
..."Motor Mouth of the Page"

Standing alone for all to stare;
immodest limbs slowly sway
taking no notice, doesn't care
what you might think of the display.

Only one light on comely form.
But, then, one's all that's needed.
Disrobing has become the norm
Gawking and dropped jaws go unheeded.

Garish garb is slowly shed
slow dancing to an unheard tune.
There goes the cloth of mostly red
.Full nudity will be here soon.