the waters dulcify —
each boat in its slip
and apricot whip
infused in a stilling sky.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
the waters dulcify —
each boat in its slip
and apricot whip
infused in a stilling sky.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
the yellow and pink
are all that the eye can take in
a butterfly skims
like daydreams and whims
to flaunt how I was mistaken.
warning most unmeek:
Hell hath no fury
like a mother’s beak!
The look
that deadly laser eye
best maternal weapon
unloosed like banshee’s cry
piercing in its silence
commanding in its aim
it paralyzes enemies
and offspring all the same.
The look
a hybrid arsenal
of terror and of love
a mom has got to be
part raptor and part dove.
To all those women who have flapped and swooped that fine line between raptor and dove, a very happy day!
With more thanks to the S.W.Berg Photo Archives.
much can be said
it pulls the eye
and bends the head
placid halt
to inner fission
balm
non-selfie
intermission.
mere line and arc
utterly still
no eye, no heart
imperious
simple
as vesper bell
summons to quiet
the daily
groundswell.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
Cassius-lean, persistent
racks the eye
hollows the heart.
Spring peridot
damp, plump, insistent
declares a lush Heigh!
in gladsome
Puckish
impart.
with nothing to enthrall
instant anesthetic for
a Tiffany or Chagall.
But just ahead the playground
with voices shrill and high
the color spills in laugh and screech
the ear sees
not the eye.
you take things apart and then
put them together again
with a new eye
stretching to see
from a book or a tree
and you ask a whole new Why?