AUTUMNCADO🥑

The leaves are green 

If you go too soon.

You bite too early,

It’s hard to chew.

The leaves are gold 

If you go on time.

A punctual scoop

Is smooth and sublime.

The leaves are lifeless

When you don’t rush.

A careless delay

reveals brown mush.

Don’t let your viewing

Start off slowly.

And to avoid waste –

Make guacamole! 😂

TRANSIENCE

Summer’s warmth is in the day,

Autumn’s chill is in the eve.

Southern winds keep the cold at bay

Which northern winds bereave.

The struggle always fascinates

My body, mind, and soul.

This perennial will to dominate

With capitulation as the goal

The hand of seasons gripping hard

A rope of tug-o-war

Heightens my sense of transience

And wonder of what’s in store.

What does the future hold for me,

My family, and my friends?

My only comfort is trusting the One

Who knows us and our end.

WAR, ORGANIC

I deployed my soldiers to the southern field:

Tender greenhorns, 

Lined up – standing at attention.

A humanitarian mission,

To feed the masses.

Little did I know

The perimeter would be breached

By armor-clad invaders.

Mandibles being their weapons,

They declared war –

With their appetites

They descended 

On my hapless garden rows. 

I sought counsel 

From time-worn generals, etched

In battle scars.

Their gravelly orders were clear:

“Bring out the heavy artillery!  Release the nukes!” 

I refuse.

Civilian casualties are not acceptable.

I institute tactics to defend 

Against the enemy while preserving

The fragile population 

Of pollinators. 

Despite my efforts, 

The remaining troops

Are cut down.

Steeling my resolve,

I send for reinforcements:

A contingency of

Hardened soldiers

Who could withstand 

the brutal attacks.

Their vines and spines

Defensive and offensive 

To the war-weary aggressor.

The enemy relents.

The masses will be fed.

 ALMOST 

Little man, bigger boy? 

Source of mommy’s smile and joy. 

Almost grown, not quite there 

Wants to keep up, jump up, be up, 

Yet, so far from the final touch. 

 

Little man, baby face,  

Thinks growing is a race 

Going, going, will not stop, 

Slow down, please, so I can catch up. 

 

Little man, “Yes I can,” is so sure  

He knows the plan. 

Little man, my heart is yours. 

Even when you’ve reached the goal, 

Growing with you has made me whole. 

SUMMER LONG

The days 

stretch 

out

Like a cat

Seeking reprieve

From the fingers of

heat.

Long leaves sway in the sticky breeze,

Casting long shadows 

As the sun melts 

With a sigh.

Long evenings 

of light 

Lingering

Lingering

Until you wonder if it is 

The dawn you see.

A MOTHER’S HEART 

A mother’s heart is wider than the universe  

For consider all it holds –

The past, the present, hope for the future 

Nestled safe and secure within its folds.

A mother’s heart is larger than the mountains 

For survey all its majesty –

A storehouse full of care and compassion

Of which it has capacity.

A mother’s heart is deeper than the oceans

For contemplate its grace –

Never-ending, depthless mercy

Upon every tear-stained face. 

A mother’s heart is God’s gift to all

For search it top to bottom –

Her loving voice speaks to us

With wisdom and with caution.

 TREASURE

Cherub cheeks

Dimpled elbows and toes

Tiny grins and giggles. 

Hands reaching out –

Then the slow nod of sleep

Heavy, like the weight of joy 

On your shoulder.

Blink.

Movement and noise

Nothing but 

Speed – up, down, in, out.

Angles and elbows

Stretching out 

The questions “Did you know?”

The delight

In discovery.

Blink.

Somber moodiness

Then

Exultant expressions

Of plans for the future.

Burning embers awaiting

The billows 

Of challenge and praise.

Blink.

Paperwork.

Classes and transcripts

Diplomas and degrees.

Parties and people reaching out –

Smiles, hugs, and sage advice 

Given freely,

Received dearly.

Blink.

Long-distance love – 

Phone calls and texts

Jobs, jokes, just to say “Hi!”

“Could you send me that recipe?”

“Could you come and visit?”

“I miss you, but I’m happy.”

Together for so long – 

Then you blink, and they’re gone.

Treasure the time while it’s here.

*I wrote this poem during the pandemic when panic-buying, supply chain issues, and inflation had begun to affect consumers.

CIRCUS MAXIMUS 

I grip the edge of my makeshift chariot, 

Handwritten list of essentials dutifully organized and categorized. 

 

Haltingly, I weave through the staggered line of contestants 

Who glance furtively in my direction.

Muffled voices strain to penetrate the fabric veil.

 

Heads are turning to the side, here and there. 

Hands reaching out, then pulling back, 

Questions hang heavily in the aisles.

 

My heart skips a beat as I come across an empty plain 

Picked over like the bones of some unfortunate beast. 

“Looks like we’re a little too late!” 

States the fine lady with coiffed hair and flashy jewelry. 

She laughs light-heartedly 

As my throat constricts. 

 

I close my eyes and see all the expectant faces 

Waiting for me at home. 

 

I do the best I can 

With what I can find. 

At the finish line,  

My chariot holds only half its normal bounty, 

Each race costlier than I could have foreseen. 

 

An invisible thief is crowned victor. 

                                                         MOTHERHOOD ;-D

Being a mom is
Walking around all day
Smelling like

“Watermelon Wonder”
Or
“Peachy Kleen” 

Instead of 

“Tahitian Sunset”
Or
"Maui Beaches"

Because

You didn’t think of yourself 
When you were at the store.

You step into the shower,
And sigh,
And use the kids’ stuff,

Because

It’s 
All
That
Is
left.

DREAM SEASON

I rest in my snow-encased chamber

Still

Wrapped in layers

Breath steady, heart slow, eyes closed and active.

Visions of lush, green foliage, 

Delicate blossoms,

Ruby-red gems entice me.

Warmth.

Golden tassels wave 

In a friendly manner.

Lanky pea-plants blow kisses 

With their plump little pods.

I reach out -

Basket full & heavy,

mouth watering.

I press through the rows,

Ignoring the weeds -

Hands on their hips,

Wondering what I’m going to do about them.

Ripe Berries beckon,

Honeybees explore tentatively from bud to bud.

Summer flowers nod approvingly

 as I breathe in

The deep scent 

of the season.

The sun strokes my cheek

The heater turns on

I wake in the cold

My pillow damp, hands reaching out.

 MOTHER WINTER

The windswept fields, 

Stark and barren.

Snowdrifts rolling like 

Dunes of ancient times.

 

Some see lifelessness, 

Devoid of all hope.

I see a loving mother, 

Pulling the blankets 

Up close to her child’s chin

Blessing the child 

With her brilliant smile.

Some see life smothered, 

Struggling to break free again.

I see the child’s eyes 

Closed in peaceful slumber - 

Resting.

Mother gently strokes her child’s forehead

And dims the light - 

For a season.

 SONNET OF THE COMMON

I have no need for extravagant things – 

Sparkles and shine mean nothing to me. 

Give me the dull, the boring, the brown 

Earthy things, growing green and free. 

Others may fawn over silk and brocade 

Jewels of exquisite taste and color. 

I’d just as well wear my threadbare jeans 

And a faded t-shirt, soft, like no other. 

I know those who love ancient red wine 

Paired with tender filet mignon. 

Hot dogs and burgers char-grilled 

By my love, are better in my opinion. 

     Give me the simple, the common and plain,

     These are the things I’ll choose again and again.

 FADE

A bouquet of vocabulary is blooming on my page, 

Fragrant, aromatic, wafting up – provoking the senses. 

Words pungent and exquisite, caustic, and melodious, 

Bittersweet and velvet soft, caressing and spurning my heart in turn. 

Words – harbingers of possibilities, causalities, and sadly, generalities, 

Gardens of infinite and sumptuous fare on which the impoverished soul may feast. 

Words are weapons and lovers, seizing me in their firm embrace, 

Burgeoning like roses, enticing me to drink in their beauty, but – OH! The thorns... 

Causing me to surrender then sequester as I strive 

To comprehend their intent upon my feeble mind. 

I hunker in utter darkness, stroking the petals, willing the scent to not diminish 

Yet the more I clutch the fragile flowers, the more their vision slips away.