A Mountain Bluebird
matches the sky
soars so high
he settles on a cotton puffy cloud
tires after a wind catches his wing
he takes respite on a pink-hued billow
light weight and fine fathered
comfortable, he relaxes his wings
in daylight, sun drenches him in hot yellow warmth
in darkness, blue moon beholds him in midnight caress

As he observes Earth
he notes devastation from afar
heretofore obscured
oceans jam-packed with plastic
denuded forests
scarified mountain tops
dank air, garbage spill
cities dense with humans
heaps of cars flattened out
smog hangs low

Once, home to a family nest
in an oak tree on a lush green farm
at present, he scrutinizes the spectacle
hence, he opts to tarry
with the clouds, the sun, the moon, the stars

Old Grandfather clock greets its demise
the singular timepiece for old Mrs. Wise
What's to be done, I shall not know the time
who gives a ****, says her alter ego, you will be fine

Pitiable Mrs. Wise entrusts that clock
indeed, the soothing sounds of tick tock
in what way shall I know when to do what?
don't rankle says her ego, you'll be smack on the spot

Wherewith I know when it's time to sleep?
Thou shall see darkness shush not a peep
at what moment shall I ready the tea in the morn?
when the moon whispers its forthcoming dawn

In the absence of my clock, I am utterly lost
be sedate Mrs. Wise the clock has been tossed
a notion just came to me and I shan't ever tell
but now I hear the time by the old church bell

My untried timepiece is really quite fine
Hence, my body clock moves in a tidy sum of time

Watercolor rolls on my canvas
as a sprinkle of tears on my cheeks
cool colors of blue, green, purple, jet black
mimic my sober mood
I scrawl repeatedly
until I strike my resolve

Trees obscure the atmosphere
lakes succumb to burnt umber
vacuous canvas swallows my spine
hues of paint befit my spirit

Gratification commands accomplishment
my cheeks prove to be dry
so too the consummate work of art

I trust that my next attempt
reflects a warm-hued mood
as the break of dawn awakens
strokes of red, orange yellow
splash on my canvas
in a flight of frenzy
my hand on the run
as my world unlocks
clarity prevails

Two bemused birds encounter beside an oak tree
they notice an abandoned nest
Ross the Red Breasted Robin affirms it as his own
Bobby the Bluejay suggests they share it
"NO!" says Ross. I bolted in first. It's mine!"
"I believe I can squeeze in too", claims Bobby
"Wait! maybe not; you're quite fat."
"Shall we take turns utilizing the nest to sleep?"
"NO" says Ross the Robin , "Never!"
"Per chance", queries Bobby, "How can we settle this?
"Who can fly there the quickest?"
"Never" says Ross the Robin, "I own it!"
Bobby the Bluejay's anger surges to send a secret
message to his cousin Boris
Hence, Bobby collects his bird army
attacks Ross the Robin
whose obese body lay motionless
as he mutters "I shan't yield."

The angel of peace
settles on earth
to inform us
of earthly worth

So much to learn
to ensconce our differ
we shall resist
at whatever trickster

The path to peace
lays onerous to thought
we ought not fear
the trend to be caught

We hope to instill
those who will listen
that peace is vital
for a life to glisten

Let us harmonize as we trek
on the pathway to still
as we ration our divide
strengthen our will

Maudlin face, head tilt
blood shot eyes
robed in black
she stands with tremor
before a cold gray stone
epitaph wilts

An anniversary
in the absence of celebration
scrambled sentiments bolt through her head
guilt, loss, anger, emptiness
temper that persists
to the cold core of her bones
despite the blistering sun's potency

Worst of all
a child's grievous capture from life
dreaded spectacle that no parent need behold
spears the bedrock
by no means overlooked

All that prevails
skeleton dust
beneath the dark, dank earth
endearing sentiments stretch through the years
laughter, cries, togetherness, family love
trappings of life she holds tight

Today, as leaves dance to the dark earth
red, gold, brown
mist soars to obscure the high mountain peaks
a mesmerizing mood

Brings me back to younger days when I flipped, flopped, splashed
in a myriad of puddles
while my mother shrieked "Don't get your pants wet"
I asserted my independence and gloated
in my own  slap happy world
not a word did I hear

At once, I smell the dew
Grass still green from frequent summer rains
listen to the squeaky wet grass beneath my boots
take note of those tiny morsels stuck underside

A macabre walk in the clouds
a muzzy vision of the sticks in the forest
tree tops just a mirage
I snap a photo to trap the ghostly silence
which attests to my musing temper