The unsmelled rose on the back of the bush
Is mocked by the one in the vase
But water can not replace good soil
And the unsmelled rose laughs last.

ljm

The Ferris Wheel is slowing down
  The ride is almost over
    The zooming up was thrilling
      The view from there exciting
        The downward swing was also fun
          Because it turned to rise again.

                                  It seemed the ride would last forever
                              But we knew that wasn’t true
                          We just refused to think about it
                      Til slowing motion made it clear
                  The ride was coming to an end
              And it would very soon be time
           To loose the seat belt and get off
        And walk amongst the land-bound
    Remembering the view from high
While heading for the Tilt-A-Whirl.
             ljm

• I drew a healthy breath
   On awakening today.
• I came down the stairs
   And my knees didn’t hurt.
• The wind has died and
   The sky looks good so
   It’ll be a gorgeous day.
• My friends are well
   And celebrating too,
   Wherever they are scattered,
• My family is safe and sound
   In their distant places.
• I’ve been welcomed to offer help
   In feeding the poor and lonely
   In the kitchen of a church
   The sister of my own.
• So I feel blessed and offer thanks
   That there is still some goodness
   Left amongst the troubles of this world.
ljm

A victim of Lethologica,
I find myself ransacking my brain
For common everyday words I need.

Do I seem a fool or dementia patient?
I am neither of those - not yet anyway.
But my bumbling efforts to be succinct
Fall by the wayside as I stare into space,
Hoping that the word I desperately need
Is somehow magically floating there,
And stammering red faced when it is not.

The only thing that keeps me sane
Is my vast storehouse of synonyms
That I dig out to fill in for the better word
My frantic ransack did not uncover.
ljm

Awake too early once again
Afraid to read myself to sleep
Because of badness always hiding
In the bushes of my dreamlands.

Filthy restrooms, windows where there should be walls
People that don’t seem to like me
Things I need and cannot find
My life’s work an apology.

Tortured pets and wounded hopes
Mazes made of halls and stairwells
How fast I can’t run away
From dangers with their faces hidden.

Can I drive on narrow rails
And not fall to the canyon floor?
What happened to the coins I found-
All mine for the collecting.

Who is it I’m letting down
As I discover that I’m late
And all that should have been arranged
Is still locked in the closet.

Who are all the nameless faces
Everywhere not helping me
But mostly getting in the way
Of what I need to finish.

Wide awake before the dawn
I stumble from one nightmare
Hoping not to find another
When I go crash upon the sofa.
ljm

Oh my. I made a booboo.  I said in my interview that I had played Bardo's word game in the past.  Well it was actually BLT's word game, and I hadn't played it recently so I had a senior moment and credited it to Bardo, another HP friend, who hastened to tell me of my error.
I apologize to BLT and hope he'll forgive me, both for denying him his credit due and also for not keeping on playing the word game.
If you've never joined the fun, google Merriam Webster's word of the day and use it in a write.  If you do, let BLT know, as  he keeps a log.
If you need an example, look at things written by Anais Vionet.  She is a master at it. Again....apologies to my dear friend BLT.

Violin with just one string
Tuning peg turned green with mold-
How can music come from that.

Flugelhorn with dented bell
And valves turned red with rust-
Who can blow a tune through that.

Radio with no antenna
Broken plastic dial won’t move-
No songs to dance the airwaves now.

Warbler with a sore throat in
A covered cage in the other room-
Can’t out sing the crows outside.,

A singer’s soul in a tuneless box
Perfect rhythm trapped in mud-
Melody in turmoil to get out.

Envy, longing, deprivation
Effort, failure, mockery-
One who should but cannot sing.

One entitled to the music
That shakes mountains,
Calms the frantic, dulls the pain.

Given only little tastes
Of what that paradise would be
If only she could sing.

Why was her voice given to
A multitude of those
Who have no need or yearning.

Why was she deprived of song-
Of that one balm to heal and mend
The every breaking of her heart.

Why was she allowed to stand
Nearby enough to feel the air
Vibrating with the sounds of it

And not allowed to make her own-
To feel the rhythm and the beat
But not take part in shaping it.

Why was her feeling for the mood
Denied the chance to paint it
On the canvas of her throat

And send it out like pretty boats
On calm reflecting waters,
Even if nobody heard but her.

Where was the vibrato hidden
That she sought and schooled for years
Sometimes there, but mostly not.

Why her mental perfect pitch
Refused to translate to her voice
And became a sorrow birthing silence.
ljm