My mouth waters taste buds tickle
When I see a jar of lemon pickle!

On the sunny roof the lemon pickle
It starts a child’s saliva’s trickle!

It still gives his conscience a *****
He played on the old man a trick!

For the old one was sunned on the roof
Jar of lemon pickle what a goof!

The glass jar stayed there all day
But the child just couldn’t stay away!

At midday when they all were asleep
Little feet climbed the stairs steep!

Made sure not an eye was watching
What joy did the sight of pickle bring!

The child such small was his need
He only had to open the jar’s lid!

Pick up one for nothing he could miss
One juicy sweet sour lemon piece!

In his mischief he did go that far
Each ****** piece he put back in the jar!

So that they would never find a trace
Not one piece of lemon would be less!

The poor old man he never knew
The child’s blended saliva in the brew!

The child ****** pickle had his fill
What the old man relished with his meal!

I know this story isn’t worth a nickel
Still I find irresistible the lemon pickle!

atop the jagged precipice
she fights;adorned with battle scars
slaying her demons

I listened in the darkness as” the Franchise” took the hill.
Tom Seaver, perfect, through eight innings, had retired Cubs at will.
I could barely hear Bob Murphy’s voice; Shea was packed that night.
Santo, Banks and Spangler, all went down without a fight.
Randy Hundley led off the ninth, he was victim Twenty-Five.
The stands were like a roaring sea, electric and alive.
Jimmy Qualls came up to bat, a rookie, little known.
Every Mets fan felt for sure that Tom would bring it home.
Seaver looked in for the sign; Grote called for heat.
Qualls lined a clean single and a hushed quiet filled the seats.
Seaver felt deflated as the crowd stood in ovation.
As well as he had pitched that night was it wrong to seek perfection?
Seaver finished off the Cubs that night; Qualls' was the only hit.
That night would have been perfect if that ball had found a mitt.

the wind.through
a weathered stone
cries then whispers

alone.

[10W]
Catherine Jarvis

Perfectly curled caramel hair
Cascades down her shoulders,
Bouncing in time with the music.
He can’t help but savor every
Fragment of her movement as he
Traces the camera around her frame,
Capturing the dance.
She’s an actress in every sense of the term,
Her eyes sad yet powerful,
Her body hurting yet beautiful.
The music ends and she stops, breathless,
Her hair that has fallen in front of her face
Flowing up and down as she catches her breath.
“Did you get it?”
She asks him,
And suddenly he’s back to himself,
Back from the world her dance took him to.
“Definitely,” he says, and when
Her dimples break her face open,
The camera is still rolling,
For he doesn’t want to miss a second of her beauty.
She isn’t just poetry.
She is art.

My ears used to cry for peace and quiet,
but now they yearn
for the sweet caress of your voice.

Your words are a soft blanket,
and when they reach my ears
I am covered in warmth and comfort.

Your laugh is cheerful music
and when it reaches my ears
my spirits are gently lifted.

Your affectionate tone of voice calms my soul,
and I gladly listen to anything you say.

dusted sunlight
peeks through the cracks
of the old weathered barn

tractor oil
and freshly baled hay
permeate the warm country air

hoot owl, and swallows
whisper from the  
overhead beams

guinea hens scamper ~
to the graceful
rolling fields

I traveled through lush greens
mountains of moss, sinking soft
wild in the woods you went
swooped and flew
singing songs
of blue water
of morning colors
in the light of sun
with dreams of moon
my bird.