You always say
that I always may
declare creation
in those speech-act moments
when words become action
Thus see me breathe life
into hitherto stiff fancies
See me empowered by verbal magic
that conjures up fanciful shapes
in the image of my inclinations
So I say let there be beauty and wonder
a swallow swishing crazily past
and a lonely dove cooing for its mate
Let there be rustics exuding the rich smells of life
from newly-turned earth with neat furrows and fat worms
wood smoke and freshly-cut grass in musty he-goat odour
Variety is the spice of life the sages from long ago said
So let there be good-time girls and pompous pimps too
and petty thieves and flashy conmen in loud clothes
Let the world sizzle with a menu of a la carte activities -
sooty greasy grime and lurid crime to shock good people
In simple terms let the world be a poem teeming with life
and let its people know their roles in the scheme of things
Let them play their parts to perfection
while I try out a miscellany of diction and imagery
to capture and portray the wonder of another complex day

A warped neck on a Fender Strat , a broken bottle of Johnnie Walker Black . Torn felt on a mahogany billiard table , catfish fillets scorched on the fire , rendered inedible ..
A marvelous , precision tractor engine seized from loss of oil , a bumper crop of peaches killed by frost ..
An empty bottle of malt vinegar , wind blown lovely cherry pipe tobacco lost forever ..
Red ripe homegrown tomatoes shredded by hail , soft shelled pecans dropped in the well ..
First snowflakes of Winter melted on warm city streets , green grass left to die beneath a cloth sheet ..
Concord grapes dried on the vine , watermelon picked before it's time ..
Homemade biscuits burnt in the oven , true love within reach left undiscovered ..

Alone at midnight
Beneath the cold stars
The warmth of the sun
Seems so far away
Suffocating deep within
Unheard screams echo
Trying to break those cold chains
That bind my heart
Not knowing how to unravel
Its stifling pattern
Frozen
Living on the precipice
Fearful of the fall
Hopeful to take flight

Kelly Rose
November 16, 2015

You don't see real ghosts;
The ones that drink Sprite,
Or sun on the sands of Lake Erie.
Most ghosts have better things to do
Than haunt you.
What you do see
Are spirits, holy or otherwise,
Taunting, egging,
Generally bothersome.
They're in pictures and mirrors,
Songs and places
You'd like to re-live,
Or forget altogether,
Past and present.
No, gimme a ghost anyday
Over a spirit.
When it's my turn,
I won't see you.

Try not to think more of yourself than others.
Try not to think less of yourself than others.
Don't think less of yourself more,
But more of yourself less.
Sometimes, think less of others more,
And you won't think less of yourself.
But do so with charity and courtesy,
Lest we forget.