When the snow melted
it took chunks of the road in its thaw.
Potholes sunk
where the water slurpped
away the under-soil.
Silence left with the white
now more venture outside
overstocking supplies
"we'll n'er run out again,"
one swore.
And cats are back spraying,
and dogs barking in confusion.
And the crocus buds to remind me
nothing has really changed
in all this change

The kindle worked
its charm on the coal
tempting its soul
to unite in flame.
Outside shrieked
the wind and rain
calling my name,
but the windows and doors
were closed
and worried eyes counselled me to stay.
Thinking of older, darker days,
"Cast ye back to the depths from whence ye came."
A fist shaking in mocking scorn
at the storm.
The rain continued on
for the rest of the day
as the fire danced
and fell in love
with its flames

Evening light washes pale
traffic scrunches up the motorway
weary bones heading home
minds coiled tense as a spring
ready to offload
wasted hours devoured by work.

An urn
slung on shoulder
braced in place
by smooth cream
slender
arm
and crease of curl covered neck.
Another urn
held on tip of hip
as if a mother yearns a child's weight
Toga frozen in flow,
fanning its tail by ankle
above sandalled foot and petite toe.
smirk outdating mona's,
below cute nose
framed by soft marble cheeks
wishing hints of rose
Grecian girl looks vacantly down
oval eyes void of iris and pupil.
Thoughts unknown.

big words can constrict me
leaving little room to wiggle free,
they constrain
unequivocally,
there for show and tell, no doubt!
What can I do with discombobulate
that I can't do with confuse and frustrate?
Or maybe I can postulated
it's just a suggestion
can you relate?
When I say big words,
I meant to say long
cos little words like hope and love have more worth and meaning than floccinaucinihilipilification
Or maybe l'm dumb and use to procrastination
putting off what can be cleverly done.
But if I find a word that's lenghty
and hits the spot just right
I will use it ostentatiously,
or so I might.

They are bombing children
as their own
are hummed lullabies.
They are bombing children
as their own
are tucked into bed tonight.
They are bombing children
as their own are rocked to sleep.
They are bombing children
with rockets burying them
in rubble deep.

Today
I considered the crabapple tree
the slow swell of its buds;
the future birth of deep crimson leaves from each sprawling limb
I let grow wild,
refusing to clip and snip.
Even at my best imagined vision,
I could never sculpt it better
than its natural design.
Well, I lie.
Took the saw to a branch once
that came close to poking out my eye
by the washing line.
But the rest
I left
to stretch.
Its many arms reaching
to hold the sky
as I
behold it.
A simple tree,
is it nature's gift to me?