When the world lays traps
Pass by them
And leave them alone

Glistening in cool water glade
goldfish lies, and silent, debates.

Dappling warmth in mellow shade
stirs urgent use for ****** traits.

Basking in green swaying braids,
makes certain aim, but goldfish waits.

Globey eyed and feed delayed,
pouts thickened lips, then hesitates.

Silver gleam of food parades
above liquid world and lust creates.

Goldfish moves, as swift leap made
dies then careless fly, and urge abates.

Under- Staffed.


Heavy with deepest deep sleep
he feels layers begin to un-zip, one by bleary one
and dipped head under the sheets.

Aware of small moving feet creeping away
he starts a hazy ascent but finds another quick
fit of dozing making him stay.

Too early he knows he leaves dreams half done
and grieves battles half-fought which had to be won
but once awakened chores have begun.

He wearily raises sleep-held lids to see standing,
wide-eyed and still night attired, his kids with tray
holding biscuits and milk scarily balanced.

Three little grins singing loudly as planned a great
"Appy Buffdy" and though childishly done his heart
swells as with pride he accepts his fate.

Love is a single Dad doing his under-staffed best.

Poets Like Me..

Suspended at portals of rigid
and well-defined
thought reclines most whimsy,
which poets like me
welcome and use to un-stick
rusted up vision.
Freeing the mind we care not
where reality ends.
Wonder notices even the tiny
and gasps at gross,
the newly dry gossamer wing
seen as fillagreed
diamonds with eyesight, night
versed with ghostly
metaphor, the tides as emotion.
Humanized nature
allures the inventive in scribes
bent on perception
where real meets make-believe.
Awe, understood
as a lever appeals to romantics
like me addicted
to all ethereal's seducing fancy.
Idealized love
presents realms of impassioned
expression, themes,
versing spirit personified holds
complusion, creative
vision awakens to other worlds
where, finally winning
utopia becomes no mere illusion.
What feels real merges
and mixes with linguistic flights
of beguiling imagery.
Life through the eyes of all poets
like me changes
at will from the galling mundane
to that which excites
inspiration for evocative writing.

A romantic realist such as Thoreau
or a magical realist such as Garcia-Marquez,
unable to fend off fate
or rain
might say to a tree
thank you for allowing me to ****** you
to put a roof over my mortal head.
To which a cynical but congenial tree,
as valuable as a metaphor
as it is as a roof beam, might reply,
that though I, with my brothers and sisters
gave you every breath you’ve ever breathed
you murdered me for momentary expediency
and possess the audacity  
to write your poems on my dead skin.
Well, breathe as long as you can,
you romantic **** ant fool.
I’ll be a roof beam a hundred more years.
You’ll be nothing more than evaporated tears.

Larry Schug

Mending my leather mittens
for the third time this winter,
I sew them with waxed string
made to repair fishing nets,
hoping they’ll last
until the splitting maul rests
against the shrunken woodpile
and the *** and ***** come out of the shed.
I find myself praying.
Blessed be those who have laced together
the splits at the seams of this world,  
repair its threads of twisted waters.
Blessed be those who stitch together
the animals and the land,
repair the rends in the fabric
of wolf and forest,
of whale and ocean,
of condor and sky.
Blessed be those who are forever fixing
the tear between people and the rest of life.
May we all have enough thread,
may our needles be sharp,
may our fingers not throb or go numb.
May each of us find an apprentice,
someone who will take the needle from our hands,
continue all the mending that needs to be done.

If you grow the flower
Of the holy spirit
You are a gardener

A bird's song
It's very lovely
In the meadow