A white wedding, bride and groom,
A fairy tale start, to total gloom,
Their mothers argued at the reception,
Soon he was an expert at deception,
She waited hours for her handsome prince,
To stagger home drunk, with lipstick prints,
No happy ever after for this bride and groom,
A miserable divorce, marriage doomed,
It's an anti-fairy tale, you see,
Some couples are luckier than he and me.....

Summers heat has left the land as Autumn walks this land

This new daughter has all the trees leaves falling like the rains

The beaches sands are turning from hot white to a duller yellow

Cliff sides show warm Browns and burnished golds across their tops

And Summer and Autumn will touch fingers for mere moments

And then they will be separated in time for another year

Animals all through this cooling land hurry about their chores

For Autumn trails her very fingers through their fur

they know it’s time to be ready for the arrival of her chillier sister Winter

But for now there are still nuts and berries to be hurriedly gathered in

The wind rises a notch as Autumn surveys her quarter realm

And Sunset deepens over land and sea as nights draw quickly in

The daytime skies turn grey as buzzards seek their prey

Squirrels hide their hordes of nuts and then seek their dreys

Hedgehogs rolled in darkened leaves ready then to make their nests

Mice and voles scurry forth one eye on the skies for predator on high

The rabbits make warmer warrens, while foxes watches with evil eye

It’ll not be long before Winter with her chilly hand is all across the realm

But for now Autumn casts a comfort of gold and brown across this land.

I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

She sat beside me and turned to me
Said there should be one day
A place for thee
House full of secrets and lovely books
Wine spread all around
Might have an artsy looks
I listened quietly, hung on each her word
Sparks came to my eyes
"I wish I knew it would,"

I leaned on my back
And went on myself -
Where I would sing every night
To my beloved old man
To make him sigh
For how long and touching
Was our life
In the meantime split into both
But then once a lifetime
United though

It was piercing the way the day slowed in her eyes
As she felt the pain of been abandoned
It was shaking.

It was shaking how the cold stole her skin in the mid of the night
As she watched through her window pane, with tears in her eyes
It was harrowing

It was harrowing how her lights turned darkness
As she moved through time without any hope, wishing her life would end
It was fearful

It was fearful how darkness taunted her soul, and how she searched for light in darkness still
As she sailed in an ocean of endless misery, without any destination
It was blinding

Professor Marylyn-Dolly©

They call him Captain
because although his old girl
is a row boat
he goes where
he orders himself to go,
and tends to his love
with the same effort
and care
as a full crew of
the descendants
of gods.

They call him Crazy
because he uses the moon
instead of a compass,
and reads poetry
instead of treasure maps.
Though a hermit he is,
he scrapes together
enough money to travel
and dream.
Otherwise he knows
how to survive
on intense, amorous affairs
and treats his women
like queens
using only a quill
and their bodies
for paper.
But he sails alone as if
more loyal to his boat than
a man to his wife.

They call him Spirit
because he comes and he goes,
pulling the high tide with him.
He writes on beaches
where the moon is brightest,
under clear skies and never
after sunrise.
He shrinks with the waves
and is never seen again
by the same individual.

Most often they call him Myth
and on desolate nights
he tells himself
that those who don't know the sea
intimately
lack faith.
Then he paints portraits
of the old, exhausted faces
of the stars
and speaks epic poems
to crustaceans as he boils
them alive
(if he isn't human
then he's cruel just like one).


All who know him forget his name,
and he tells them to
as they wave goodbye
and the sea ***** him
back into her arms,
against her beating breast.
Yet his is not a lonely existence,
not another soul is necessary
to keep him rowing.
It is as satisfying
as it is solitary,

because he calls himself poet,
and a poem is all he needs.

She woke up,
Vibrant and Lively,
never knew her end was near
and so,
she set her
things ready
for a long long journey.

The Rivers Flowing,
The Flower Tossing,
And
The Day going.

Only if she knew,
she would not
have embarked on
a journey
to no return.