#rita
*Atop the emerald earth,
a bush of crimson ablaze.
Blush of sunrise.
Bruised rouge of sunset.
Kaleidescope colors of
complex designs complete.
Ahh..but for the lingering questions.
Questions that continue with the
fresh of each day...
Rita...We call to Rita!
Our ethereal selves.
She calls, We come
Into her night of dreams
Woven within her dreams of day.
We come in Our
Saintly stance.
Rita hears.
Knows Our hearts.
And so to her,
We present ourselves.
Rita feels
the plush nuance
of Our ancient wisdom.
A melding of truths
Rita knows
She is a conduit
through which the
breath of message
and knowledge exchange.
'Sine timore'
Without timidity or fear.
Imbued deep within
her Irish blood.
Gift passed from the elders.
Yet, this Lass of yore,
stands away from the podium.
Has chosen not to grandstand,
or grasp boldness too tightly.
Goodness of power is embraced
laced with enchantment.
Able to transcend The Veil,
She walks Her path.
Our winsome
Saint of Impossible Causes.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Rita heard the doorbell go
A-DANG-A-DONG-A-DING!
She put aside her favorite book
And ran outside to take a look,
But at the door, well wouldn't you know
She didn't find a thing!
She went inside and sat down
And then it went again,
A-DING-A-DONG-A-DONG-A-DANG!
The doorbell chimed, the door bell rang,
She ran outside and looked around
But once again in vain!
Rita felt so very cross,
"I've had enough!" she said!
Instead of rushing back inside
She looked for somewhere she could hide
And found a patch of comfy moss
And made herself a bed!
It wasn't long when Rita heard
A-DING-A-DANG-A-DONG!
And there upon a fluttered wing,
A hummingbird began to sing,
Such beauty in his trilling words
That Rita joined the song!
When the chimes came to an end,
The hummingbird looked glum;
He gave the bell a mighty clang,
The door bell rang, and then he sang!
And Rita laughed at her new friend,
She'd never had such fun!
Smiling still, she went indoors
To read the next few lines;
Short-lived was her tranquility,
And solitude was not to be!
She giggled as he played once more
Those humming door bell chimes!
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
Rita bustled busily,
To decorate each room
With jack-o'-lanterns, giggling ghouls,
And grinning ghosts with dribbled drools,
And moonlight glimmered spookily
On ghastly painted tombs;
She went to fetch her costume
And hoped it wouldn't itch;
She grabbed a strange and pointed hat,
An odd shaped broom, a stuffed black cat,
And in the mirror of her room
She turned into a witch!
A sudden tap-tap-tapping
Came from her green front door;
She opened it excitedly,
A-wondering who it might be
And then she started clapping
And dancing on the floor!
Her good friend Fox was outside,
He wore a long black cape;
With plastic fangs, he danced about,
But when he sang his fangs fell out!
They laughed so hard, then went inside
And had a slice of cake!
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
Outside, the house looked dank and grey,
A pipe had sprung a leak;
The paint was peeling off the wall
From some old daubed graffiti scrawl,
Yet on the path were bales of hay
And someone with a beak!
Rita bustled up with pride
And set about to work;
She took the hay and laid it straight,
She mended pipe and fixed the gate,
And when she'd done, she went inside
But still she didn't shirk!
Plucking feathers from her back,
She tied them to a stick;
Then with her new self-fashioned broom,
She set about and swept each room,
She lifted rugs to give a 'THWACK!'
And dusted every brick!
When the day came to a close
She lay on sheets of foam;
Beneath the glow of candlelight,
Most everything was clean and bright;
She settled down for her repose,
So proud of her new home!
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Rita was a battery hen
And every day was bleak;
For her, life's stage was just a cage,
And meagre corn her only wage,
But things all changed for Rita when
She learned that she could speak.
She overheard the farmer say
*"That cage is getting weak,
That's not just dust, but flakes of rust
And if the hens gave one quick ******
They'd all be free to run away
And we'd be up the creek!"*
She waited till the dark of night,
Then pushed into the gaps;
The bars were old, the bars were cold,
It seemed as though the bars would hold,
But Rita shoved with all her might
And felt the cage collapse!
She ran right out the farmyard
In the moonlight, dim and pale;
No more is known of where she's flown,
I hope she found a lovely home,
Perhaps she'll send a greeting card
To tell of her next tale!
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
I want this to be about you,
But it's not
It resides in the hours
That I spent wide awake
When I couldn't sleep so I smoked
And I couldn't dream so I wrote
What I hoped I'd see
For the metaphors
I couldn't keep churning out
So I smoked some more
And I spurted out
Lines about lines
For the driver on the dented highway
With the window cracked
To feel the chills of the air blowing past
Listening to Bob Dylan tell her
The person she was supposed to be but
Never was
And never will
I want this to tell you how I feel,
But it won't
And if she drives far enough she'll reach that
Looming exit
The one she knows she must take
Back to the life she's sick of living
But fights through the pain
For the same reasons that I
Fight through, because
I want to meet a pretty girl
With great vocabulary,
And a smile like Rita Heyworth
I'm still looking for that girl
To drive me across that highway
And recycle old Dylan lines
As if they were personal dictums
She had synthesized herself
And we can freewheel this road together
See I'll never be that great poet that
Three hundred and twenty-nine thousand people
Have watched on the Internet
And that is a comfort
Because the truth resists simplicity
And in my heart of hearts I am a simple man
And telling the truth through words in meter
Or in stanzas
Will never come as naturally to me
As it does to Dylan
But in my acceptance of my ignorance
I become more powerful
Than I'd ever need to be
Poetic.
So if writing is always my hobby
And never my workhorse
If I can self-satisfy through
Strict stanzas that I will
Seldom share
If it is only to a girl
Driving on a highway
Singing songs about formerly-modern America that I
Recite these rehearsed thoughts of mine
Than I will have succeeded
Because my career will have been love
And maybe I can write this
About you.
And then, and only then, it will be.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC