Category Archives: Poetry Pantry
Reasonable weather will come, and it will go.
Why weather does the things it does, who can ever know?
What’s the point of running when running’s such a pain?
By running from your problems, what do you hope to gain?
A newborn calf and camel are nuzzling the same cow.
Despite its humpy little back the desert beast knows how.
A legion of angels, if I should insist,
Will stay by my side until they’re dismissed.
I have no interest, darling, in dragging out this year.
It’s almost gone—good riddance! Do I make that clear?
More Sunday’s Whirligig #245
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #9 at Poets United
Bleak is the stable and frosty the hay;
The old shepherd’s moaning, “Please go away!
Give me some quiet, for that would be bliss;
Messes annoy me—just look at all this!
Some other farmhand should milk the brown cow,
While I feed the lambs, the calves, and the sow.
Yes, I know my part, I know it right well:
Work is my worship, despite the rank smell.”
More Sunday’s Whirligig #244
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8 at Poets United
Water heals her wound
the evidence comes
as a scar blossoms in her flesh
like smoke rising
from burning leaves
it has been a long struggle
sometimes she dreams
of lying in her casket
when this nightmare is over
but for now her thoughts are clearing
maybe Jesus is turning her wine
More Sunday’s Whirligig #243
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #7 at Poets United
How bothersome it is when flies
Buzz my coffee at sunrise!
If you have a fretful wife,
Be prepared for lots of strife!
Swat the spider, set it free
From its webbed captivity!
A deep hole—imagine that!
Will it fit inside my hat?
My bicycle is looping round and round the park;
Morning, noon, and afternoon—even in the dark!
Roses for the weekend, every weekday too;
Roses, darling, roses—yellow ones for you.
More Sunday’s Whirligig #242
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #6 at Poets United
How can the grapes endure such grief?
What forgotten strength contained within
their skins must they summon,
now that the pickers have come with shears
to fill their empty baskets?
They must be aching,
knowing they’ll be tossed in the press
that will crush every drop of life from them.
There’s nothing subtle about destruction.
It doesn’t steal over you
like the fleeting shadow of a wren at twilight,
but lands like a stone on a toe.
Great is the grief of the grapes!
More Sunday’s Whirligig #241
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #5 at Poets United