Blog Archives

Bleak Is the Stable


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.”

 
  

Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #244
 
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8 at Poets United

 

They Gave Me Words to Work With


They gave me words to work with,
I knew not what to do.
The words were fried and swirling,
Lips, chicken, certain, stew.
 
I looked at my reflection,
While writing couplets down;
I looked not like a poet,
But like some silly clown.
 
The more I wrote, I hungered
To write some lasting stuff;
Then I threw my pen away
And shouted, “That’s enough!”
 
This lull in fevered writing
Will give me time to think
Of how to spread my table—
Forget the pen and ink!
 
I’m grateful that my table
Holds something that tastes sweet,
For writing leaves me famished,
And now it’s time to eat!

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher

Gloomy Day


A gloomy winter day,
a day for looking forward
to the promise of spring
when everything
(yes, even stones)
begins to soften
and flowers give off
an achingly wonderful fragrance.
She can smell them already—
grape hyacinths, daffodils and tulips—
or is that the dish detergent?
Suddenly a cargo truck roars by
in the street outside her window,
jolting her out of her reverie.
“How easy to act the fool,”
she murmurs to her cat,
then scrubs the crust
from her only plate.

 

Poem © 2017 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
   
More Sunday’s Whirligig #139
   
More Poetry Pantry #380 at Poets United

Whirling with Amy

Banner photo BANNER.jpg
 
 
Each vignette begins with a phrase culled from “The Kingfisher,” by Amy Clampitt.
 


 
~~ 1 ~~
 
poetry is gone—
the miner and the farmer
clench their teeth with toil
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
a downtown churchyard
where old women holding court
leer at three old men
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
A dazzled pub crawl—
what shall we give the barkeeps
for their jollity?
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
pastoral nightfall
under the crossed oak branches
a tryst by moonlight
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
ruined nunnery
celibates used to live here
now skittering mice
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
on Fifty-fifth Street
threading the intersection
with thundering heart
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
a Sunday morning
somewhere across the ocean
where no church bells toll
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
some grizzled spruce bog
where creatures keep to themselves
and no one sees them
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
seeing how his hands
go searching through the haystack
for missing needles
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
stunning tapestry
woven with thread of gold and
the blood of martyrs
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
Through the long evening
one expression recurring—
“You don’t understand.”
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
among its headstones
one in the cemetery
bringing you to mind

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #219
 
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 179