Rare Purple Rose – A Poem

Photo by Roberta Zanlucchi on Unsplash

Sunset unwraps the sky into a rare purple rose.

The pending promissory note of a restful repose.

How lucky the ancient woods and sequoia forest,

What eons of sunsets has its members witnessed.

What mystery stories and legends could they relay,

Perhaps waving through the growth of the canopy,

To catch the Sun as she readies her exit strategy.

Their years of faithful service daily repaid kindly,

With offerings of her vistas that never disappoint,

Unfolding the petals of her departing silhouette.

Manna from the skies – A Poem

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

What if green beans were pistachio ice-cream in disguise.

Parsnips were poutine – that saucy staple with french fries.

Cauliflower was super-sized cotton candy on the 4th of July.

Radishes were popsicles with Mac and cheese pizza surprise.

Brussels sprouts were popcorn, broccoli were cup cake pies.

Perhaps children world-wide might applaud such a surprise,

That heaven finally sent imagination’s manna from the skies.

“…an eternal memory”

Image © by inarik on istockphoto /Getty Images

“No self is of itself alone. It has a long chain of intellectual ancestors. The “I” is chained to ancestry by many factors… This is not mere allegory, but an eternal memory.”

 –Erwin Schrödinger

Ever ripening fruit – A Poem

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Time, mortality’s tree of ever ripening fruit,

Whatever the circumstances all eat from it.

Its branches record events in destiny’s tent,

Grafting days into orchards of nourishment.

Moments spent savoring its sweet produce,

Now temporal shelter unto eternity’s palace.

Bell Peppers – A Poem in a story

Near Loch Tay, Aberfeldy – Image by Ronnie Fleming on flickr.com

The deluge stuck heavy to his back like Atlas shouldering the sky. Whatever Herculean efforts required, he had to make it to the top of the hill today. His recurring dream was unrelenting. The rumors of her century of expertise was comforting. He knew she would be waiting.

With his rain-drenched clothing clinging like milk on cornflakes, he arrived at the top of the hill to the hovel, a forlorn place. Except for the brook in the rocks, everywhere around her homestead was dry as peacock feathers in a barnyard. Undaunted by the puzzling panorama, he stepped forward. That was his first mistake.

He awoke on her plush purple chaise. His clothes were poking him in uncomfortable ways. Someone had starched and ironed his jacket, to his surprise. His present discomfort and the quandary of his dream added to his malaise.

The Seer stood, offering him tea as she reached casually for her slippers. Oddly, the tea smelled like fresh bell peppers. Gulping down the concoction in haste, he hoped his nose would ignore the taste of his eyes. But he was too late. He gasped and spat out the tea like a smiling camel at the city gate.

She sat down and said softly, “By the way Mark, ‘Happy birthday,’ I believe it is your fortieth today!” Mark, who was yet to introduce himself, or to reveal his age, passed out – his second mistake… [Related poem follows below:]

In the reverse realms of Elcora, where

Light is its own source, fire coal, where

Clouds freeze in continuous downpour,

Lives a Seer on a hill in a wooden hovel.

Villagers believe she is the first oracle.

She declines all gratuity for her work,

Interprets dreams in honor of a cook,

Who saved her life near Diana’s brook,

Serving her warm bell pepper puree,

On the night of her fortieth birthday.

The bus – A Poem

Scappo A Casa = “I run home” – Image by Petya Stoycheva from Pixabay

The bus of wisdom beckons all;

But few listen or answer its call.

On snail rim turtle tires it rolls,

As patience’s collector takes toll.

Expecting teachings from the Magi,

Secret insights of Solomon’s papyri.

Instead, granted the sage old legacy,

Unpacking one’s suitcase menagerie

To investigate the query – “who am I.”

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