by Moni
Oblivious duck
Your feathers drift tragically
Litt'ring the pavement.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Inversion
by Moni
The thick, putrified air
Coats the small peaks adding bulk
And its associated majesty
At the top of the grimy, falsified mountains
Fresh, early light illuminates three gray-white peaks
For one moment I can almost believe I'm not headed to an office park
But peering up at the eigre, the jungfrau, and the monch
Locked in place until one of them flinches
A cup of alpine chocolate hedonism scorching my mittens.
The thick, putrified air
Coats the small peaks adding bulk
And its associated majesty
At the top of the grimy, falsified mountains
Fresh, early light illuminates three gray-white peaks
For one moment I can almost believe I'm not headed to an office park
But peering up at the eigre, the jungfrau, and the monch
Locked in place until one of them flinches
A cup of alpine chocolate hedonism scorching my mittens.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A Pretty Shroud
By Moni
Why are sickly landscapes hallowed by yearly death?
The spiny, dusty, splintery earth
Is smothered with soft, frigid lifelessness
And looks better for it.
Is it still so in the robust places?
When gushing flowers, cushioned and slippery undergrowth
Are smothered by Jack Frost's pillow.
While the flame-licked high desert
Nestles into the cold angora shroud
That mutes the angles and bristles
And imparts a resplendent, pallid glow.
Why are sickly landscapes hallowed by yearly death?
The spiny, dusty, splintery earth
Is smothered with soft, frigid lifelessness
And looks better for it.
Is it still so in the robust places?
When gushing flowers, cushioned and slippery undergrowth
Are smothered by Jack Frost's pillow.
While the flame-licked high desert
Nestles into the cold angora shroud
That mutes the angles and bristles
And imparts a resplendent, pallid glow.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Less crabby, but still unsociable ;-)
Green Fortress
by Moni
If there's one thing I love dearly
It's a hidey hole.
Symbolically impenetrable and private.
I can't see you, or maybe I can and I'm spying
But either way, you can't see me.
The highest incarnation of hidey hole
Is under God's great sky
Not plaster, dry wall, or acoustic tile.
A fortress with ants, and birds, and air circulation.
Preferably breathing green walls.
Carpeted with honest, friendly, life-holding filth.
My cherished childhood hole was a long, narrow vestibule.
With a back wall of light blocking, vine-permeated fence
And a front wall of spade shaped leaves and spindly trunks.
The jacket-snatching ceiling began where the leaves began.
More of a crouching hole than a standing hole.
Years of leaf litter on the soft, roly-poly infested floors.
The upstairs neighbors squabbling and gossiping
About kids, and nests, and worm scarcity.
And around Memorial Day, a smiling, teary, enveloping fragrance
Of lavender and white, and memories
And love from the earth and unseen beings.
Loneliness absent in my lilac home.
by Moni
If there's one thing I love dearly
It's a hidey hole.
Symbolically impenetrable and private.
I can't see you, or maybe I can and I'm spying
But either way, you can't see me.
The highest incarnation of hidey hole
Is under God's great sky
Not plaster, dry wall, or acoustic tile.
A fortress with ants, and birds, and air circulation.
Preferably breathing green walls.
Carpeted with honest, friendly, life-holding filth.
My cherished childhood hole was a long, narrow vestibule.
With a back wall of light blocking, vine-permeated fence
And a front wall of spade shaped leaves and spindly trunks.
The jacket-snatching ceiling began where the leaves began.
More of a crouching hole than a standing hole.
Years of leaf litter on the soft, roly-poly infested floors.
The upstairs neighbors squabbling and gossiping
About kids, and nests, and worm scarcity.
And around Memorial Day, a smiling, teary, enveloping fragrance
Of lavender and white, and memories
And love from the earth and unseen beings.
Loneliness absent in my lilac home.
Monday, November 2, 2009
One bad poem deserves a good.
Blessed Burdens
by Moni
Shoulder this burden so I don't have to.
Pull this cart
Bear this baby
Pick this cotton
Do the work that I could not or would not.
Be this man's best friend
Keep this house
Pick this fruit
And you must like it.
You must want it.
You must smile, and never shirk.
Serve me willingly, have no wants.
Be swallowed and find salvation.
Because, someone must do this work.
And it shan't be me. I don't like it.
So it must be you. So you must like it.
Whether you like it or not.
From Ode Inscribed to WH Channing
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
...The horseman serves the horse,
The neatherd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'Tis the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind;
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.
by Moni
Shoulder this burden so I don't have to.
Pull this cart
Bear this baby
Pick this cotton
Do the work that I could not or would not.
Be this man's best friend
Keep this house
Pick this fruit
And you must like it.
You must want it.
You must smile, and never shirk.
Serve me willingly, have no wants.
Be swallowed and find salvation.
Because, someone must do this work.
And it shan't be me. I don't like it.
So it must be you. So you must like it.
Whether you like it or not.
From Ode Inscribed to WH Channing
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
...The horseman serves the horse,
The neatherd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'Tis the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind;
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
And so I start a blog because poems are too big to fit in a Facebook feed.
Come, Rest In This Bosom
By Thomas Moore
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here:
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame!
I knew not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!
Thou hast call'd me thy angel, in moments of bliss, --
Sill thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, --
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!
By Thomas Moore
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here:
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame!
I knew not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!
Thou hast call'd me thy angel, in moments of bliss, --
Sill thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, --
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!
Baby Steps to Blogging--I'm a blogger! I blog!!
This is a trial run. If blogging and I don't see eye-to-eye this time around, we're kaput, I mean it. Probably. Oh sure, we had that fling in livejournal. But that was years ago. There wasn't even a name for what we were up to back then. Anyway, what's in this relationship for me? I'm a pseudo-Jean Arthur who's found her Jimmy Stewart. What more can life offer? Let's see what you've got.
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