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Pond of lily pads, H.jpg

Christmas in July

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A soft breeze creates

shallow ripples.

Clusters of lily pads

sprinkle the surface.

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Pert and proud,

scarlet blossoms

reach skyward,

creating a glimpse of

Christmas in July.

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A masterpiece created without paint,

canvas or brush.

My Monet.

       Family Outing

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A  brisk, bracing fall morning finds 
a family out scavenging for breakfast.
Two youngsters impatiently clamber
high in the towering hickory,
eager to locate the season’s 
last tasty morsels.

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That hickory: aged, strong, 
through it and having seen it all before, yet
fascinated by the energy of youth,
enjoys, beckons them on, as it
holds their fate, their very lives 
securely in its powerful sturdy arms.

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                          Deer

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Hello, my dear doe, so dainty and shy.
It's shocking but delightful that we should meet.
With my camera in hand, I just peeked in
this deserted cabin as I strolled by.

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I was truly as surprised to find you
peering in that door, looking back at me.
Never fear, for I mean you no harm.
I'm just delighted to be spying you too.

Grasshopper

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That wondrous web weaver I was watching

lost my interest when you came into view.

As the rising sun peeked over the horizon,

from the shadowy depths, up crawled you.

seeking its warmth. You slowly emerged

into its light, covered in shining dew.

 

As I observed you, I quickly, quietly

shifted my camera, before you flew.

But, as weighted down with dew as you were,

I'd a chance to get a picture or two.

On that grass blade, I saw legs and antenna

and your dark shadow shown clearly through.

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Pigs, 13x20_edited.jpg

                         Four for Dinner

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Here piggy, piggies. Dinner's served.

All the trimmings are in your trough. Come eat.

Come Curly, Curly Que, Shirley and Sue.

There's apples, oranges, potato peels too.

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Come and eat your fill, little ones, right now.

Then enjoy rolling in the sloppy mud.

You have much growing to do, so be quick.

Enjoy this meal, down to the last fish stick.

                            

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Bright sun highlights naked trees

and skims languishing fields

as I follow the meandering

country roads toward the river.

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Broken wooden fences bring shape

to the rolling fields and old farms

which struggle to exist in this

challenging, but beautiful terrain.

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A striking new church

glows a shocking white,

A spire stretches skyward

as it towers over bare fields,

a mirage amid the muted browns.

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River ripples catch the light

like diamonds against a navy gown,

thanks to early morning sun

on this frosty November day.

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 Leaves of gold, red, rust and brown

litter the walk, the lawn, the drive,

signalling that this change of

seasons is nearly complete.

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Thin ice covers a puddle

creating intricate patterns 

I wish to capture, study and admire.

I mourn as the seasons march on.

IND Church.jpg

 Seasonal Drive

Wind Turbine.jpg

    Mile After Mile

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Massive arms twirl 
hour after hour,
mile after mile,
field after barren field.

Angular giants reach above
snow covered fields
and sweep a leaden sky.

They spin and endlessly spin,
to supply needed power,
cherished power,
valuable power.
  

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The Cloud

“I am the daughter of Earth and Water,

the nursling of the Sky.”

in his poem, The Cloud, wrote Percy Shelley,

that English poet guy.

 

 I’ve long loved that graphic description of

my noble pedigree.

But there’s so much more to my story, 

I do hope you agree.

 

The ice crystals or water droplets 

appear up high in air,

come together, stick to dust or ice,

then build and poof! I’m there!

 

I come in so many different forms:

thin, cirrus wisps up high,

or those puffy, billowing cumulus

that create pictures in the sky.

Blue, pink clouds, V.jpg

Thunderheads climbing to dramatic heights 
bring lightning, high winds or hail.
Torrential rains and tornados are part
of my dark side, a small detail!

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Some fear when I join with other clouds,
sense a fierce damaging storm,
while, in other lands, people rejoice,
seek rain on their parched farms.

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I love the views from way up high,
as I drift o’er mountains and sea.
Meandering rivers and fertile farm fields
spread below splendidly.

​

I’ve watched, over years, man’s varied attempts
to see
my views firsthand.
First kites, then balloons, copters, and planes
carried him far above land.

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Whether I’m floating alone in a bright blue sky 
or adding hues to sunrise,
Look up, notice me in various forms,
and enjoy a treat for your eye.

 Who will Paint the Rainbow?

Who will paint the rainbow, lift the brush,
Open the jars, pour them out to explore?
Share the wealth of their lives, joys, and pains?

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Vivid and varied, those multiple hues,
Bright, hopeful and as innocent as daffodils.
Subtle, intricate, and as mysterious as orchids

.

Primary, as well as secondary colors, blend to create
An infinitude of exciting new hues, shades and tones,
Each adding to the complexity of the final piece -- us.

​

Some colors, buried so deep, resist our discovery.
Their uncovering is worth all the toil, the stress, and tears
To complete the  intricate canvas that makes up our lives.

​

We each have our very unique rainbow to paint,
Our own stories to uncover, to discover, and to learn from.
Who will dare to paint and share their very own rainbow?

Rainbow Mich.jpg

Pemiquid Point Light I

​

 

Why this enchanting place calls to me, 
I do not know. 

​

Pemiquid Point Lighthouse stands tall 
and imposing over the jumble and tumble
of jagged boulders strewn below. 
Those rocks invite me to explore. 
(It was another time,
a time when

 I could trust my legs to do my bidding.)

​

I obeyed the urge and scampered down 
to those wet, glistening rocks. 
What a delight I discovered there. 
On three sides of this expanse of  boulders, 
the crashing waves of the Atlantic invaded, 
sending salty spray from all directions, 
filling each rocky indention 
and creating numerous puddles 
which reflected the lighthouse above. 

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Their deafening roar devoured me, 
unsettled me, 
confused and scared me too. 

When finally I sat down on the rocks, 
I was able to regain my equalibram 
and appreciate the magnitude 
of this remarkable feat of nature.

 

Hours go by and still, I am reluctant 
to leave this sanctuary of mine.

Pemiquid Light.jpg

Pemiquid Point Light II

​

 

 

As thundering waves crash over shining boulders 
that surround me on three sides, I gaze at the
reflection of Maine's Pemaquid Point Lighthouse 
discovered in a calm pool in a shallow rocky hole.

​

Following my impulse and carefully climbing out on

this jumble of tumbled, striated rocks, I relax on one,
close my eyes, soak up the warm sunshine,
and taste the salty sea spray settled on my tongue.

​

The ocean sounds abound: the tranquil rhythm
of the waves as they swell, pound, then disappear,
the raucous call of the ever-present seagulls,
sounds I yearn to hear throughout my year.

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Even with the loud roar of the surf crashing in my ears, 
here I find my refuge of solitude and peace.
I am at rest, my cares and the world's are at bay.

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Below,  From Above

Soft blankets of billowing white obscure my view as we ascend.
Gone are belching stacks of steam, city sites, and the mighty Ohio River.

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Fluffy popcorn clouds appear, allowing various shaped 
farm fields to peep through like infants playing peek-a-boo.

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As clouds disperse, I delight in the hundreds of circular fields 
quilting the brown landscape in various polka dots of vivid greens.

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Fields of wheat, corn and soybeans roll below, the breadbasket of our land.
“Flyover Country”, it’s often called by those hailing from the coasts.

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Cloud formations transform, open up. The terrain changes, climbing,

climbing to finally reach the majestic slopes of the expansive Rocky range.

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Uplifting currents sweep up those slopes, creating a rough, bucking 
few minutes for all aboard. Clouds now blanket snow covered peaks.

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Far below, trails twist and turn, clinging to rugged mountains.
Here and there, blue waters twinkle as meandering rivers snake their way South.

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Multiple shades of ochre, rust, and ivory paint both hills and valleys.
Jagged canyons create cracks on the land, resembling immense jigsaw puzzles.

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Soon we begin our descent. The rugged landscape 
disappears as civilization appears clearer and closer.

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We descend to towering palms, endless subdivisions, parking lots,
enormous shopping centers, and congested highways.

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Buttes offer lofty views:

rolling hills and valleys,

fields of rippling grasses.

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Clumps of evergreens

at the edge of wheat fields

create a resting place for my eyes.

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A lone tractor slowly follows

the curves of the land,

leaving delicate patterns.

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Here and there, an aging barn,

weathered and leaning,

is spotted among those fields. 

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Idle farm implements spread nearby,
plows, disks, planters and such,
ready to be useful and used.

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Well-worn wooden fences  
define the boundaries of farms,
give definition to this idyllic scene.

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Billowing clouds float slowly,
casting shadowy designs
on the vast landscape below.

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This scenic area of eastern Oregon
speaks to me, beckons me to linger.
My peace, my Palouse.

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My Peace

    A Familiar End to a Joyful Day

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Fragrant smoke curls from the chimney 
like feather boas flung by a dancer,
then floats skyward, filters through bare branches,
and vanishes into frigid night air.

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In the clearing, a cabin claims its space,
encircled by the family’s favorite toys:
sleds, snowmobiles, snowboards and skis.
Huge snowflakes create a fairyland.

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Exhausted by their day’s fun, the family 
gathers round the fire, reliving highlights.
Hot chocolate, warm brownies, hot toddies 
vanish as the evening comes to a close.

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Suddenly, a harsh word is spoken.
A warning look ignored.
The magical spell broken.
Angry voices rise, frightened faces hide.

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Hostile arms and fists are raised in rage.
Danger looms. Screams are heard. Tears flow.
A tense, frightening quiet ensues.
A familiar end to a joyful day.

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Snowy Drive.jpg
poetry.jpg

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            Ahh, Poetry!

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You are the portrait of generosity, 
but also, the picture of despair.
You may be my irritation, my frustration, 
but, you may also be my redemption.

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You are the current running through my nerves,
the soul healed after a vicious quarrel,
the reminder of troubling dreams,
the cause of so many tears and screams.

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You can be salt rubbed in a wound,
and my heart’s malady or salvation.
You answer my what, how and why.
You satisfy, justify and gratify. 

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You provoke, control, solidify 
my thoughts and my emotions,
and  bring my words to and through my lips.
You’re the voice at my fingertips.

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Damn, poetry!*


*(Or...Ahh, poetry! If you prefer.)
 

     Frustration

 

Papers and orange peels
and pop bottle caps,
bits of our cookies
and sandwich scraps.

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Where shall we put them?
Under our chair?
Down Peter's neck
or in Susan's hair?

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In Monica's pocket
or behind the door?
Can't anyone guess

what the trash can is for?

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* Written after taking my class of third

graders on a fieldtrip to the Cincinnati Zoo.

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Cody, Hosta (2).jpg

           Cody

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Hide and go seek? Shade?

Enhance his green, green eyes?

Only Cody knew why he could

always be found under and

peeking through those hostas.

      Left at Home, A Villanelle

 

    I left them at home all alone.

     I just hated to do it.

     But still, off I had flown.

 

     It is not something I would condone,

     No, not one single bit, 

     But I still left them at home all alone.

 

     Yes, I took off to parts unknown,

     And my guilt just won't quit.

     But still, off I had flown.

 

     While I was in places unbeknown,

     They were lonely, I must admit.

     I left them at home all alone.

 

     By her aloofness, Allie has shown

     Her belief that I am completely unfit.

     But still, off I had flown.

 

     Ricky Boy will still not leave me alone, 

     Meowing, snuggling as much as I'll permit.

     I left them at home all alone.

     But still, off I had flown.

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Ephemeral

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Fly away, fluttering butterfly, fly on by.
Dart off silently on your busy daily rounds,
Seek nourishment among the dainty flowers
Which you, my dear lovely, have quickly found.

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So spread your glorious tissue paper wings,
Lift off to the next sweet, bountiful blossom.
Flutter away, find your next meal in the garden.
Lift off, lift off, one so delicate, so awesome.

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From roses, daffodils, petunias, daisies too,
Drink well the nectar found among God’s bounty.
Then be on your way, flittering one, fly on by.
You’ve adorned the world with your grace and beauty.

​

Your days are numbered, your time on Earth is short,
For you have a purpose: a new being to create.
Feed yourself well, and be on your way, my friend.
So lift off, fly away, fly on by and mate.

​

 

​

Everywhere I look, winter’s gloom is being shed.

Pear trees dress in little cottonballs, while others 

display their filigree in greens, reds, coppers, and rusts.

The weeping willow’s wings flap yellow in the breeze.

 

On a trail, where snowdrops and snowflakes shared 

their hue with the melting snow, forest floors now bloom

with blankets of tiny bluets. Violets play peek-boo. 

Celandines contrast with bright yellows and waxy leaves.

 

This annual awakening arrives as sure 

as the dandelion blooms. Walking along, 

I sense a song being sung in my heart, 

and my mouth curls into a faint smile.     

Annual Awakening

Peeping through snow.jpg
Dayton Storm Clouds.jpg

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              One Night's Tale


April always calls us to this forest.
Leaving the hustle and bustle behind, 
we relish the peace and solitude we find.
A breeze brings a whiff of firewood.
Trees sprout blossoms in pink, red and green.

​

As always, April also means severe storms.
Streaks of lightning reveal the forest’s limbs
whipping violently in the darkness.
Huddled in our tents, we’re dreading the next 
nearby strike, awaiting cracking of trees above. 
 
Through the sleepless night, we quake and quiver, 
 and yearn for our snug, dry beds at home. 
Could we go back home tonight? Find a motel?
Freezing, frightened and feeling foolish, 
resigned to our fate, we endured those 
remaining hours of that terrifying night. 

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Dawn emerges to find our babbling brook, 
now a raging torrent, edging closer. 
Our camping neighbors, to our amazement, 
have all packed up and departed. 
Unable to start a fire with soggy logs,
drenched, frozen to the core, we gather
wet sleeping bags, pack up our leaking tent 
and head to the warmth of home.

 

Next April, we will return and share tales 
of this wild weather we weathered this night.

Horses Rolling 2.jpg

Horses,

A 7 by 7 Poem *


You’re not dead! Not sick either!
You are simply enjoying 
scratching your back in the fresh
cool grass of your foggy field!
Your antics propel me to
get down there with you and roll,
scratch and roll, and roll and scratch.

 

* A poem with 7 lines, each with 7 syllables

PB & J

a 7 By 7 Poem*

 

Peanut butter and jelly,
Grilled cheese and tomato soup,
Bacon and eggs, buttered toast,
Cheeseburger, fries and a Coke.
Our American diet 
demands we not enjoy one
without their companions too.

 

* A poem with 7 lines, each with 7 syllables
 

             Inspiration

A 7 By & 7 Poem *

 

Inspiration rarely strikes
while I am in dire need,
poised, waiting at the keyboard.
No, it comes at the worst times, 
inopportune moments: while
showering, driving, sleeping.
But, I'll accept whenever.

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* A poem with 7 lines, each with 7 syllables

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