My baby girl is mother of two sons,
They lean on her and she depends on them,
They give her strength, and warmth, and days of inner calm,
She gives them all she is and will become,
My baby girl is mother of two sons.
On this balmy April night,
As bloodmoon rises silent,
‘Cross the gauzy, purple heavens,
On this balmy, April night,
I breathe a silent, fervent prayer,
of thanksgiving,
For God’s greatest gifts.
A Pigeon’s eye view of the magnificent State House in Providence Rhode Island. Its dome of white Georgia marble is intense against a clear blue, December sky. It is even more dramatic as the backdrop to the strong geometric iron-scape and pavers of a Providence city street on a quiet Sunday morning.
My eyes are dazzled by the glinting sun,
Sparkling on the hulls of seashell casts,
Unique as crystal snowflakes, each is one,
From depths beyond and ages long since past.
The gulls have salvaged living prey, amassed,
Leaving only sharps where once was life,
And yet I love to search with eyes downcast,
The respite that it brings me from all strife.
They crunch beneath my flip-flops, all are prized
And smaller than the eye can barely see,
Within a giant conch, a baby sized
clam, within a velvet corkscrew screen.
The tides roll in and leave the shoals a-gleaming
My morning beach walk always sets me dreaming.
He’s entering the woods as oft before,
And still his heart is thumping, resolute,
This path has been the backdrop to his more
lucid revelations, thoughts astute.
The crunch of long-dropped pine cones underfoot,
Reminds him, well, that feral denizens,
inhabit near, ‘neath torn-asunder roots,
Darkened dens where life begins again.
He’s witness to a symphony, the strains
his sense invades; canned laughter caught on tape,
This realm (distinct, unique and new) remains
his sacred place; no need to plan escape.
For he is one with Mother Nature’s best
And here, his deep-most secrets unrepressed.
🌲🌲🌲
Written in response to this week’s Studio 30+ prompt! using the phrase “canned laughter”.
It has been a while since I last entered this challenge, and I’m glad to be back, amidst such a talented group of writers.
With leashy strap and pocketful of treats,
We swing across the threshold, sun shines in,
We’ve powered down for months in woolen pleats,
But spring is here (they say), let us begin.
We tough the barrier path, as cartwheels spin
And soon we’re curbside, sniffing all the scents
Of neighbor canines, squirrels and denizens
As diamond clear, crisp air invades our sense.
As if a switch was flipped and life commenced,
Suspended animation zipped…respite!
A waterfall of life in unison,
Grandmas, kids and babes, chaff at the bit.
Detailed cross walk to our wooded path, we spy
A lonely crocus pushing through to sky.
🌾🌾🌾
This was written in response to this week’s “Wordle”(the Sunday Whirl) using a form of each prompted word.
The inspiration, though was our first dog-walk, after months of being holed-up behind snow-lined thresholds and drafty, ice-trimmed windowsills.
Bandit was exuberant when he saw me grab the leash and fill my pocket with liver treats. He perched on the first step just inside the door, waiting for me to attach his tether. Then, after waiting for the “ok”, he bounded into the sun, spinning round and round with unbridled joy,
We weren’t the only ones yearning to escape, as we joined our neighbors and passers-by, also enjoying a first taste of Spring. I crossed the street to our quiet path that leads to Brightwood a Park, a protected, Greenacres site, and stopped in my tracks, as I spotted this crocus peeking through. After the ice and snow and piles of debris, this mighty little crocus found a way to poke his head through to find the sun. Yes, Spring is here…the crocus told me so!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat
Opal Reflections 