A Matter of Taste

Peacocks posing prettily,
preening periodically,
prideful, plumed, poetically parading,


pretending 
they don't taste
like chicken.

Yellow Rose of Texas

McAllen, Texas, just eight miles from the Mexican border---Today I went out in my back yard, where most of the plants are either dormant or dead due to some very un-typical cold weather last month. All by its lonesome, one "mid-winter rose" was blooming. Bright lemony, buttery yellow, it was opening itself up to the February sunshine, where it basked all day long. This is my first post on this blog that is not a poem. However, I believe this rose is poetry enough! Enjoy! And, by the way, Happy Winter!

A poetic tribute to this beauty is sure to come. I invite all my poetically-inclined friends out there to submit their own "ode" to a rose!

cory

A Day in the Life of Patches

Patches is a pampered pet
but still one of the boys.
He's got two good buddies.
Here's what he enjoys:

He rides with his friends
in a dapple gray car.
It's quite a short trip,
town's not very far.

He needs lots of room,
so he sits in the back,
as he and his buddies
head for a snack.

They go to the drive-thru,
like regular folk---
cheeseburgers and fries,
please hold the coke!

They eat their lunch
then drive around town.
Patches likes the view
with the top down.

They see dogs in cars
while they're out on their lark,
but Patches is cool---
he'd never bark.

When they get home
they watch the TV.
Patches likes westerns,
as you soon will see.

His friends take advantage,
and make him their lackey,
"Patches, get me a beer!"
How very tacky!

Patches never complains
doesn't give any lip,
hoping they'll give him
just one little sip.

There's a loud ring.
Patches answers the phone,
but he doesn't talk,
he's not verbally prone.

A few beers later,
they put Patches to bed.
He pulls up the covers,
all the way to his head.

Patches had a long day
but he's not what you think.
To see more of Patches,
click on this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teHfyby_veU

the poetry makers

I think of them as tiny people
that I carry around in the pockets
of my mind
along with lint
rusty paperclips
missing buttons
and small change from a misspent life

they tiptoe through
the disorderly conduct of my thoughts
collecting bits and pieces
of people and places
books and songs
comic strips and movies

things that drifted into
and out of my life
a hastily discarded feeling here
a long-forgotten idea there
possibilities scattered like ashes
in the rubble of my regrets
all shaken, not stirred, with a few missing links
that came from who-knows-where

day in and day out
for over sixty years
the greedy little scavengers
followed my sloppy thoughts around
happily hoarding
whatever I left behind
like tiny little pack rats

somehow they knew I needed them
stuck as I was
at the bottom
of a cracked glass
filled to the brim
with the stuff of exquisite isolation

so, now they clamor for my attention
eager to give me back all those things
lost in life's translation
a word here
a word there
grain after grain of hope
their gift to me
I think I'll call it poetry...

**********