Miscellaneous Poems 2

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What a lovely palette clouds can paint upon a hill,

Forest-shadows mimicking the rolling ocean, green

A landscape, rather quiet, and hov'ring very still,

Motion crossing breezy hills, the essence I have seen

I have seen the shadow of a boulder in a stream

Water rushing fast against a stalwart block of stone

Frothing to the sides, but in the lee, a mirror's gleam

A water-shadow resting in the turbulence, alone

I took a walk just after rain had fallen on my street

The patterns left upon the road by showers caught my eye

In the open, raindrops on the pavement at my feet

Rain-shadows where the trees above had kept the asphalt dry

The most amazing daytime shadows fall against the wall

Of my home when late-day sunlight filters through the taller trees

Shadows that seem close to life, and closest of them all

Are the dancing-shadows left by leaves that flicker in the breeze

I've seen other shadows when I've ventured out at night

When full moon sails across the midnight starry, starry sky

Discovering a lunar glow, so softly, warmly bright

Moon-shadows on the dewy grass, like sleeping cattle lie

Shadows of so many types, some common, others rare

In the rain, or in a stream, by day, perhaps by night

If you take the time to look, then you will find them there

Each with their own special kind of shadowy delight!

A seed, one day, somersaulted, falling on the loam

A sapling sprouted; grew into an adolescent tree

On ancient sacred ground where silent parents made their home

Joining arms above to form a shady canopy

Decades turned to centuries, as quiet time passed by

Sunlight falling from above, sometimes mixed with rain

'Til seedling turned to mammoth tree, embracing sunny sky

A speck within the forest that blanketed the plain

A human came along one day, with saw and logging chain

To drop the tree, a crash, a roar, then drag it on the ground

To where its bark was taken off, revealing deep brown grain

At a whirring sawmill, in a nearby, dusty town

Someone else shipped the tree, as lumber, far away

From which, a nameless carpenter, a small support would make

To rest a sailboat's boom upon, at home within a bay

Beside a breezy ocean, or perhaps, beside a lake

A sailor left the sailboat moored, tied up to a pier

Until one night, a storm blew up, and set the small boat free

And overturned her, scattering the vessel's sailing gear

The boom crutch made its landfall underneath a scraggy tree

A hiker, and a comber of the shoreline, happened by

Spied the varnished wood amidst the weeds, there, all alone

Plucked it off the sand, beneath the tree, and with a smile

Tucked it underneath his arm, and brought it to his home

A plaque to hang a poem on, an artsy sort of frame

Hanging on the poet's wall, safely now inside

Hiding a fantastic water path by which it came

To travel round the world, and to cross the ocean wide

My zipper is wearing out

If you notice, then please, don't gasp

Whatever you do, don't shout

At least it still acts like a clasp!

Yet my zipper IS wearing out...

My zipper is wearing out

Not my pants, nor even a purse

Surprise, that's not what it's about

In a way, though, it's even worse

My zipper is wearing out...

My zipper is wearing out

It no longer acts like rabbits

Mating and running about

It's developed some very bad habits

For my zipper is wearing out...

My zipper is wearing out

It's been mine since my first day

Diabetes, arthritis, and gout

And symptoms like this are at play

While my zipper is wearing out

My zipper is wearing out

It's complex, and it comes with a twist

Always running the very same route

Perhaps you are sensing the gist?

My zipper is wearing out...

My zipper is wearing out

To be perfectly clear, I must say

That the thing that this poem's about

Is actually DNA!

And my zipper is wearing out...

Your zipper is wearing out, too

As it zips up and down all day

It isn't exactly new, anymore

For that matter, neither are you...

Your zipper is wearing out, too!

A flower petal painted up in fiery shades of red

Danced lockstep with a breeze, on a gossamer spider thread

The breeze that gently plucked it from the flower where it grew

Had spun it like a dragonfly up in the vault of blue

While other petals gazed up from the blossom down below

The dancing petal jumped and twirled and leaped as if in tow

By rope behind a tiny boat, while wearing tiny skis

Pulled this way and that, across the waves, by summer breeze

Suspended high above the ground 

It spun around, and around, and around

It spun, and spun, and spun, and spun!

What fun, what fun, what fun, what fun!

Some say that it's a witches ball

But that's not what I see

As I peer inside this lovely orb

I see a glassy tree

Whose trunk is smooth and tall and strong

Reaching towards the sky

Smiling, caught in silent song

As clouds go scooting by

Maybe it's a tossing sea

With splashing foam instead

Nighttime waves running free

With twinkling stars o'er head

But most of all it's just like you

Lovely rare and bright

Your favorite colors, green and blue

To sparkle in the light!

The Moss Lady, quiet, lies there,

In repose in Beacon Hill Park

Her clothing is green (like her hair!)

And her skin is gray, and stark

On a nearby Victoria street

Stands a giant, green woman's shoe

Which would make her wardrobe complete

If she longed for something new

But you see, she's made of concrete

No thoughts pass through her head

To her sculptor, she's more than complete

Though she's neither alive nor dead

Though I would love to awaken her

And hear all the stories she's heard

One would be, rather sadly, mistaken, were

One counting on even one word