Today’s poem is one of my anecdotes/poetic comments that I posted on a fellow writer’s (Claudia) site yesterday. Claudia, >> This Generation! – Humoring the Goddess
Please Note: the ‘Blue Screen Error’ problem has been a recurring issue for over 2 months, and has been constantly hindering my ability to manage my website, and subsequently, I have not been able to do much reciprocal ‘blogging’ lately. But finally, today (with fingers crossed), the “Micro Soft Error” has been resolved
Blue Screen Blues
I’m an old Baby Boomer With a “Blue Screen Computer” Things were getting gloomier But despite the vicious rumors I have kept my sense of humor And now I’m a roomier consumer
From behind the trees, And out of the grasses, We cannot stop the fire -That burning desire- From soaring higher, Higher than the entire Starry, starry choir.
So, best we inquire To the Almighty Supplier: “Will there be a ceasefire at the top of your golden spire?”
The timeless winter breeze Is slowly defrosting me.
Quietly, through the misty silhouettes, And from behind the fairy bushes, I shall tentatively spread my wings To find out if my shadows Can fly high above the local meadows.
Once I am airborne, I should be able to see Melbourne, And from there – who knows how far My dreams will go?
Beyond Mount Kosciuszko, Across the Pacific Ocean, Toward Vancouver and Nanaimo.
Today’s Throwback Friday poem is from October 2021. The poem also appears in my third book, Until Eyes Hear Sound, Chapter 8, Poetry in Slow Motion.
I Feel the Sky
I am creating a verse from beyond my cage Here, surrounded by the essence of a new age Spring blossom floating on a sea of loose pages Soaring on the wings of yesterday’s paper darts
I was finding words in unusual places On dirty microwave plates Under shaggy-pile carpets Between last night’s lonely sheets And walking down empty streets
Inside the Box Office Cafe, I sit Observing the world below my feet An old wooden floor of weathered planks And table bases made from engine cranks
On the open verandah I can feel the sky And I write on these blank lines About today’s invisible freedom, before my ink runs dry
Winter has been blatantly bold. My wings are crusty and cold. However, they are not feeling too old To fly away from the fold, And land upon a distant threshold
My safety scaffold Has been put on hold. Then, I wisely paroled My Traveller’s blindfold, And, as foretold, Today, I became re-enrolled To resume my story untold.
From the womb to the tomb, And beyond the classroom to Khartoum, I have been wearing a bridegroom’s Worn-out costume.
Life’s blooms and heirlooms Remain undeveloped in the shed’s darkroom, Waiting for an awakening sonic boom – Or, I could resume, Using yesterday’s yard broom To spruce up the vacant sun-room.
On my knees, by the sea Looking beyond our sentinel trees I hear their whistling palms Forlornly echoing abandoned alarms
Through their leaves’ silhouettes I see a becalmed ocean of wavelets Caressing a boat full of suffragettes Fleeing the dusty sky of Mariupol sunsets Clutching their war-torn bassinets