February 4

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Super Bowl Sunday

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A spectacle of athleticism and division

A source of negativity and derision

Money changing hands both in the field and in the stands.

All on display through the high def television.

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For nearly two hours you follow the ball

Downs, catches and rushes you watch them all

The win’s a surprise and the tears in their eyes

Show the many dimensions of football.

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(A couple of Quatrain Poems)

February 1

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Black and White

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Shadows distill life to a single dimension

Beings filtered down to their common human core.

Somehow this seems to relieve unneeded tension.

Shadows distill life to a single dimension

Moving our differences beyond comprehension.

Erasing beautiful, ugly, wealthy and poor

Shadows distill life to a single dimension

Beings filtered down to their common human core.

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(A triolet poem)

January 31

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The Beginning of the End

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He would not tell her what that paper said,

Turning pale after scanning what it read.

“Why won’t you share? What is your fortune?”

She thinks they both need to hear something fun.

Ghostly, glaring he eats the cookie instead.

*

He flicks the crumpled slip her way with dread

“A new love is blooming” the fortune read.

Eyes lift up from the words, “what have you done?”

He would not tell her.

*

“What have you done?” repeatedly she plead,

Heart and stomach dropping, as if of lead.

Knowing the challenges have just begun,

Knowing this was the ending of their fun,

Knowing the life as she knew it was dead

He would not tell her.

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(A Rondeau Poem)

January 30

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Foot Stomping

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I am not too old

For wishing for a snow day.

I am not too old

To have a very large toy box.

I am not too old

For bike riding with my friends.

I am not too old

For making snow angels.

I am not too old

To dance to the songs on commercials.

I am not too old

To enjoy pizza dinners and ice cream desserts.

I am not too old

For stopping and smelling the flowers.

I am not too old

To slide across the floor in brightly colored socks.

I am not too old

To strap into a snowboard and slide down a mountain.

I am not too old

For coloring colorful pictures.

I am too old

To bother staying within the lines.

I am not too old

To fling myself through rapids in a little boat.

I am not too old

for learning.

I am not too old

For lifting bark on rotting logs to look for bugs.

I am not too old

To leap from boulder to boulder.

I am not too old

To try new tricks.

I am not too old

That the glorious feel of cool crumbly soil escapes me.

I am not too old

To delight when my skirt puffs up as I spin and twirl around.

I am not too old

For falling in love again.

I am not too old

To do anything that makes me happy.

I am not too old.

I am not too old.

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(An Anaphora Poem)

January 29

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Life Among the Living

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Lichens and Moss

Pale blue, gray and dark green

Damp and ruffled, delicately layered

Decorated branches

Weighted with

Beauty

With weighted

Branches decorated

Layered delicately ruffled and damp

Green dark, and gray, blue pale

Moss and lichens.

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(A Palindrome Poem)

January 28

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First Egg of the Season

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Today I found the first egg

Tucked in the pine flakes of the nest.

I am not sure which of the flock

Of colorful happy hens

Decided to lay the harbinger of spring

First.

*

This perfect pale pink egg was first

Hopefully of many an egg

Laid throughout the spring

Deposited into the nest

By the chatty hens

That make up my flock.

*

I’m enamored by my flock

Though they aren’t my first

They are smart and chatty hens

That lay colorful eggs

Blues, pinks, browns fill the nest

Late winter summer fall and spring.

*

Their productions ramps up in spring

And busy stays my flock

Rotating from coop to yard to nest

The same speckled lady comes to the door first

As I let them out and then check for an egg

laid by one of my personable hens.

*

I just love my feathered fluffy hens

Molting in fall, laying in spring

Regularly producing eggs

Chirps and squawks from the flock.

Without a rooster they don’t awaken first

Then after a morning wander they return to their nest.

*

Each day I check for a surprise in the nest

Left not by choice but by instinct by the hens.

I feed them and water them first

And let them roam free on the warm days of spring

They make a friendly boisterous flock

Talking back, starting trouble, announcing an egg.

*

There is nothing like finding eggs tucked safely into the nest

Produced by my flock of happy colorful hens

Though they produce a lot summer fall and spring the best is finding the first.

(A Sestina Poem)