a poem in my pocket

dyed in happiness

beauty of iris childhood

mother’s pride and joy

Link to Carpe Diem Haiku Kai

Perhaps when the dog stops barking

Everyone can finally go back to sleep

And dream of sweet repose in quiet

Communities with no reason what-

Ever for watchdog to howl.  all.  night.

_______

People want peace, of course, but seems

Everyone wants peace on their own terms

And at the expense of others’ peace.  I mean,

Can’t we all just love one another?  No, it’s

Every man/woman for himself/herself…myself

_______

Politics haven’t succeeded in lasting peace

Even psychology disagrees over peace of mind

And most of us want a bigger piece of pie, yet

Christmas child, Prince of Peace, reconciles

Each one who believes, as a child, with God.

day’s soft beginning

sun rises over fresh snow

frosting the spruce pink

i feel winter-green in our grove,

hear flying rabbits skim between

low boughs, and pheasants ring

fowl when  young snowflakes sing

gems to vivacious squirrel whose

audacious red tale awakens oak

leaf from hibernation.  Slow dance

birch bark in silvery-white dress,

smell wisdom of pinecone humming

geometrically-orange rhapsody to

taste clarity of bitterly sweet needles.

Linking to dVerse Poets where Victoria explains “synesthesia”:

There is a neurological condition (called synesthesia) in which the patient confuses sensations. For example, he may taste a fragrance, or hear a flower. Have you ever touched a rainbow or seen a toccata?  The Poetry Foundation defines synesthesia as “a blending or intermingling of different senses in description.” In the world of art, painters make a conscious choice of color to represent feeling or sensation... I invite you to play with mixing up those senses.

Having fun with poetics prompt at dVerse poets today…join in!

first big snow of the season,

school buses absent on the road

it’s late morning and time

to break out decorations

from the dust in frigid attic.

after i rearrange mysterious closet

clutter on deep stairway

up to attic, my son unlatches

strange little door at top,

hunches over to squeeze inside.

he mumbles something about mice

which i choose to ignore and

wait for him to reappear

with the first box of

green garland, tinsel, and shiny balls.

the long Christmas tree box comes

out first with a squeaky –  Got it, mom?

and holding up the other end

i see two hand-sized

furry paws, matched claws.

i’m surprised by round ears and

beady eyes where my son’s face

belonged;  i’m ready

to exclaim shock

as i grasp box,

then find i’m balancing with my tail…