Caminando sobre la presa de agua
It keeps the water in the lake
It’s the strong silent type.
No dice nada
No need for words
Hoy ella es cubierto de flores
The flowers were not there last week
I’ve never seen them before.
Hay millones de ellos
I’ve never seen so many
I wonder where they came from?
Algunos flores son amarillo, algunos son azul
The yellow and blue complement each other
Like they belong together.
Algunos son altos otros son cortas
You can’t see the tall or short ones from a distance
Only if you walk on the dam.
Todas las flores son pequeñas
It’s their small size that keeps them invisible
Unless you are among them.
Las pequeñas flores me invitan
And bring a smile to my day.
Los Mexicanos cortan la presa cada semana
Maybe they planted the flowers
To brighten their day.
Corto algunos flores para mi esposa
She likes flowers
She will know I thought about her
Ethics is doing what you say
or is it saying what you do?
It must be congruence between those
in some way.
Or is it doing what someone else says?
Wait! People say one thing
and do another so it’s doing
what others do.
But are all others ethical?
I think not, so it depends
who you choose to ape. Its confusing,
this ethics thing.
Maybe it’s doing what the smart people say
or the really insightful ones
or the the prominent ones. They
must have something.
Damn… Hitler had all those things
Is ethics following what he said?
or what he did?
I think not.
Tomorrow I shall pick a simpler topic.
For today I shall avoid ethics
and just try to be good, whatever
that might mean.
Day 27; my prompt is not there;
Nothing to say. My mind is just bare.
I need their prompt to jump start my mind;
Without it, I flounder. No ideas do I find.
Each day is different; a puzzle to solve
Follow a format or a theme with resolve.
It’s always different, a challenge to do
Like making craft beer, each day a new brew.
I’m not a writer, engineer’s what I am
solving problems, I start with a plan.
The prompts are the problem, they jump start my mind
Solutions are easy, quite easy to find.
But without them I’m lost, I wander around
like swimming when tired, afraid that I’ll drown.
Oh..the prompt is now there..but it is too late
Look, the poem is written – I got through the gate!
I started writing this before the prompt went up. I had no time later so it was now or never. I froze…then realized I could write about what I was thinking!
The Sailboat tied in a slip
sometimes silent, rocking gently
Sometimes straining to break free
The wind determines its mood.
When the wind blows
the boat wakes up
and strains to be free
to roam the sea
as free as the wind itself.
“Come fly with me”
says the wind
and the boat hears it
and wants it
and needs to fly.
The ties that bind it
to the shore
are weak and the wind will
eventually break them.
The boat insists on being free.
When the skipper unlocks it
from its earth bound prison
it runs, like a man from a tiger
about to be eaten
if it does not win.
But this is no run of fear
the boat runs with joy
It soars over the waves
built to cut through the water
like a knife.
You can see the smile on its bow
when it moves with the wind,
The grin formed by the two sails
You just have to understand it
My loyal love, you put up with me daily
from hour to hour I leave you all alone
But as I work to make us safe from poverty
I miss you more than you could ever know.
I wish I knew just how to be a lover
that swept you off your feet and to the sky
I lay in bed under the summer cover
and dream of days when none of us would cry.
Your firm support keeps me going so strongly
You let me do what ‘ere my mind desires
Don’t always like and sometimes see it wrongly
But in the end you know there is a fire.
Oh love, oh love, someday we’ll be together
In happy bliss just like the ballads sing
Until that day just know I’m with you whether
I’m by your side, or studying some thing.
Male with clever byline,
avoids menial tasks,
Able to do many things and
no enemies in sight.
Not a layman but hard to label
blame others when they whine.
My garden is eclectic,
a ballet of ambling plants,
elm and yew and mint and lime
trapped amid bales of straw,
This self portrait is made up almost entirely of words which are anagrams of my real name. It’s me, made from me.
Sap suckers don’t suck sap, they lick.
The sap it makes the bugs taste good,
their birdy magic makes it stick.
Sap suckers don’t suck sap, they lick,
they dig a hole and make it slick,
sap stays put while they scour the wood.
Sap suckers don’t suck sap, they lick,
the sap it makes the bugs taste good.
Note to city dwellers: sapsuckers are a type of woodpecker and their holes do not hurt trees nor does their wood pecking give them a headache.
Note to NaPoWriMo browsers: Today’s poem is a triolet. If you don’t know what that is, neither did I until I learned at the site which commands me to write these little vignettes each day during April http://www.napowrimo.net/