micropoem for the day: clouds

It’s an everyday thing, clouds. There are few days when there are none in the sky. When they are not there, we kinda miss them, now don’t we? Even now, I see images in those clouds that my imagination give me. Sometimes there are elephants and whales or giraffes and lions and tigers, oh my. Sometimes I imagine a Noah’s ark and sometimes cowboys chasing stampeding cattle. Whatever those clouds are, cotton candy or soft puffs, they are still wonderful.

clouds floating islands
smoke from a wizard’s pipe
dissolving into a rain storm


micropoem for the day: tax day

Well, it’s here. National Pull-My-Hair-Out-at-the-Roots Day. It’s the day we all dread and live in fear of. It’s the one day that can make a grown man cry. It’s the deadline day for filing our taxes. No matter what sex, race, color or creed we are, it is one of the few things that bind we citizens together. It’s the day we recite the creed: “Uncle Sam giveth, Uncle Sam taketh away.” It’s the one right up there with “In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash.” 

a calculator
a pen, a bit of paper
some things don’t add up.

micropoem for the day: the moon

The moon can  be a sleeping beauty. The moon can be a spectacular princess. She can be a warm mother. She can be a cold hearted mistress. Robert Heinlein wrote a novel called “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress”. Some see her with a Man piloting her path across the nightly heavens. The ancients saw her as a goddess. Modern man has seen her as a destination. She is so near. Yet so far. No matter how we see her she is always a constant.

the moon wans
shedding her lunar coat
then a waxing moon

micropoem for the day: Saturday afternoons

It was another time and another place. Maybe even another planet. But Saturday afternoons were something else in those one upon a years. We played baseball. I couldn’t catch a ball even if it was made out of cotton. I made up for that by hitting. We played cowboys and Indians. We went skinny dipping. Water pistols at ten paces. We went on long leisurely bike rides. Sometimes there was even a movie but that was rare. The world was our oyster and we knew where all the pearls were hidden.

cartwheels cross the lawn
tag and hopscotch kids
Saturday afternoon

micropoem for the day: the sun

Each day is different. Some have a bit of color more than others. And some days, the sun washes the world in color. Each time you look at a spot it is different than the last time. A poem, a painting, a photograph can only capture one particular moment. The next moment or the next day is different. Maybe not in big ways but, at least, in small ways. We only notice the changes when we observe.

sun brushing the sky
streaks of yellow and red
on a blue canvas