Early Morning Jazz

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                                                      Early Morning Jazz   


The scrape of your chair.

                     The gentle tap of keys
   as you, rhythmic early riser,
 rouse the day.

I burrow deeper, 
trying to ignore

Icicles
          beating 
           your accompaniment
        as
       
        o
        n
        e
       
        b
        y

        o
        n
        e

     touched
           by
       sunlight,
                   they
               loose
       their    
         h
         o
          l
         d       

      on the
frozen, silent
        night.

Version 2

For the  dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge.

Stalker


Stalker

The spectre of your memory haunts me less with every year.
Those things I feared so long ago, I no longer fear.
I do not flinch in public when I think I see your face.
No resemblance flags my terror as I wander place to place.
To reinforce my courage, I have wiped you from my mind,
changed my modus operandi to avoid your type and kind.
Although you haunt my past, you have no presence in the present,
where I admit your absence is what makes my life so pleasant.

 

Today’s prompt words are flag, public, spectre and reinforce. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/10/23/rdp-tuesday-flag/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/10/23/fowc-with-fandango-public/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/10/23/spectre/
https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/10/21/daily-addictions-2018-week-42/reinforce

Benched: Oct. 22, 2018 Photo a Day

I found this very Mexican bench in Sheridan, Wyoming—the last thing I expected to find in cowboy country. The angel is my friend of over fifty years (yikes), Patty!!!

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https://citysonnet.wordpress.com/2018/10/01/october-photo-a-day-challenge/

Nosegay with Kazoo: Flower of the Day, Oct 22, 2018

Click on the first photo to enlarge all and see captions.

For Cee’s Flower of the Day

River Travelers

river

River Travelers

They know this river, know it well.
Daily, they bring their fruit to sell.
We, who find the river strange
reach out our bills as we lack change,
for what they’ve brought to us from shore.
They hand out more and more and more
to strangers whom they must find dense
to give them such great recompense
for what God has amply provided.
All their village has derided
those who float by in big boats,
holding out their ten sol notes
that would buy every bunch they carry.
They wonder why we do not  tarry
for our change after we pay.
Silent, they watch us float away.
The baby held in mother’s arms
does not know what nearby harms
lurk beneath the water’s cloak—
the jaws that snap, the water’s soak.
But we know what small guarantee
exists in lives of poverty.
Rubbed raw, perhaps, by all we have,
our generosity is salve.

 

V.J.’s Challenge: The River