Author Archive

36   2 comments

flowers made of air
petals dense in color

colors beyond palettes
sky bluer than ever

blue I can breathe
spring surging

beyond expectations
fulfilling hopes seeded

in coldest times

Morton Arboretum April 23

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could this be spring
the blue too blue

tiny greens
alight with yellow

barely peeping from
high ink limbs

all fresh and full
of hope

Morton Arboretum April 23

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Four Clerihews
as published online: Highland Park Poetry

Here comes Michael Phelps
through the water to wild yelps.
I’m jealous of his skill to swim.
For me, it’s straight back to the gym!

Take a look at Joe Biden,
the high road he’s sure been ridin’,
but pretty soon he’ll disappear
to V.P. heaven and a beer.

Of the Obamas I’ll take Michelle,
a tall and gorgeous bombshell.
Soon she’ll have to take backseat
to pretty daughters: admit defeat!

Have you heard of Elizabeth Warren
harping on good fiscal carin’?
For my money I like the mattress
to counteract the dollar stress.

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Because

Because of what happened
this garden is my refuge,
this silence amongst purple coleus
trailing inquisitive vinca vines.

I hear not one opinion
uttered from the plants,
just their perky faces toward morning light,
their spines straight with innocence
and disregard for my life,

or possibly standing tall
to demonstrate graceful endurance.
Only their lives matter—being God’s
earthly ambassadors, holding
no one accountable for silliness.

Even the overgrown fern
showers delight from its crowded
nest of green fronds,
drooping, bowing to reality.

Time, I say.
Time they tell me is needed
for strides of growth. Time and rain—
rain from dark clouds pouring
into patient soil, rearing
the pointed caladium leaves of fiery red
and starlight of white impatiens’ flowers.

My Patio in August

My Patio in August

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Wild Geraniums

Chill of May
sweeps through soft seas

of wild geraniums
here in deep woods,

their lavender-pink heads
moving slightly

in waves of thick green,
a scene soon to disappear

as seasons move
to seasons,

reminder of endings
and beginnings.

This poem is my tribute to a family member, age 22, and all the others who fell victim to the pain-killer Oxycontin. They were productive citizens hoping to contribute to society and were fooled by a medical treatment.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Morton Arboretum, May 19, 2016

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Mossy Maple Mushrooms

There the white bubbles are,
popping from the bark
of the old maple tree
like lumpy balloons, starkly
bleached. But their perfection
is blemished by a dark scum
sprinkled on top, like pepper
on a hard-boiled egg.
Breakfast anyone?

On second thought, this is
not food, but a beautiful
plump polypore clinging
to the wide trunk, amazingly
topped with not pepper

but a spread of deep green moss
softening the appearance,
tempting me to touch
the flowerless green plant
usually looking velvety,
but here rather uneven
and spilling like soil
over thick white shelves.

 

Poet with her watercolor, Mossy Maple Polypore

Poet with her watercolor, Mossy Maple Polypore Morton Arboretum Exhibit, April 2016

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For Signature

For my signature
here on email
I cheer you on
hoping birds don’t land
in your hair,
or anywhere
inconvenient
to your purpose
for the day.

Posted December 24, 2015 by perettipoems in Humor, POEMS & ART COPYRIGHTED, Poetry, Writing

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