Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

27   2 comments

Miss Panda

Miss panda plays
early in the day,
greeting cool mornings
before the sun is hot,
running through grass,
finding a good spot
to roll and tumble
like a baby, even when
she’s two—finds the old log
where she stands on
her head, finds a good
tree limb for chinning
and hanging—no cares
for this wild youngster
weaned and growing,
showing us
how to have fun.


My screen shots from site of National Zoo in D.C.


Such a beautiful day!


What fun!

26   3 comments

Fabyan Japanese Gardens

Fabyan Japanese Gardens

To Be Changed

seek quiet
in a Japanese Garden

walk without sound
passing black pines

slender lavender blooms
on giant ribbed hostas

the dry stone creek bed
will rush with rain

pause at the pond
cross the moon bridge

dipping to the stone lantern’s
unmovable thick walls

arched openings for light
seeping through rice paper

at night
to change you

Moon Bridge and Lantern

Moon Bridge and Lantern

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Still Living

I will be alive
when I am dead,
did you know that?
I will not be still
like a hard stone,
but breathing
as roses do,
as robins do,
as the heart
of mountains
which change
and move,
as the mycelium
of mushrooms
under the soil,
unseen, ignored,
sprouting up
at a moment’s notice.

24   2 comments

Tiny One

you have arrived,
in your fuzzy silver coat,
searching black beak,
and sooty eyes,
such a tiny bit
of eagle next to
your giant father,
hovering over the nest,
letting you see
your new world,
feeding you bits
of fresh fish,
beside two eggs
holding your sisters
a few more hours.

Bald Eagle father surveys his realm for the tiny brood.

Bald Eagle father surveys his realm for the tiny brood.

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Like Straw Now, April 1

Like straw now,
heavy marsh grasses
lie useless, broken,

trees without a leaf
circle dark water,
mere black skeletons,

yet through the open window
hundreds of peepers surprise
with loud singing, under

a sun there to waken,
like a curtain going up on
this stage of earthtime,

monotonous music
a sharp stroke of color
across a nearly dead drama.

1   1 comment

Words Leave

Words leave
like years
lifting into nowhere,
and I reach up
to grab them,
to touch memories
of childhood,
or last year,
but like air,
nothing’s there.

Some days words
do swim about
in my head,
but with the lead
of my pencil
they won’t fall
onto paper,
end up crouching
into corners,
as if dead.

Could it be,
as one told me,
that hanging all my paintings,
hosting all those cousins,
and holding my
new lover in my arms
could have poured
me full of happy,

to the point where words,
those dancing little darlings,
shed their ballet-slippers,
tiptoed to the shadows,
folded arms about them
for a rest?

Come, words!
I’ll play some music,
a little silver CD
of soft lilting piano,
or spicy, rowdy jazz;
I’ll spin the disk
till dots of notes
tap your head like rain,
wake you from your quiet dream,

whirl you once again into
chorus lines of rhythm,
that spill onto the dance floor
of my poems.

Posted September 3, 2011 by perettipoems in POEMS & ART COPYRIGHTED, Writing