each ending we encounter
signals a new beginning
each experience plants a seed
from which future triumphs grow
Life is a series of transparencies
Waiting to be printed
Portrait or group
Still life or moving
Black and white or color
Crop or WYSIWYG
Air brush or untouched
Framed or dry mounted
Matte or glossy
Panorama or portait
Kodak or Fuji
Digital or analogue
The print is life
As some see it
You choose
It's your legend!
hold a book
hold your water
hold your breath
hold your nose
hold that note
hold that pose
hold your hand on your chest
hold her
hold him
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on
hold on and
on . . .
thunder and lightning
nature's hot jazz festival
New Orleans
squirrels harvest nuts
among the fallen golden leaves
geese in formation
heavy and sticky air
towering cumulus clouds in the sky
cloud to cloud lightning
lady bugs and grasshoppers
bees flit from plant to plant
mosquitoes sting
Monarch butterflies
enjoy their summer home
the days grow longer
green flora morph to gold
apple pies are added to the menu
frost in the morning
robin's russet breast
forsythia now in bloom
find the baseball glove
hot and hazy days
fierce rubbing of cricket's legs
so much energy
geese honkin' a way south
sax honkin' a way scales and chords
honk if you like winter
there was a stiff breeze in the tree tops
on the ground there was the swaying of tall grass
the nearby lake was choppy
the skies darken and a fleet of seagulls
landed on the parking lot near McDonalds
foraging for fast food leftovers
some left wearing plastic necklaces
nosh and noose for all their efforts
Got the morning blues
My eyes are plastered shut!
My limbs are stiff
When I move my knees they sing out
Got the morning blues
My throat is the Sahara
Not just scratchy, but lumpy
I cough in time with my knees
Got the morning blues
My feet don't want no shoes
But the bedroom floor is so cold
I hop in time with my knees
Got the morning blues
The mouthwash ain't my drink
It tastes sour
It sure ain't gotta let me hit no high Cs
In a cappella
I still want to sing
Dear Lord thanks for another day
There was a wooden road down by the shore.
It carried folks of every hue.
Neither completely covered, but not yet bare.
Eating cotton candy or funnel cake
Making muscles and sucking in gut
Ogling the young
Taking Gs on the latest roller coaster
Riding the surf, watching for the sharks
Scratching away the sand fleas
Along came a Nor'easter
It got very dark
Bare feet scampered for shelter
Thunder and lightning lit up the dark
Umbrellas blown inside out
The wind cleared the beach
Still there was
A wooden road down by the shore!
What is your sign?
Does it tell all I need to know about you?
Does it fit the mask you wear?
Does the mask you wear tell all?
Does it tell that you were born on a cusp?
Does your body language
Tell more than you like to reveal?
Should I trust the words you say
Are they filtered by the mask you wear?
Does the mask keep in as much as it keeps out?
What would Freud or Jung say?
Remove your mask!
Let your soul speak for itself!
Nobody here likes mustard greens
No one wants anything to do with them
Not until Grandma cooks them just right
She told us that we must eat
A peck of dirt before we die
Nevertheless, she washes
The greens squeaky clean
Against a background of family gossip
And gospel music
She inspects each piece and removes
Any blemish and yellowing edges
She wants to know why little Suzy is so thin
She wants to know about Jimmy's grades
She wants to know what the pastor said last Sunday
Did his gig cover gin and money?
Did he talk about loose women and old men?
What about old men and little honeys?
She put the clean and inspected greens in a hot pot
Family problems are oft times like hot pots
The heat reduces the greens and releases pot liquid
She adds her own special seasonings
To sweeten the once bitter greens
She wondered what kind of seasoning would
Set her family just right!
I waited for the sun to rise.
In the red sky of the morning I lifted my arms.
Slowly, then faster and faster I flapped them
In the imitation of a Humming bird.
My hovering was not pretty
I bobbed about the horizon.
Soon I was trying to avoid mountains
And flying machines
Only bees understood that I was flying
Theory stated that neither of us
Could do so on our own
From above with my bird's eye view
The USA looked like a mess
Nevertheless, it was my nest!
here a scale
there a chord
here a riff
there a vamp
all together a modulation
take a rest
