Advent of Spring

blue wooden

gate creaking

open to a green

Village Hearth in the Dead of Winter

1.

Home was where

The few dying

Embers of the olive

Were always warm

Enough to warm

The cold, weathered insoles

Of our shoes

Before we trudged

Off to school.

2.

School was where

The teacher kept warm

By thrashing us

With an olive stick

When the answers

To his questions

Were not what he wanted

To hear.

3.

The first flowers caught

Rearing their heads

Through the snow

Were always wild

Yellow crocuses in early,

Early spring.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on the Unamused Muse

Don’t you read me loud and clear,

You foot-dragging, lifeless

Klutzes cluttering up my rear?

I said it’s deadline time!

Okay.

Now, take one final step forward,

Put your lives on the line and please,

Please don’t make me repeat myself,

Do I make myself clear?

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know about you but I find Cinquor’s tirade against deadbeat poets totally uncalled-for because it oversteps the bounds of poetic decency; after all, where would our muse be if it weren’t for that long illustrious line of bootlickers waiting their turn to grovel at her feet—or should I say feat?

What the **** is this?

Poetry Appreciation 2011

Unlikely Figures of Speech

They wanted

The inconceivable—

A world

Where each word

Would be human

Enough to be

Like you and me.