“A Ring a-Ding-Ding”
Cheery
jingling airs
Hurried purchases
made
Reunions after
another year
Incoming after
not a whisper
Secrets kept
selectively - while
Tea spilled
and
Macaroons
were consumed
All mighty
praised.
Silent is
the night
Igniting a
spark
Sending new
ripples - for the hope that
Holy is
the name that will give
Eternal bliss
Layered greed
with targeted flash art
Leeching His sacrificial meaning.
“Along Comes the Harvest”
Wonderous floating golden globe
galloping along to Spring
luminous changing sickle lobe.
Earth ready for carefully planned
seedlings.
The melting pot split in to two.
Water my sproutlings
New red fruit grew
Great wide leaves shadowing
hidden tiny blooms
Proud pumpkin blossoms
sweet smell they can’t refuse.
waiting out cloudy subterfuge
Stones sit in silence
Overlooking Mother’s finest.
“Past Gone Fast”
Fervent days now gone
Filigreed hands spinning fast
Never stopping past.
You
lying, dog-faced pony soldier
And
this isn’t hyperbole.
I’m
gonna get in trouble,
What
am I doing here?
I
promise you this
No
Malarkey!
Come
on man,
No
Joe!
Go!
What the
heck?
Have you
ever heard of Glenn Beck?
But he
looks like Colonel Sanders.
At least
he isn’t like Moll of Flanders!
"Slender"
Caressed
by snowy chilled fingers
Ravaged
by time-- never tender.
Arched
and taught-- a sliver of memory.
Voices
hushed by glittery flakes,
Entranced
with slow weaving freeze.
To
the quiet place that I retreat to internally.
Come,
construct my mental warehouse with me.
The
safest space a child can remember with either terror or joy.
Matilda's
favorite place.
Uncounted
universes and brutal truths.
Dazzling
words of invention and argument betwixt creations.
Eventually, my enjoyment couldn't come home with me anymore.
My
big day had come and went.
I
couldn't go back to the chair where I found quiet and focus
Looking
out and over the trees.
The
bench off in the distance,
Almost
out of sight.
My
peers laughing and having a match of hacky sack.
Lonely
but safe among the stacks and fluttering verses.
Mumbling
broken curses when your finger was punished
by
careless angles of how you handled.
I
say careful,
That
binding should be an incredible find, for your mind.
I
didn't fit in, so I ran within the doors of knowledge
that
encouraged that I explore what its walls were hiding.
Every
nook and cranny now filled with old friends I met later in the years.
One
by one I met them in yards and garages
To
spirit them off one at a time for no more than a dime.
My
room now becomes so full.
Of
the adventures of others,
Facts
that dispel the mysteries,
A
mighty struggle
of
the adult
is
still grasping that great place where I still recall,
where
it's so lovely in the fall.
It
was a place I could go and say,
"what's
on the end of my pen today?"
“You Naughty Bard”
Why couldn’t
it be
So clever
with that elegant tongue
Or shall
I wait to two and forty?
A song
that hasn’t been sung.
Reaching
into the letters of the ages.
Sad past
reflections whispering of their time.
Oh, how I
want you, not between the pages.
Standing
before me; tall, strong of mind.
Take the
reigns and row the oars
I’ll
chart an adventure
Perhaps
walking on chilly sandy shores,
The paths
- hidden, never clear
Your
blank verse and love of puns and metaphor,
Rocks and
shakes me, wanting more.
x
“I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”
A man died for thee
Blood drops spill upon the land
Because freedom isn't free.
A brother to me
Willing to give a hand
A man died for thee.
A father, who liked to sit under an oak tree
An hourglass running out of sand
Because freedom isn't free.
The knock on the door came at a quarter after three
The apologies come down from command
A man died for thee.
Off in lands across the seas
They sent down the demand
Because freedom isn't free.
People cannot see
We lost one from our brothers' band.
A man died for thee
Because freedom isn't free.
Copyright 2021
“My Love for Janice Dean” by Samantha Tolleson
She's the lady I can always trust to get the weather from
while I read my paper, drink my coffee, and down my daily dose. She’s on the
days that I feel so crummy and my bones creak. I look up and there she is
smiling so bright. Day after day she visited people on New York City street
outside until Covid-19 locked her up and even then, she still has a smile on
her face just trucking along and singing her weather songs. Like on those USO
shows when I was no taller than a bean pole. I know that I can trust that
Janice Dean's pearly smile will always shine through on any day she's on with
the friends. She shows her concern and says her prayers for people right there,
while she's on the air. I read her book because I liked the look of her with an
umbrella skipping away from a puddle. Happy go lucky and always seems to have
the perfect hair.
“Pretty gal looks so much like my Minnie,” I push a button,
no need for the rest of the horseradish. How long has Minnie been gone now? I
grab my walking stick and take my cup to the sink and sigh. My teeth are coming
loose again; need to get the gunk for ‘em. I look out my tiny kitchen window
and wish Minnie were still here. So many memories that we made in this house. I
thought the husband was supposed to go first. I rinse the cup out and set it to
the side. One cup, one fork, one plate and bowl, one knife, and only one spoon.
No more laughter until that pretty gal joined the friends. I hope my angel has
a pretty cloud to sit on today.
“Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot” by Samantha Tolleson
Native noble sons
Jumping at Sarge’s whipcrack
Brothers ne’er to come back
Your rest you have won.
Ducking behind the wire
Scuttling and creeping like a snail
That's the trap, we gotta bail!
While the field is under fire.
Home again- so wonderous to see something green.
A place of plenty and choice
When did home become so loud?
The fighting we do must seem obscene
All so our girls could have a voice.
Now we hate to stand in the crowd.
“The Higher-Ups” by Samantha Tolleson
How do the bad ones keep getting away?
For more than forty years these people
have come to our capital.
Elevated to pedestal positions
never recalling the ones
who sent them there and why.
The longer they are there
the more their wagging lips lie.
Bureaucracy hell-bent to defy.
A speaker that is so unfit the
alphabet soup wrote her into their script.
The Department of Justice running lame.
Poor Flynn will skyrocket to heroic fame
but he'll never trust Uncle Sam the same.
The test shall be,
will he remain tame?
What ill fortunes to get stuck in yesterday’s dream —today.
Those fancies faded
Withered gray.
Time plays magnificent tricks
One would forget the wrongs we did.
Stuck in indecision
Sinking fast like quicksand.
“The Tech Parade” by Samantha Tolleson
What happened to the ticker parades?
For our boys dressed in green and blue,
when the pits of their eyes have the same hue?
What horrors have they seen and been witness to?
When did it all become a secret and why?
What happened to our freedom of press when our Framers promised we wouldn’t and shouldn’t be em-pressed?
Why were they so fascinated?
why did they love nature so?
Thoreau shunning man,
Poe writing mad,
Emerson becoming a particle of God
and Whitman growing into grass.
Will the dissatisfaction of nature last?
Their lessons forgotten, hard work at all costs avoided.
Neutered by Public Health and DHS.
Will the world end so tragically?
Flames and mayhem.
Brick and bottles, more shattered glass.
Media giving us a gas.
A public turned to servitude.
As long as technology holds us fast.
Zombies glued to screens.
Who needs the real thing?
Who am I but a whispering lass?
