blue green orange and yellow abstract painting

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com

immortal brushstrokes

liven dull canvas

stretched at the corners

the scene a glimpse

of days gone by

in the distance


melody soars

through painted clouds

while harmony rolls

over rising and falling hills

life extended by a coda

until its travels

made public

become pop rock


novelty is an erratic dream

already discovered by

deceased geniuses


propped up like scarecrows

shamed that

we fill them

with straw

This poem is from 2011. Found it recently–I love finding old poems and stories! I really did not like pop music back then. It’s still not my favorite, but I think, rereading this, I really must have disliked it a great deal.

Modern Masquerade

modern masquerade

cherry blossoms pop pink

highlighted with whipped cream petals

cotton candy on chocolate coated cones

bright against sapphire skies lean away

from four rush hour lanes

across from




a modern










attempts at


carve away aesthetic agony of commercial zoned cancer


Your cold silence plagued these last two moons

Hope, once cherished, lies in ruins

A promise rescinded can hold no sway

Such noble vows your actions did not obey

That you were pained, I give my sorrow

Love cannot thrive when the heart must borrow


Ever do the hours creep

toward early twilight and forever sleep

but in these waking days

their dreams they raise.

Lost in distant pastures green

with no regrets for where they’ve been

yet in the end, how can they measure

where all effort seeks only pleasure?

In ages past all day was toil

the only goal to live off plants and soil.

Beyond each milestone the world has passed

Patience lurks, unused, and fading fast

“Returning Home”

You can see my selected photo here, on Richard Buchanan II’s portfolio site.

Clay skeletons

Stand at the burial

Of their eroded brothers

Winter’s blanket

Dimpled by earth and sun

Cleans away grief, not hope

If buildings stood here once before

They can stand here again

On the graves of their ancestors

Home may never be the same

But the next generation can always return

This poem was in response to Sunday’s writing prompt.