Sonnet to a Weed

To all the bitter vetch and thistle weed
And all the underbrush and creeping vine,
You, too, are flowers sprung from God’s good seed
With worth as great as any grape’s best wine.
It’s not for me to say you have no place,
Mere mortal, I, with all that does imply,
With stumbled gait, I’ve never won a race
Nor matched the light of palest star’s soft sigh.
No tyrant with a dream of herbicide,
No fool who claims to set the world on fire,
I am a lowly gardener inside
With nothing mean nor evil to aspire.
……..But if you harm the bluegrass that I plant
……..I’ll yank your roots and feed you to the ants.

Ode to my Lawn

Longfellow sets my soul aglow
with his Chestnut Tree so tall,
and Tennyson paints quite a show
with his Flower in a Crannied Wall.

I look out at my lovely lawn
and search for inspiration,
Creativity has escaped this dawn,
I’m filled with consternation.

Wordsworth had his Daffodils
to set the hearts to sighing,
but it’s tough for me to feel a thrill
when all I see is dandelion.

What Is a Picnic without Goats?


(a true story — more or less)

A slivered moon, silver in the twilight sky,
had just begun its rising.
It was an early April evening
that begged softly for a fire
and soon it crackled, adding rhythm
to that bewitching hour.

There were shadows, there was song;
and separate from the throng
a cloth was spread.  Checkered red
and white,
laid with multi-colored cheeses,
a selection of berry juices,

and a poet reading verses to his love
who, suitably enamored of his poetry
and the sea, smiled as the moon shone down
on that inlet rich with sound.  Those innocents
were most content  to lounge rapt in that scene
until suddenly a ruckus

made an awful fuss, as berry juice
and cheeses had quickly come untrussed.
The cause of all the chaos, a herd of goats
newly escaped from the fence
where the farmer kept them safe
for milk to make the curd.

One much trusted billy, with horns as yet unshorn
and curving with intention of doing bodily harm
to anyone who stopped his fun.
Following close behind him,
a half dozen dainty nannies,
their faces lit with glee.

Since milk they had a plenty and their taste
didn’t run to cheese,
they nibbled on the checkered cloth
and gobbled poetry. The mood was lost , thus
the couple thought it best to leave
the picnic to the goats and chose that time to flee.

Many a myth has been woven
about the berry juice and cheese
and the single tattered book leaf
found at that quiet cove.
Some told tales of two lovers
who could not bear to be apart

and how the sea had called them
into its emerald heart. Others told of monsters
and a couple that was taken on a moonlit night
to a land of mystery. To this day the truth
had never yet been told, though the prince
still reads his poetry to his lady love of old.

Each night when the silver moon
rises in the sky, and all the sparkling stars
begin their evening stir,
Old Billy’s bleat
sounds oh so sweet
in iambic pentameter.

Of Leprechauns and Magic Things

Of leprechauns and magic things
the little sparrow’s known to sing,
It fluffs its feathers in the storm,
for promises of rainbows
outweigh any dark cloud’s harm.

Currents aswim within the air
whisper softly of beauty rare,
like unicorns and meadows green,
a touch of velvet, a wisp of wing,
and of such sights
so seldom seen.

Beside the ancient garden wall-
a work of art in mossy stone-
the wee folk whistle while they work
or play amongst the parsley stems
on tiny slides and old rope swings.

While the marigolds are blooming
and rosemary is making rhyme,
there upon each little toadstool
sits a young elf keeping thyme. (Elves
are noted gard’ners of the lovely
and sublime.)

They tend to every stalk and bloom
with the tenderest of concern,
While they work, the sparrow sings
and all the elfin children dream
of leprechauns and magic things.

A Bounty of Blessings

The brook
a quiet passion spent
with each new burst of song,
so glad was it for springtime sun,
so glad that winter’s chill was gone.

And I
in my vain foolishness
would claim it for my own,
but a fish with a greater truth
splashed me a welcome to his home.

God’s hand
has wrought such beauty fair
on sky and land and sea,
What He creates is owned by none
We share this season in the sun.

A Tale of Two Fishes

Back to back
they face each other,
opposites in every sense.
Frowning, he wonders
how it came to this.

“Hormones, I guess,”
he muses as he remembers
her then.  He treasures
the ashes of sparks.

And she wild eyed
but winsome,
a beauty with long flowing fins.
So sad too much seaweed
long ago dulled her senses.

Wanderlust dreams
have turned into fences
that resist being mended
and yet her blood

pulses faster
when he glides past
with the brush of a dorsal.
His brooding eyes
make no suggestion

that his blood runs cold.
If only
they didn’t live their lives
in a goldfish bowl.

Inspired by a painting of two fishes at

The painting made me think of Rod Stewart’s
“Every Picture Tells a Story”