I’ll probably delete this in the morning.
If your granddaughter gave you a little green turtle, what would you do with it?
If you were me, you’d write a poem about it and send it to her.
But that’s just me.
If you enquire kindly, I might not have to delete this in the morning.
I have painted another postcard, copied from something I saw on…Pinterest, of course.
She walks on the path,
Where light and shadow take turns,
Her thoughts are her own.
Who knows? Perhaps it will find its way to your mailbox.
Perhaps this post will be deleted… in the morning.
What delight
to be able to wander into the garden
and wander out again,
the vase exploding with flowers
for my sister
Delight, delete, what’s the difference? You’ll find out in the morning.
The Goldfinch
Flit and flash of gold
With feathers dipped in the sun.
Quick visit – then gone.
Quick blog post – then gone…in the morning.
I was inspired to write a poem based on three postcards I bought last year. The artist is Sarah Angst (should I comment on her last name? I want to. Okay, I won’t.)
The hedgehog slowly ambled
Through grass, amid the flowers
Where mushrooms, red and white
Seemed as tall as towers.
He strolled and as he pondered,
He looked from side to side.
“My kingdom is amazing –
So big and vast and wide!”
The moose was prone to wander
In woods or through a swamp,
’cross ponds and cheerful rivers
He’d loudly stomp and clomp.
He gazed out o’er a valley
Across the mountain side
“My kingdom is a wonder –
So big and vast and wide!”
The crow, his wings a-flutter
Would fly from tree to tree,
His clucking and his cawing
Rang out most joyfully
When soaring through the sky
He saw no room for pride.
“God’s Kingdom never ends –
So big and vast and wide!”
I love the bold and colorful artwork!
This blog post must come to an end, so small and puny and narrow.
That’s not supposed to be a deep philosophical title. I literally don’t have much time for a blog post today, but I’d like to leave you with a little something, no matter how small and random. So I’m going to choose one of my smallified photos that is languishing in the file and pair it with a smallified poem.
And the poem:
When it rains
No one complains
Except Cinderella
Who has no umbrella.
If you check the small print, you’ll see that I NEVER SAID that the photo and the poem would actually have anything to do with each other. I merely said I would pair them together. I believe I’ve lived up to my part of the bargain. Your part is to tolerate my quirkiness and stay on as a faithful reader.
Voila! And in the morning, this post will disappear with a “poof!”
Red bird stands
Makes its plans
Eyes the pool
Water cool
Bathing bird
Quite absurd
Splish and splash
Sunlight flash
Feathers wet
Not upset
Summer fun
Time to run!
(Blog is wet
Not upset
Summer feet
Must delete! )
I came across Sir Fatty Frog in the perennial garden the other day – gave me quite a start. He didn’t seem to notice me, so I presume he was thinking froggy thoughts in accordance with the way he was created.
Sir Fatty Frog
Sits on a leaf
(Why not a log?
Ask the frog!)
He’s plump and green,
Sir Fatty Frog
(I’m awfully keen
On that kind of green)
Sir Fatty Frog
Has bulgy eyes
(He’s all agog,
Sir Fatty Frog)
Give glory to God,
Sir Fatty Frog
(Just blink and nod,
He made you odd.)
Dedicated to my friend, Jeannette, who has been asking me to write more whimsical poetry.
Sir Fatty Blog will go on a deletion diet in the morning.
Alas, I have not made enough progress on the Henri Matisse painting to feature it this week. I will try to console you in your deep (DEEP) disappointment over that by sharing some bunnies with you.
And for good measure, I’ll throw in an impromptu poem:
A bevy of bunnies,
A riddle of rabbits,
A houseful of hares,
Those wascally wabbits!
You’re welcome.
It’s been my habit
To delete my blabit
Before the dawn
Of the rascally rabbit.
What do birds think about icicles?
Does it ruffle their feathers
In icy cold weathers
When icicles glitter
On the eaves of their feeder?
Do these Swords of Damocles
Make them feel ill at ease?
Or are they oblivious
To moments so perilous?
I listened all day,
To hear what they’d say,
But alas, they aren’t talking
In spite of my stalking.
So what do birds think about icicles?
I don’t know! Do you?
The Sword of Damocles will hang over this post in the morning.
Ah, the coming of spring… Hope is in the air, trees are putting out tiny curled up things that will unfurl into leaves, the birds are gathering for their spring chorus every morning, snow is melting, and the poets are doing their poesy thing with joy. It’s a grand time.
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold; when it is summer in the light and winter in the shade.
Charles Dickens
If you live where March comes on like that, you know what CD is talking about.
I wandered lonely
as a cloud
that floats on high
o’er vales and hills
When all at once
I saw a crowd,
a host, of golden
daffodils;
beside the lake,
beneath the trees,
fluttering and dancing
in the breeze.
William Wordsworth
Next time you’re outside on a spring day, be William Wordsworth and write about it like that.
Daffodowndilly
She wore her yellow sun bonnet,
She wore her greenest gown;
She turned to the south wind
And curtsied up and down.
She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
”Winter is dead.”
A.A. Milne
That is exactly what daffodils are saying when they flutter and dance and turn their heads to one another.
In the morning, one blog post will whisper to another, “The Blog is Dead.”
Lynniebeemuseoday 