BLACK and RED

not in tubes but on my canvas

in the studio I see black crows

among a blast of poppies

mars black and cadmium red

better than grey plastic and pink elephants

used milk jugs and lipstick

coal in a hot fire

that glowed while I slept

I have no coal to paint

just my eyes to see them

fully focussed in the light

black crows on the fence

staring at the red poppy seeds

then the bored crows fly off

the poppies stand up straight

waving their red flags

Three in Row

first day of spring

three ducks in snow

coyotes dinner

Spring Dreamer..........

excited like a kid with his bag full of marbles
willd passions for baseball and being free
nothing lost and full of innocence
not aware of time just to be

now seventy with still some of those marbles
with wild poems and grace
lost innocence and empty of nothing
with a few more lines on my face

spring training again

Growing

the winter snow is trying to melt

crocus trying to push through

they say spring is here

soon we will see the bloom

as the bulbs plow like the sea

BAG LADY

every old lady lives in a shoe

until she doesn't fit any more

she grabs her huge bag

and limps out the back door

aimless and shameless on her way

clutching all her possessions

with her small knotted hands

and all her strange obsessions

wrinkled face and ancient hat

bag full of rags and tins

bottles and an old ring

she found in some public literbin

now without her shoe

with just her bag on the street

her face that has no curse

just a smile for the people she will meet

the old bag lady wandering aimlessly

with her feet covered in dirt

walking the downtown streets

full of surprises but always alert

first line by Carolee RWP

Precious Water

fetch a pail of water

a morning ritual

allows them precious water

Grizzled Faces

I was crying all the time then

I cried on the Malecon

leaving Havana

I cried hearing Ferrer

his voice seasoned with cigars and rum

I cried hearing Pinero

his chapped lips blowing his trumpet

I cried with the buildings

crumbling to the ground

I cried with the ghost of Jose Marti

and his final poem

I cried with all the sadness

of the grizzled old faces

Happiness existed

as we all cried.