POEM: Escaping Isolation [PoMo Day 17 – Ottava Rima]

In isolation, I took to story,
and traipsed through worlds impossible yet true,
living life from infantile thru hoary,
under skies: gunmetal to deepest blue,
in lands where trucks were known to be lorries,
and ancient cities breathed as though brand new.
Where neither time nor bars could imprison,
I found my phoenix had now arisen.

POEM: Color in the Scrublands [Ottava Rima]

Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.

The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.

POEM: Harvest on the Farm [Ottava Rima]

My memories of autumn are clearest —
the harvest time, when fields had turned amber,
with desiccated stalks – devoid of spirits.
And in the grain, we children would clamber,
’cause cleaning out wagons was time cherished.
Those short days are now brighter and grander.
It was an age of colossal machines,
and kernels of corn and tiny soybeans.

POEM: Fallow Field Heroics [Ottava Rima]

I wander though the fallow field.
The weeds and unintended plants
are stealing food of increased yield,
but soil is churned by worms and ants
whose labors stay subtly concealed.
It looks like nothing at a glance,
but bold heroics are afoot
to till the soil for fine output.