sunday whirl, wordle


sunday whirl: wordle 184

free falling from the blue sky her feet touch earth. barely audible only the birds appear to notice.

wearing her favorite dress with thirteen red poppies and a frivolous decision to wear summer sandals, the journey took a toll, there was a slight unforeseen tear.

her earthbound roots forever etched to her soul at times called out with little rest. strange how the root now ancient and gnarled still spoke with strength pulling her in a direction her literary heart was bound to.

carrying the heavy parcel her journey was soon to end once she delivered the grateful package.

with speedy recovery the words gathered in a whirlwind thanked her in apocalyptic sincerity knowing what was unknown to her.

in the midst of the wind whispering moments pass leaving faded few sprinkled inklings of her mortal epilogue.

Poetry, sunday whirl, wordle



one need invisible haunt
illuminates the nebulous night
small moon manifest so surely

nestled in marvelous remote
sustaining a lifeless omission
a quicksand quiet disturbance

sobering surreal impact
a dozen scenes frolic with foresight
half the price from yesterday

storm stewing atmosphere
a dozen trigger-happy wants
night and day diversion

distant destinations litter the heavens
here underneath the blue pool remains
another lap divine pushes off


sunday whirl: wordle no 143

Poetry, sunday whirl, wordle



just behind the quiet clouds
with feather floating finery
peers a morning moon spare and white

spacious in sound a whisper dismounts
settling softly nearby in open might
as a gentle man’s touch splashdown caress

distracted by ornamental open skies
the beckoning blues silently slip away
visceral expect not disappointment’s flickering light

dream driving west
struck by the stirring
so simple a soliloquy
sunday whirl  wordle 142

Poetry, sunday whirl, wordle



the looting lion roars
ever present pilot he paces politely
wearing a big bright rodeo buckle and
cowboy boots worn with years of grace
his humble humming scares me away

lost the art of visions
miss what haven’t known
the drill is always the same

in an instant he attacks for attention
fast fire bombing drill alight
fierce fracas a folly for flight

and now the master knows
assuredly he sits and stares
dignity deserts in little tiny rushes
a slight sound of terror escapes
I miss the quiet calm of cunning gain

in between a fear that breathes
a gentle breeze cradles my release
his shadow stride awakens
he licks my nerves raw

sunday whirl: wordle no 134. this lion made known his presence….