Here's mine:

Therese,

Let me guess! This is you! I can see your poetic-self clearly. My Fav:

JErry

Nice! Inspired visions of Moulin Rouge LOL

It's a good one - very insightful and well written!

WHOA MS N - this is a very strong write!
Brick house indeed.

Thanx YAWL for posting!
Makes the cliche-thing more than just a cliche eh?

JAcquii.

Anyway - this is a very spur-of-the-moment write... I was thinking something along the lines of "Don't count your chickens before they hatch" as being a good sound piece of advice - So to that I say OK LOL - Anyway - kinda abstract kinda weird - but my Muse likes that kinda stuff - so I present you with....


Don't Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch

The shadowless apple cider glass sits
on the window ledge, alongside Mama's apple pie,
purple hyacinth in vase, and the amber rock.

Dare I reach for just a sip? Just one.

A cardinal whispers his song in falsetto voice
(the window so clear I can see his eyes smiling)
and my cornrows are interupting my nappy reverie.

I'd swear it's nice-n-cool. It looks it.

The goats are neying. Loudly. The horse with his
silky mane could not possibly be louder. Perhaps
it's the vermouth, the gin maybe, the rum, the ice?

Shall I reach for that glass? Maybe?

On the ranch hustle-and-bustle, tis 'bout time
to get the new shingles laid, the floor swept,
the cows milked and satiated, the eggs counted.

I sure would like just a taste. Just one.

Simply would be better than such a stale kool-aid
packet, Mama's apple cider. Apple pie clouds my mind,
a heaven of sorts: hamhocks, greens, hushpuppies.

I wonder. Do hyacinth blooms taste good?


Copyright © 2007 - Jacquii Cooke

kinda kuntry tehehehe....

very cool msJ guess you didn't get that cider,
the idea was toying with that moment and very playful so the poem matched its ideals
very good

LOL - the thought of shadowless apple cider just didn't really do it for me

Jacquii.

lol shadowless I overlooked that, I guess it less appealing

One Foot in the Grave


Awake but slipping into laudanum dreams,
life to harsh to cloud the reality of living.
Acrid bitter vomit residue, the taste of
having to deal with the here and now today.
If only one could live the stories and adventures,
the other worldly lives, like Harry Potter's.

Reality interupts and life is jolted back
into the here and now, and one thinks
"Is life really any different with the absence
of soda fountain secrets and fairytale endings?"
No vermouth to ebb the tide of reality
that crawls across the amber rock.

In those dreams of yesteryear,
the wishes that blind the realism,
the true meaning of life as Grandma taught.
We are born, we grow, we live, we die,
each experiencing our own events
and no matter what, life goes on and on.

But we are all the same
One foot in the grave from the very start.

this took me three days to write

“Death Is Easy, It’s the Dying That’s Tough!”

Wincing
changes into
shaking and convulsing
a thick cloud of suffering
prevails

Her voice
muted by pain.
Laudanum as morphine
races deft into a needle
eyes roll

She speaks
Blessings for all.
Children weep Grandma’s name
As she gurgles and gasps for air
Fading

We watch
The transition
From affliction to death
Stillness, interrupts agony
With peace.