…as in the work of writing, drafting, working with ‘the words’

Look at this free image by Wout van Turenhout from Pixabay! It’s so great for this poem. Thank you, Wout!


There are limits
there are Eulers
there are Einsteins
words are rulers.

There are meanings
there are Platos
there are Voltaires
rights are leanings.

There are degrees
there are measures
there are volumes
books are trustees.

There are quotas
there go numbers
here come letters
our iotas.


There are limits
say the Eulers.
What says Einstein?
Laws are rulers.

There are meanings
say the Nietzsches.
What says Voltaire?
Life is peachy.

There are degrees
say the Measures.
What packs Volumes?
Books are pleasures.

There are quotas say the Numbers…

They Dance. They Do!

Look at this image by a person who ‘gets’ it: Please Don’t sell My Artwork AS IS. From Pixabay, thank you.

These two words dance
in mighty light
atop clutter
ignoring blight.

One is fulsome
the other — pure
and both can lead
the blessed tour.

A pull, a push
their even flow
meet resistance
to feel, to know.

High arcana
their sounds employ
two smaller sounds
of “un” and “oy.”

Image by Jeffraines from Pixabay. Thank you, jeffraines and Pixabay.

Who names flowers?
Who scripts such terms?
Who usurps what
nature confirms?

As a man sees
so he defines
then leaves unseen
to mere opines.

While walking out
in shaded glen
demanded pen.

An unscripted
hyacinth plume.
Carl Linnaeus
described its bloom.

NOTE: The bluebell flower, which grows from a bulb, was given new life when planted as Hyacinthoides non-scripta in a work written by Carl Linnaeus titled Species Planarium. Published in 1753, the little flower rested on its laurels-pages in imagined ancient woodlands where it is recognized to have created a gorgeous understorey — a carpeting of blue-violet-blue-creampollen-violet…

…a power play.

Thanks to Pixabay for this image by PDPhotos.

The green of love
has turned to red
on chlorophyll
this berry fed.

The white of love
was built of pulp
to liquefy
to sip then gulp.

The yellow love
moved into seed…
a failed supply
of want and need.

The berry’s lust
rejected straw
but longed to suck
George Bernard Shaw.

NOTE: This poem was written in honor of the short play, “Why She Would Not: A Little Comedy,” by George Bernard Shaw (1950). It is the last play written by this author before he died at the age of 94, and it is about a wealthy woman rescued…

Image by Hanne Hasu — thank you, Hanne — and it’s from Pixabay.

Pour a cup of
hair-hearty tea.
Criticize life —
then sit with me.

Toy potatoes.
Suess’s zoo.
Who’re the say-sos?
Reds? A few blue?

“I don’t like it!”
“Well, then. I do!”
Where is the split?
Who has the clue?

The criticals
of chilliness?
Hot syllables
of silliness!

NOTE: The word “quirkamente” seemed so odd, yet so relevant. I took it on a tour of Google Translate and found that in Italian it means “quirkly.” No one needs to know anything else about me, this word, this poem, or the news. Let’s give everything a Big Rest and see what changes for the better.

You know where the roots are, right? Image: Mary Holden.

cone is a fruit
seed is a spark
root is a boot
stem is a mark

ring is a sign
buds are a spray
wood is a line
twig is a play

pulp is a mush
knot is a time
pith is a blush
limb is a climb

leaf is a lung
slip is a youth
bark is a tongue
tree is a truth

NOTE: I know others have posted this, but thank you to Dame Judi Dench, and my friend Russ Monson, Ph.D. for their admiration of and work with trees. Go hug one today. They do not have COVID-19!

A report card as a list poem.

Thank you, Julia M. Cameron, and Pexels.

1. Mucosa fears.
2. Sunscreen task.
3. Lipbalm smears.
4. Mandated mask.

5. Children’s lessons.
6. Pods and pools.
7. Homeschool sessions.
8. Closing schools.

9. Hand sanitizers.
10. Percent alcohol.
11. Purse atomizers.
12. L-brand aerosol.

13. Curbside pickups.
14. Netflix binges.
15. Career hiccups.
16. Vaccine syringes.

Pandemic Fatigue.
Pandemic Fatigu.
Pandemic Fatig.
Pandemic Fati.
Pandemic Fat.
Pandemic Fa.
Pandemic F.

Past, present, future

The bohemiangirl720 took this photo and made it available on Pixabay. Thank you, bohemiangirl720.

While saltwater
heats to bubble —
in that time I
read some pages

As the mower
sounds its rattle —
I turn from desk
to read pages

At the same time
I was walking —
read remembered
pages, pages

When alarm rings
I discovered
book, ‘neath pillow —
open pages

NOTE: Why is it that the word “read” is the same in past, present, or future tense when lays flat as a fact on the page or screen? Why does it count on vocal intonation to be ‘tensed?’ Is it because “to read” is “to be like life itself” and in constant motion through the (p)ages?

And the final question: Where in every book is part of a tree?

Hearts off to Gordon Johnson and Pixabay…thanks!

Will you, won’t you
join this dancing —
get immune or
reject lancing?

Johnson, Pfizer,
and Moderna
single dosage
or return-a?

Under our masks?
Unhappy frowns.
Damn mutations!
Those nasty crowns!

Trust and faith or
Choose your truth most
medically free.

Mary Holden

A constantly evaporating editor and writer. Believer in medium since 2013 when they made me wait for an invitation!

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