SpearPoint Publications

When the words don’t come

Do we sound an alarm?

Has vocabulary ceased, has this well gone dry?

If word fall is likened to raindrops…

And storms refuse to storm

Is this any concern at all?

Or a hiccup lapse…

If a pizza went on vacation

Where would it likely go?

Probably not to some hot spot

Like an overactive oven or a barbeque cooking show

Nor the north or southern pole

Where there’s any chance of becoming stiff

Somewhere…

So, Winters Solstice arrives and . . .

Autumn slips seamlessly away

Did she vaporize?

No handshake, no hug, no regrets to eye

Instead, a regulated, mechanized clock ticks

Finality finalized - where one goes the other stays

While most…

Dear Mister Hotchkiss, 

Is your door still ripe for knockin’? 

All us woodpeckers wanna know 

The wrapper gag made us laugh a lot 

As bird brainy pranks will do 

A tap, tap here and a rat - a - tat…

Nickel plate those rails boys, nickel plate those rails 

Then we’ll fix them to the Earth somehow 

Did someone mention wood? 

Find a bunch of loggers now out in the seas of perfect trees 

Who’ll cut and shape and creosote 

…

Out on retirement road 

Where the traffic never goes slow 

It’s the hustle and bustle the same as it’s been 

For countless years in a row 

No wonder we Seniors plan out our days 

Ignoring the purple haze of it…

Adelaide and Atticus 

Met they did . . . but no one knows how it came about 

It’s doubtful we may ever find a solution 

In our time, cause somethings remain pure mystery 

Whilst others end in rhyme 

Some say…

There are no Buttercup Snowflakes 

That we know of . . . 

Or Naturistic Rings around our Moon 

Nor Cats, that love to do the two step with the next-door Pooch named Spud 

Who tends to thud his way across…

Under the Moon, under the Sun 

Days parade…come light…come shade 

No two are ever alike it seems 

All one offs - we ought to call - one hit wonders 

Oh, the stories this Earth tries to tell its beings 

Through…

Summer floral dressed 

Green grass dulcimer girl 

Strumming strings, upon a curving wooden box 

The rhythmic frames of flowing chords 

As well as intricate pickings too 

She’s a one-woman band 

Singing so angelic while her music goes 

Across the meadow…

The old baseball spot is all but forgot 

Overgrown in sunflower bloom 

Thanks to the players who spat a lot 

On the field they used to groom 

Down in the count…ahead or behind 

One pitcher, one batter 

Both seeking answers…

Folks say the Alabama Moon 

Loves to hug these Tuscaloosa trees 

You got to see it . . . to believe it 

A glow rests within the branches 

Before it lifts to bright the sky 

Any kind of Southern night 

…