Four Pansy Poems, Poem, Pansies

After you read the 4 pansy poems below — be SURE to click here to read my Very Best Pansy Poem ever!!

photo: december 2008, by me, The Child’s Mom.

Pansy One
pansy, pansy in the ground
dancing in your velvet gown
here’s a poem to satisfy
all the poets passing by
 
Pansy Two
Diane broke the special pansy mug
I sent her back in my wildsummer days
of the Reliant Transportation System,
beach runnings and golden sealing wax.
I’ve never been able to find another
just like it and I feel I’ve failed her
(as I feel I’ve failed a few in my day.)
Have you seen a china one, embossed,
a mug as light as wedding cake and
shinier on the outside than seaglass?
Of so, please send c.o.d. with froths
of angels’ lashes and the salt o their
tears and I’ll mail you back my heart.

Pansy Three
I had no intention of writing pansy poems
or even of thinking about their little faces
today but my site stats show people are
hungry for pansy poems, as they are
hungry for world peace and the memory
of tea with grandmother’s lemon pie.
Wow, I’ll be a “Super” Semi-Somebody
with all these pansy seekers flooding in!
 
Pansy Four
Long-live pansies, Leonard Cohen’s daisies
and all twinkle shooters everywhere, waiting
with bouquets of freshly-cut kisses for me!

Twitterpated (not!) (yet)

I’m frightened by Twitter.

Don’t really understand it,

neither the why nor how.

Several blogging friends

have tried to explain but I

just don’t get it.  Am I the

only one missing the boat?

@janniefunster, that’s me.

Seeking any and all advice

on why and how to tweet.

Sofa buttocks et al

Response

“it seems so incredible to me that I actually interact with people like you and Rachel who are actual professional musicians,”

the new commenter writes

while I’m thinking,

it seems so incredible to me that I interact with people who actually return to this den of funiquity. (And deem a post worthy of a comment!)

The Bench

We sat on the bench

outside the cafe

crossed legged

facing each other,

knees touching —

a diamond of

mother-daughter.

She was five.

I took her small

hands in mine

to tell her that

her “best friend”

had not invited her

to the sleepover party.

Overall, she took that

first heartbreak

much better than I.

Error Reports

Banks love you — they are only interested in serving,

couldn’t give a hoot if they ever made a penny or not.

Yes, and somewhere in a room with 1000 computers

Microsoft employees not only reading, but are joyfully

getting to the root of all those Error Reports we send.

Now I Have To Leave This Sofa

Now I have to leave this sofa

where I’d gladly remain  until

the end of my earthly days.

I must get in my car and drive

where many other cars will be,

my standard transmission

making it even harder to be

the lazy one I so love to be.

And the sofa will miss me,

will remember and keep the

indentation of my buttocks 

until I return. (If I return.)

But I should return, as

there is a thick fog and

traffic will be slow — no

spectacular crashes today.

Bumper to bumper, I’ll

push that freaking clutch in

500 times until I’m back here.

But I shouldn’t complain.

I am heartily loved and someday

The Child will be a teen, driving

herself to my hell and back

and no doubt I’ll be missing

these simple days when all I

had to do was pick her up and

drop her off places I’d planned

for her to be, not sitting at home

worrying where she is and if she’s

okay, while this or another fine sofa

will have all my buttocks it can handle.

Song Quest Two

A weight has lifted.

I’ve finally laid down my rucksack and rifle to drink my fill of the first water I’ve had in 24 hours.   Then slept a good sleep while my socks dried out.

My belly’s full.

My comrades all made it through too.

(I’m allowing my music to flow with ease, not struggle.)

The garden where I played my guitar and sang under broad palm leaves earlier tonight was strewn with white lights.  (Edit:  I was just sitting and practicing.)

A girl no older than 6 insisted I take a dollar for a tip.

I’m rich now!

I skipped running yesterday and the day before. Skipped it! But am quite over that guilt now.  As I mentioned, a weight has lifted.   I feel reborn.

Today I will be one with the trees and the river as I walk.  I will drown in the smell of the earthen mulch.  Drink in the birdsong.

I might even run.  All the more fun that it’s raining a bit.

The UVs will not age me!

Then I’ll get a muffin and a coffee.

I hope the muffins will be fresh (even the supermarket is skimping lately.  They probably think no one notices.  But I do.  Still, I forgive them.  Times are tough for many.)

After my coffee-muffin who knows what could happen?

I could discover Paris right here at home.

Find a cat sunning by a gate who lets me pet him.

Do a fandango in the soup aisle.

I want to write a song about…..  I’m not sure.

The ukulele one unearthed itself quite quickly, thanks to the love of my peeps.

I want to write a song as good as “Tears In Heaven,” “The Girl From Ipanema”  or “The Rainbow Connection.”

(I wanted to write “Blowing In The Wind,” but Dylan beat me to it.  Dang it.)

Universe, where are the words to my melody?

Where is my answer?

In me, of course.

But, where?

And what?

Blogging Poems

Blog Promise

As the first janitor is arriving,

the first CEO tightening his tie,

the first cook tying her apron —

I will be here writing, getting

a jump on the blog day, setting

up my stall of jpegs and words,

unfurling my awning of songs

and thoughts to see us through

another day of joy and sorrow.

Think of Me

Think of me as I yearn to surf 300 blogs daily.

Think of me as you go about your art and work,

as you turn your eyes to clocks and fine pastries.

See me in my attic room with my coffee and candle,

hunched over my golden guitar, fingers pressed to

strings and frets to spin some melodies and words

to make us both smile or laugh or cry — or all three.

Think of me in afternoons when planes go humming

towards dying stars as you are heading homeward —

I’ll be the leaves rushing past you in a tune of green.

Timeline

The Big Bang.

Earth cools.

A Roman slave

breaks a new

crystal glass.

I write this,

which a girl

2000 years

from now

may read.

(Or not.)