Sunny Pfff-hhht !

Brundled slank across the deep and emerald grass,
Embrear sits up watching on a post
flips onto a railing in a flash,

Lattercat is snoozing on the porch
when they hear a crash-
Rangadaro comes yawning
from the shed
as all the others make a wild zephord dash.

 

(Maybe this was an 'easier softer way'- but when you see it happen 
right before your eyes; you better tell it as it is!)

Flash fiction55 : Key hole

It has rings
or layers of
plink and plunk.

Hands around a tidy,
square box.
Bring it down
tip it :   
                                       
A big seed rolling,    
one stone sliding

or, open to find
a shell shaping white.    

Outside is striped in colors
the lid stamped
by a mystery face;

the saving and hiding
of secrets has begun.

Absolutes

The tautness of hide over muscle and bone.
Remember that rock solid firmness
of a saddle well cinched ?
slight creak of stretching leather,
unyielding iron stirrups.

Moss on rock could slip,
 bark on Pine could crumble.
A bike could skid,
my brother was strong when we wrestled;
but the barn and horses
smelled sweet.

Microfiction 41,

We fold ourselves 
upon the earth,
fold as water

while air is filled
then pressed
as Stars sharpen,deepen

are we like them, yes or no ?

Two stress days 55

Lately I seek
a swathe clearing instrument:
a large scythe or maul to swing in a circle-

"Get out of my way! coming through !" 

Sometimes I desperately want
space and silence to think;
" Go away-be quiet, leave me be"

Self will and doubt
are gray shores I am courting;
If onlys sweep low overhead .

                    

" Say again?"

Tiny bits of  laughter erupting
with the antics of an animal

Cornmeal scattered over wood
with bread crusts,

reaching out a hand 
to stop a dusty brown sleeve
from passing,

the dip of a hummingbird
here and gone.

bubbles in ginger ale-

so light
and fleeting,
it hardly stands repeating

more fragile than a subzero snow flake

that is how impossibly dry
I like it

Embossed red and gold 55

Extinguish !
Where was it ?
that tall thin canister
the Sunday I was 9     

My family in the kitchen
of a rented Tudor house,
when my Father got burnt
in a grease fire.

Black smoke smeared over white walls
When the yelling stopped

his hand got wrapped
I was shaking from images
and echoes of 'Great Expectations'.