The old couple sits on the front stoop
of an ancient farmhouse-
starring from a circa 1960’s colored photograph-
surrounded by myriad multicolored flowers.

The moderns say iambic verse is dead-

to be cool you must write freestyle instead.

Iambic pentameter in rhyming verse

is targeted now as the very worst.

Assign unto night all things of darkness
and unto the day all that is true light,
but in-between there exists shades of gray-
always it is twilight or dawn somewhere.

The Spirit of God is in the wind that glides across the land-
stirring the tall Blue Stem into billowing waves of grass
that roll toward snow-topped mountains
defining the distant horizon-

Oh to break the generic bonds-
that bind us to our mundane worlds-
to fly away on paths unknown
beyond mere empty words-
to stretch beyond our mortal reach
and capture unseen worlds-

Black of night
Light of day
I used to go
But now I stay

Summer heat
Winter cold
I once was young
But now am old.

Desert dry
Ocean wet
I used to freeze
But now I sweat.

Full glass

To write a poem in formal style-
there’s skills first to satisfy-
and rules that one has first to learn
before they versify.

A starting rule that should be learned-

Seldom now do honeybees take wing
to visit the flowery bower-
or do I hear a meadowlark sing
nor a whippoorwill call in the evening hour.

Butterflies once like rainbow arrays-

I looked into your open eyes-
no one but me heard my cries.
I knew the truth straight away-
your gallant spirit had flown away.

A spirit that was still strong and bold-

The ship of state tosses-
and perilously rolls-
seemingly without a rudder or other means-
to navigate through rough stormy seas.
With a distracted captain and inept crew-

Wounded Knee South Dakota-
29 December 1890

A baby cries for its mother slain
and a way of life dies on that frozen plain.
Old Chief Big Foot and his small band,

Where oh where have they gone?
Where oh where have my buddies gone?
They seem to have left this form everyone-
everyone except for one.

Where oh where have my buddies gone?

There is a pathway all must take-
exalted queens to lowly maids-
rich and poor-
cabbages and kings.

It is the path through life-
from birth to death that all must trod-

Why is it-
when the days begin to lengthen-
winter cold begins to strengthen-
and when the days begin to shorten-
summer heat goes a soaren?

I love a winter’s night-
a night so still and majestic
that words cannot be found,
or poetic lines composed,
to capture beauty such as this.

Overhead-
a starlit sky-