Poem - A Ghost for a Day (repost from 2011)

A Ghost for a Day

A ghost for a day – oh, what a delight,

I’ll strike up a plan then schedule my flight,

I don’t think I’ll haunt or scare in the night,

I think I’ll just float in the air like a kite,

I might think again when I look down below

And see all the heartache, worry and woe,

I’ll slip through a wall and under a door,

I’ll do some good works, then maybe some more,

I’ll bring a fine meal to someone in need

Then follow that up with another good deed

I’ll offer a blanket to someone who’s cold,

Then comfort a lady who’s lonely and old,

Imagine the good that nice ghosts could do,

Forsaking the haunting and often said BOO,

Kind of like angels these nice ghosts could be,

Delivering love and a cup of hot tea,

It sounds like a job for you or for me,

As long as the job is just temp

I’ll agree.

Poem - It's Easy to Miss a Miracle

Maine - 2012

It’s Easy to Miss a Miracle

It’s easy to miss

a miracle,

like a moment

of unbidden grace

it arrives unannounced,

dropping into your life

like soft, spring rain,

brushing your cheek with

a tender kiss,

not asking to be

the star,

just a miracle so quiet

you might miss

it altogether

save for the subtle shift

in the air suddenly imbued

with a taste so sublime

you might think

 it was spiced

with nectar from the heavens,

that taste, that moment

so rare,

is a miracle just for you.

Poem - Field of Corn

 

 Field of Corn Sculpture, Dublin, OH 

Field of Corn

Giant ears of corn could cause alarm,

Yet they disarm us with

Their charming good looks

And pearly white smiles,

They stand so tall,

Like sentries in a field no longer sown,

A sculpture garden

For thoughtful reflection,

Are we to dream of buttered corn,

Sweet juice dripping down our chins,

Or ponder farmers’ yearly hopes

That crops will grow again?

We Midwest folk, we know our corn,

And know from whence it comes,

But it never hurts to pause and think,

And maybe blink

At the sight of giant corn.

The publicly funded Field of Corn sculpture in Dublin, Ohio, consists of 109 concrete ears of corn positioned in rows and standing upright in a grassy field. At one end of the field are two rows of Osage-orange trees, one pre-existing and the other planted for the project. Sculpted by Malcolm Cochran and with landscaping by Stephen Drown and James Hiss, the field of corn was commissioned by the Dublin Arts Council and completed in 1994.   

Each ear is about eight feet tall.  Three different molds were used to cast the concrete sculptures. - wikipedia

Poem - The Music Played On

Photo of Bunny Park in Dublin, Ohio © Rita Bourland

The Music Played On

The dance party started at four,

The bunnies were first on the floor,

They jumped and they kicked up their heels,

They boogied and did a few reels,

Their ears flipped and flapped in the warm summer breeze,

Their tails bounced and flounced with the greatest of ease,

The time seemed to fly as the music played on,

They couldn’t be sure how long they’d been gone,

The sun slowly set and evening grew nigh,

And that’s when they heard their mother’s sweet cry,

“Come home, please come home; oh where can you be?

Your dinner’s grown cold, and so has your tea.”

So the bunnies hopped home quick as can be,

They kissed their dear mother then sat on her knee.

Poem: It's Hard to be Me

Painting by Annie Early Stephens © 2013

IT’S HARD TO BE ME 

Sometimes it’s hard to be me,

With a neck as tall as a tree,

Yet, I think you can see,

And surely agree,

I’m the very best me I can be.

Poem: The Distance Between the Moon and Me

The Distance Between the Moon and Me

The distance between the moon and me,

I think I can see,

Yet I’m told it’s really quite far,

We can measure most things,

Like three feet in a yard,

That’s not very hard,

Or the size of a football field,

We know what that yields,

Yet it’s not that easy for a girl

Who never played the game,

All the same,

We can measure most things,

Like we know what we bring

Home at the end of each week,

But how far it will go,

We really can’t know,

Unless we are good at math,

And I don’t want to think about that,

I’d rather fly off to the moon

Where the dish ran away with the spoon,

And the distance between the earth and me

Well, I think I can see,

Yet I’m told it’s really quite far,

Whether miles or yards

We can’t always know where we are,

There are things that are real

And others we feel

And those we can’t measure at all.