Apostrophe Hisssssssssssss

If English is what they were taught early on,
And if they are older than thirty,
I would think that the average American knows
Punctuation. Without being shirty,

Apostrophes are for possesives, and so
It is right that this use gets a place
In writing, as seen in the writer’s blue hat,
Or Aunt Margaret’s wizened old face.

The worst type of misuse I see in our craft —
The apostrophe-S used for plurals,
Like doggy’s for doggies, and pass’s for passes,
This apostrophe-S is my quarrel.

This isn’t so hard, then, as anyone older
Knew well ere they entered their teens.
With a roll of the eye and a shrug of the shoulder,
Even teachers don’t know what it means.

We’re becoming a far-less meticulous race.
Generations before this were knowing;
Separate the possesive apostrophe-S
From the plural, where ‘S shan’t be going.

Now try to remember, young writers, please try,
(And editors, ad-men, and printers,)
Learn the language before you take pen up to write;
Keep it safe, and not falling to splinters.

(I know that last line is a stretch, so I ask all you poets, don’t hate me forever
For taking the easier route for a rhyme.  As a tool, this is handy whenever.)

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The Blues

(With thanks to Wikipedia)

There’s royal blue and navy blue
And turquoise blue is bright
The aqua blue is almost white
With blue and green there, too

Then teal, midnight, and medium blue
Or azure, cobalt, iris
Or periwinkle, like a kiss
Denim and Maya blue

Celeste, cerulean, ultramarine
Cornflower, phthalo blue
There’s Persian blue and Prussian blue
Tiffany blue, with a touch of green

The color blue is many shades
I name these, only few
Through all the colors, I construe
My blues, at last, are now allayed

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Evening in the Bunkhouse

Soft tang of salt water, earthy scent of deep woods
The particular smell of muddy clam flats
Fish guts, gasoline, boat exhaust, old lobster traps
Seaweed, squishy, crabs and tiny shrimp in pools

Pink and gray and indigo the western sky
With clouds of white and gray and purple dark
Rain begins, spattered music plopping on the roof
Fat drops, stiff sea breeze pushing them on

Inside, the damp and oldy-moldy smell of bunks
Left unprotected from the leaky ceiling
Spiders scurry to dark corner webs, to lurk and glare
As clock runs down, and last flashlight fades

The cousin’s boxer farts, the bunkhouse smells of dog-shit
Big kids under the porch, smoking stolen cigarettes and
Sipping cheap beer, necking to soft radio rock
The stars come out, and raindrops end their song

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A Sonnet For Change

Lyrics of a life-song, composed for me
Melodies of melancholy now past
I gladly turn away from old ennui
Celebrate my life completely recast

New tunes of happy effort, gentle goals
Resounding mainly from within my heart
Incite response from body, mind, and soul
They bid me rise with joy to play my part

Of course, the days arise when I’m not strong
My weakness swells, I act defensively
But I am not the me whose years were long
In sadness and in fear — oppressively

My choice between the darkness and the bright
O’er nearly blinded, my soul chooses light

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Time to Write

Time comes for me to pen my words
On this, my poetry page.
My prose has had the starring role
While poems wait offstage.

Within me, rhymes intensify,
Insist to be set free,
Yet theme and subject oft’ elude
That poet-part of me.

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Spring

Another sunny day outdoors
My neighbors working springtime chores
On grass, fresh-sprouted, lovely green
Most brilliant spring I’ve ever seen

I hear the soft whine rise and fall
O’er new-mown grass, familiar smell
“Come springtime, come with quiet step
Release cold, stormy winter’s grip

Invite us out into the swell
Of blooming flowers’ glorious smell
Awaken in our souls the sun
Our bright abandon has begun”

Hot summer we anticipate
Behind, the winter’s chills abate
But now, the world’s life energy
With warm grip, captures eager me

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A Sonnet to my Someday Home


Where I want to live; you ask me to tell
Location in all the world where I most
So want to inhabit.  That’d be swell.
I’d choose a spot on a rocky, beach-y coast.
The Mediterranean that I love
Since childhood, when I first learned how to swim
With snorkel. The sun blazing high above
Clear teal and aqua, silent world, so dim.
I’d buy a white home, set quite near a cliff,
With outdoor kitchen and a bright blue door.
I’d be sure I lived near that cafe where
They cooked the fish I brought; food I adore.
At night, I’d sit in peace upon my roof,
And wonder at this lovely place I found.
Stars wink at me, as though to give me proof
That I have chosen well, let life abound.
My home on Santorini I would make,
And hope that big volcano doesn’t wake.

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