Cuckoo’s Tale
Her pale blue eyes scan the room
for the last time.
Blank walls where artwork and
clock once hung,
bare wood floors,
white lace curtains
and space everywhere.
Ghost shadows of two lovers frolic
around the room like playful gazelles.
They tease. They tempt.
Glide. Glide. They waltz with bare arms
entwined in delicious scents of love.
Swish. Swish. The curtains follow their
bodies when they swing by.
One may lead, the other follows.
One may trip, the other catches.
Framed Van Gogh and Warhol
soak up music of strings and horns
and laughter on the air.
Happy daisies in a milk glass vase
are a testament of bonds.
Him for her. Her for him.
They dance through life’s future.
Through babies and joys and sorrows
as the wise cuckoo pops out to
announce its secret.
She crosses to the door.
Sigh and footsteps echo.
Her hand trembles when she clicks the lock that
seals in the silent yearnings of the room
where memories, sweet as the grapes they shared,
hang translucent like the curtains
that once chased their love.
**
Shroomville in Mobile
Attention writers.
Come one, come all!
Any genre and style,
published and wannabes.
Join the communal free-for-all.
A first ever Drink N Scrawl
at the Mellow Mushroom pizza hall.
It is Shroomville in Mobile in June.
Not a tomb filled with gloom.
An inspired poet can croon to tunes
by the light of the balloon shaped moon
that looms in the blue
and maroon sky in a cartoon.
Swamp band explodes over walls.
Gator and squeeze box while
Shroom plunks the base.
Crawdads Dance.
Lightning bugs illuminate
A green swamp land world.
Shroomville is a place to laugh.
To revive our deep artistic self.
To spring fresh with new ideas.
To build creative skills.
To share our wealth of knowledge.
To encourage our life’s purpose.
Come one, come all
to the next Drink N Scrawl!
Even if you draw not scrawl.
With any drink or a frosty tall
iced tea you’ll have a ball
when you share with others like y’all.
**
Flying High With the Shroomville Fly
Saturday night at Mellow Mushroom’s
Shroomville is the place to be,
under the yellow canopy.
Heavy Alabama air
is lifted by a breeze that
flings our words everywhere
from writers who lounge there.
Phillip’s tale from his
book, “Golf and Grits”,
fills the air with belly laughs.
His story of baby boomer bikers
singing On the Road Again with packs
of Grecian Formula and Depends
make us buy his book.
I sip red wine from a long stem glass.
Plop! A fly backstrokes in the brew.
He’s drinking up my wine,
so I spoon him to the table.
We watch Fly rub his legs,
stumble forward, rub again,
again, again, again.
Let it be recorded
on this night in July a
group of cheerful folks
witness a high fly
who after many tries
cannot say goodbye
until his wings are dry.
Then, like his name, Fly
lifts through sultry air to
zigzag far and high.
No one swats Fly. Why?
Could it be we know
what it means to
try, try, try to fly?
