Poet/Image Artist Hannah Gosselin (and Fin)

Poet/Image Artist
Hannah Gosselin
(and Fin)

This week our co-host is someone who I have looked forward to working with since the concept of co-hosts came to fruition. This poet brings a smile to many faces just by intoning that simple word. SMILES. In developing her blog, we talked about that aspect of her work and in that chat the title “Metaphors and Smiles” (as opposed to similies) came to light and she certainly brought that site into prominence. A true poetic soul grounded in her faith and family and a poetic friend to any and all poets who come to know the name, Hannah Gosselin!


Hannah Gosselin’s song is one inspired of natural beauty. She seeks words early and feels complete in the daily practice of heart-spilling ink to page. She finds that there’re poems begging to be written, hidden and waiting – like the still, seeded center of dandelion…there’s so much poetic potential in each day. 

Hannah’s words find footing @ her writing, (and sometimes photography), blog Metaphors and Smiles.

PROMPT #145 “NOTHING FOR GRANTED” Our lives are guided by our hearts and logic, and sometimes with both at odds. The influences in our personal domains are as varied as there are stars in the skies. But for every big moment in our daily living, it is the small sparks of life that we seek. Every little thing influences our lives. You are asked to pick something others would consider insignificant and give it its due.



Poems that prod,
nods to God,
tilling the sod,
musical notes,
famous quotes,
boats that float,
crystal skies,
bright blue eyes,
cherry pies,
rhyming things,
things with wings,
kids that sing,
chocolate cake,
the eerie lake,
goodness sake,
welcome guests,
doing my best,
my beating chest,
folks worthwhile,
carried in style,
a heart felt smile.
valued treasures,
easy measures,
Simple pleasures.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



A Drive-by (Mental) Snapshot

As pulse beats blue
three large dark birds
burn permanently
an image on my mind:
Crows hold the center line,
afield, where snow has let go-
where the yellowed grass shows;
beneath the pines
feathers shine iridescent
with sudden spring sun.
And this,
this is indelible-
a moment
fast-fixed to my soul.

Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014



    in wintertime
    may greet each passing car
    with wanton white bursts of sparkling
    horned larks.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  2. Hannah and Walt, your examples are just superb, and a bit sneaky here and there (“eerie lake’). The topic recalls, for me, Robert Service’s Little Things, which I’ve always loved even though it seems to be universally scorned as bad poetry.


    This cold.
    is invigorating,
    lending its strange grace to a life
    well braced.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  4. We’re here for the whole trip,
    to catch each moment while we can;
    to celebrate life and live it all
    so we don’t miss out on paradise.
    Take everything that’s on the platter,
    wring every last crumb that’s on offer.
    Let nothing and no-one moulder
    unnappreciated, unrecorded –
    the bent old man who sweeps the gutter,
    the lover who makes me sing for joy;
    returning leaves in Spring;
    Summer and Autumn, nature’s bling.

    Put words in a row to make a line,
    bake lines into poems to shout aloud,
    then hurry along with the golden motley.

    I made this poem out of today’s wordle words at The Sunday Whirl = which had popped into my inbox as I was cogitating Hannah’s prompt.

  5. A lot has been going on lately, and I haven’t really felt up to writing poetry or commenting on here very much. So here’s another older piece. I hope to read everyone else’s soon. 🙂

    Little Glass Jars (Saraband)

    Little glass jars standing neatly
    On a windowsill in a line,
    Magnify sunlight intensely:
    Changing, shifting with the weather,
    Rainbows dancing, light reflecting,
    Growing dimmer, growing brighter,
    Filled with light, still more collecting;

    Collecting and then spilling out,
    As we are to receive His word
    And let it, in great streams, pour out:
    Washing, cleansing, peaceful healing,
    Steadily giving as we get,
    To our neighbors life imparting,
    Hands held open to receive Him.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  6. Unlost

    found a
    pebble with
    a roadmap for
    an ant: I traced a zigzag, random line
    with my finger, one end to the other
    and discovered
    how to find
    my way


  7. Morning Hannah and co!


    The seemingly
    Insignificant things
    Attributed little value
    Is for the birds
    The tiny
    feathered beasts
    Shallow honor
    As expendable
    Left to sheets of wind
    With open wings
    But catches the mind
    Of Mother Nature
    Whose skilled warblers
    Bring opera voice to forest
    Whose spirited song
    Weathers a chorus
    For us in the ecstasy
    Of the moment
    Whose imperial woodpecker
    Rocks every tree
    As he pleases
    Until we all march
    To the beat
    Of a different drummer

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  8. Breath by Breath We Live

    Each breath
    We take
    Is a blessing
    We rake
    From the royal
    Sky beryl lake
    Above us
    Around us
    Within us
    As well as
    The parts
    Of us
    We expend
    Or hate
    And try to
    Someone else
    Always inhales
    What we
    From ourselves
    Takes it in
    As breath
    As energy
    To survive
    By the next

    How the world
    In synergy
    This beryl-blue
    Mutual energy
    Is shared
    Breath by breath
    Into our account
    Quite the business
    Of human

    We sever
    From others
    A helping hand
    Loving brother
    A sister
    Cherishing mother
    We no longer
    That next breath
    From others
    The beryl lake
    The blessings
    Waste in stillness
    And never makes
    Another ripple
    Silent lies
    No longer
    Dried stiff
    A sad shift
    To earthy brown

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas


    the child found in
    the April grass
    the swallow that perished
    in the snows of March

    she held the little bird
    in her warm hands
    hoping to bring it
    back to what it was

    imagined its stiff wings
    remembered flight
    enough to flutter upwards
    towards the tall sycamore



    she can make wishes beneath
    the evening sky one star at a time
    until she covers all she sees
    fills her head like a basket
    with dreams to last a lifetime

    but the stars have no clue
    about the wants of a child
    the wish list she keeps secret
    in the diary pages of her mind
    the stars are too far away

    too preoccupied with twinkling
    in outer space to hear her
    too hard-pressed to figure out
    what they could do to please her
    but every night she shouts
    to the sky one more wish



    therefore I am
    of an afternoon
    at Wal-mart
    years ago when
    my job was
    pushing a day cart
    and Ergo Sum
    was my boss
    a mean old Latin
    who never thought
    things out
    and one morning
    in his office
    sat me down
    and said
    hellish vapors)
    “Cogito, you’re fired!”



    sun (she said
    she’s bored) light
    filters through
    clouds (eyes
    covered with
    fear dark enough
    (star) to squeeze
    dry a stone’s throw
    from (light)
    this place of ennui
    to (make one more
    wish) undisturbed
    (tonight) sleep


  13. A Pebble

    I keep a pebble in my purse
    Reminding me to write
    For it’s the mundane things of life
    That parallel our plight

    A pebble’s often overlooked
    It takes a special mind
    To see the beauty in the small
    To seek gold and to find

    I keep a pebble in my purse
    I know it may sound strange
    But there it is reminding me
    When I go look for change

    To see the trivial and bland
    With fresh and skillful eye
    And sprinkled with incredulity
    To spark a grand insight

    I keep a pebble in my purse
    With it I can relate
    For it’s the teeny tiny things
    That just may turn our fate


    how easily
    it slips into
    the things we do.

    With only work
    you are a jerk!
    But, dull is dull,
    and what we cull,
    when nothing new
    we choose to do.

    Pick out a day…
    we go our way
    and seldom stop
    to give bold thought –
    or find some new
    fun things to do.

    Things to spark..
    to give a lark.
    A job begun.
    A job well done.
    To stand and fight
    for what is right.
    To give a smile,
    to walk a mile,
    Smell the flowers,
    watch clouds for hours.

    Before to late,
    let’s celebrate!
    Trace a sunbeam,
    share pink ice-cream!
    a life serene.
    When wine and cheese
    in moon-light please,
    ending those days
    in special ways.

    We need to play
    a bit each day!
    A ball to fling,
    a song to sing….
    So let the child,
    quick, bold or mild,
    who freely gives,
    who in you lives,
    expand it’s wings
    to do new things.

  15. (Harrisham)

    Moments of Bliss
    Tired from weeding on achy knees
    Doddering, I rise and lift my eyes to the sky
    Gracefully, tree tops sway in lofty breeze
    Yawping hawk glides on airy currents
    Greedily this moment I seize, then
    Yielding to exquisite joy I sigh

  16. There’s Nothing like the Four Seasons

    There’s nothing
    Like a bold hug
    In the artic plunge
    Of winter

    There’s nothing
    Like the perky kiss
    Of Spring
    When things are
    Livening up

    There’s nothing
    Like a fresh exhortation
    To cool things down
    In the blazing heat
    Of Summer

    There’s nothing
    Like “I’m sorry”
    When things fall awry
    Your own leaves retreat
    And the fruit vanishes

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  17. Like Bourbon it’s Best Aged

    Can it be possible
    you look at me and see
    something I don’t see?
    You fell in love,
    I can understand that,
    cause love is blind they say.
    What puzzles me is that you stay –
    not stay with me, you’re a faithful man,
    but stay in love with this old crone
    of loose flesh and thinning bone.

    Can it be possible
    after all this time
    of plodding forward arm in arm
    you forgive the passing years
    and gravity for the damage
    to sweet young flesh?
    Can overlook reality
    and view instead
    with eyes that gently see
    what is the true, authentic me?

    Can it be possible?
    Oh, yes.


    A whole world
    spreads out before me:
    tall and wide,
    yet inside
    the clear magnifying lens
    of one lone dewdrop.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  19. Nothing much
    I racked my brains to find that something
    insignigicant, to write about
    I tapped my eager fingers with hope
    In a ‘ready set go’ motion on the keyboard
    Thoughts leaped like microwave popcorn
    but were missing salt
    I tried to write about broken slippers
    Dead flowers, empty pages, trash cans
    Gibberish, still air, rotted food, pointless moves
    that fading old man barely breathing, alone
    or the rock, paper, scissors, shoots
    but I couldn’t find that unimportant stamp
    I guessed I missed the mark
    One thing that poetry has defined for me
    ( and I’m fairly new, ordinary, at this)
    is that simple things have values granted
    in their square roots, not necessarily numerical
    Even a broken piece of junk , nothing much
    Can shine with magic fairy dust


    The gulls are gleaning in the field;
    the warmth is coming back to Earth;
    in search of sunlight’s early yield
    the gulls are gleaning in the field
    where life, no longer hard congealed,
    is almost giddy in its mirth.
    The gulls are gleaning. In the field,
    the warmth is coming back to Earth.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  21. Happy Hour

    The monotony of myriad shoes shuffling atop
    seasoned carpets, crinkled faces browsing in biography,
    a lingering with Dante, Chaucer, medieval crosses.

    The crackle of book covers spilling from stacks,
    frisky pages dog-eared in haste, the taste of
    adventure, the thrill of the hunt. Kissing whispers hushed
    between Steinbeck and Faulkner.

    Furrowed librarian brows.

    Searching for Lost Time with Proust.

    A dozen fingers clacking keyboards exploring
    endless exploring for letters
    leashed and bound
    that may entice, tempt, and woo
    inkhorns and bookworms
    to indulge in yet another whimsical

  22. Petrichor & Cinnamon

    Olé Olfaction!
    nasal receptors
    spring into action
    aromatic delights
    lift the spirits
    with flights
    of fancy and fantasy
    endorphin induced
    natural ecstasy
    a fresh mown lawn
    green leaf volatiles
    from blades newly torn
    odor of the baker’s ware
    wafting breezily
    through the air
    brings a smile to the weary
    high street passenger
    the glum feel cheery
    fresh roasting coffee beans
    fill tired hearts with hope
    and revitalize their dreams
    sizzling bacon on the grill
    makes vegetarians
    lose their will
    cinnamon acts like no other
    pleasing men alone
    just like a lover
    but the very finest scent
    comes with rainbows
    as though heaven sent
    Petrichor follows the rain
    paving the way for the fresh:
    pause, reflect; start again


  23. Small Gifts

    By David De Jong

    First light of morning, lifts the shade,
    While evening’s stars, relent and fade.
    Songbirds sing and coax the day,
    Telling nocturnals; “Slip away”.

    Tender pods asleep in the earth,
    Reach for heaven, in joyous birth.
    Infant sprouts shed their harvest home,
    As resurrecting from their tomb.

    A season of storms, tests their will,
    Sunlight and calm, blesses their fill.
    Blossoms of grandeur, nectar breeze,
    Creation’s wonders, all from seeds.

    Some grow once and fall to their knees,
    Some grow old into ancient trees.
    Bearing fruit in which way they can,
    Sharing blessings from hand to hand.

    Bringing sweet tastes of joy, soft scents of love,
    These small gifts reaching for heaven above.

  24. A Day in Shadows

    The Monarch Sun stretches it’s rayed wings
    Casts a sliver-shadow on a host of things
    Whose cleaving image grasps our every move
    Like something’s up it’s sleeve or point to prove
    Does this fly with spoken or written word?
    Does it cast a shadow like the daytime bird?

    Would twin graceful triolets come to dance a ballet?
    One the sliver-shadow, and the other accepting ray?
    Like a fine-mirrored bird
    Reflecting the light, returns to Monarch on a one way flight?

    Would words refract the gifted light that it lends? Manipulate direction like an optic lens?
    Could it distribute the light and make it mend?
    Like a parceled rainbow, or a hue for a friend?

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  25. Ordinary Blades

    Wielded green of balmy gust,
    through heart of ice and flurry thrust,
    verdant fight to gain sky’s trust.

    Velvet rug for hungry feet,
    peaceful wave of sharpened sea,
    swords of spring held high for me.

  26. Pingback: Ordinary Blades | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  27. Breath of Life (a Shadorma)

    First breathe in,
    and then out again.
    Simply done.

    Only when
    each one becomes an effort,
    that we are grateful.

    Ellen Evans (c) Copyright – 2014
    [A “simple things” poem for CB 3.9.14]


    An asthmatic, quite the old geezer,
    had for years been a cougher and wheezer,
    and when colds would take hold
    he was hardly paroled:
    the old geezer was wheezer and sneezer.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston


    gathered from life
    were saved for a later date,
    when time allowed for reflection
    on words hidden away.

    The tales
    she recorded
    remained forever unread
    when memories dissipated
    and fled from her mind.

    became empty,
    no names or places recalled.
    Her tired and spiritless eyes
    could never bring them back.

    Her words
    saved for later
    now languish on dusty shelves.
    Never promised a tomorrow,
    today was lost to time.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  30. Come, Walk with Me

    As a surveyor of all things natural
    I have spent hours watching the minutest insects
    scurry and plod along, grooming, collecting, singing,
    or just moving fascinated by the differences
    and the subtle similarities of daily life.

    I’ve gone on the hunt of the elusive predators of the sky
    shooting thousands of images for my perusal and yours,
    consumed by the beauty and grace inherit
    in the cycle of survival, life and death –
    awestruck with wonder.

    I’ve sat for hours in the elements
    trying to capture nature’s most frightening ventures
    from a sheltered safe distance, with
    one wary eye on my immediate surroundings
    and the other cast away, waiting.

    I take advantage of all nature has to offer me
    from watery flukes to dry dances, but I do not
    take the offerings for granted. I hold each one
    dearly in my heart and mind,
    thankful for the gift.

    Collecting and storing each instance
    for enjoyment in this life,
    and while I do not know for certain
    what happens after death…
    I’m thinking (hoping) the next plane of existence
    must be at least as beautiful as this one.

  31. Ah, another week of the good stuff. I’ll be back later to comment on all the lovely verse. Until then, Hello, Hannah. It’s so good to see you here, behind the wheel of the garden cart.

    I have one poem for now and will have another soon. Enjoy, all.


    It takes up no space,
    Yet creates it for us,
    As we move from place to place,
    Eager and most generous.

    It allows us to reach,
    Forward or back;
    Whether on a sandy beach
    Or along a mountain track.

    Without it, our lives
    Narrow, seize up;
    Trades Sunday drives
    For time with a teacup.

    Fear erodes confidence
    As depth fades away.

  32. I’ll leave this one and come again later to read and enjoy everyone else’s work.

    A Little Opposition

    Bend it, make it
    Do all those things
    Required of it,
    During your flings.

    Keep it,
    Whatever else you do,
    Never let it
    Come to harm or you’ll

    Learn its
    Loss will change your life
    As its
    Absence creates only strife.

    Hold on tight
    To your lowly thumb.

  33. I might be spilling this week – my daughter died 6 tears ago this Thursday.

    Anyhow, I wrote about a worn teddy bear which others would throw away. 🙂

    Of Jolene

    Where is Michael?
    Velveteen bear rescued from the rubbish
    Matted, lumpy, dirty and broken
    No velvet nor bow of satin
    Only a memory of the way things were

    Where was Michael born?
    Brown head, red bow and beady black eyes
    Popped out of paper of green, red and blue
    Gift-giver sings of the manger
    Infant slumbers calm the fears

    Where is Michael?
    Joins his brothers on the shelf, forgotten
    Talisman of happy time
    Phone rings, Michael clutched to breast
    Michael is found, but his mother is lost

    Where is Jolene? With Michael, next to my heart

    • This is heart wrenching and, although I suppose it’s a typo, “6 tears ago” is especially poignant.

    • Yes, Darlene – “six tears ago” makes this all the more poignant, and it was plenty that in the first place. I always find myself thinking and saying, parents should never have to bury their children, believing it to be the most un-natural and difficult thing imaginable…You have recounted your sadness in a most remarkable way Darlene, using Michael as the intermediary, and it makes the telling all the more powerful. I applaud your courage while my heart aches for you.

    • I’m spilling with you on this one, Darlene. By the end, I was in tears. Lovely and sad, sweet and sorrowful. Blessings, for each must be present to acknowledge the other.

    • Thanks for the heartfelt encouragement. I was trying to think of what is overlooked,, and eventually made my way to the teddy bear. Joy is a choice, to some extent, but this I need to honor Jolene’s memory.

    • Darlene, you continue to astound me with your poetry. I think I like this one the best so far.

  34. The Little Things

    I trudge slowly to the kitchen
    Eyes half open and half closed
    Now sure how I got this cup of coffee
    Or how I ended up in the kitchen
    I look down
    There’s the reason
    Thank you, feet

    Blue tooth plays my favorite tune
    Wife on the other end of the call
    We talk sometimes about nothing at all
    Ending all conversations with, “I love you”
    Forgetting, of course, to thank
    Our ears and voices

    Thoughts come quickly, pages pile
    Brain on auto pilot, cursor flies
    One page, two pages, three and more
    Thirty written on reflex alone
    Break time, grab the water bottle
    Oh, and thanks fingers
    You are so fast on those keys

    Now I lay me down to sleep
    Tired from the hours past
    Tired from doing and writing
    From running errands and working
    Pray a prayer of thanks for everything
    Especially those things taken for granted
    All gifts passed down from Heaven

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

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  37. Wow ! Y’all have been busy! I am working in the dar on my iPad in a guesthouse near Port-au-Prince so I could keep it from automatically capitalizing the first of each line. Pretend I didn’t.

    Dust cloth

    Riding in the covered truckbed
    Benches lining the sides,
    We kept stopping for children
    In nearly matching uniforms,
    Yellow and navy, the smallest
    Wagging his lunch in a Bud Lite
    Backpack, his older brother, six
    Perhaps, with My Little Pony.
    We all scooted closer for our ride
    Through Port-au-Prince, horns
    Signaling the passing tap taps
    And motorcycles. Mountains
    Rose in the distance, a sharp
    Contrast to the hovels, concrete
    Block houses, piles of rocks,
    Their Mizpah, an unnecessary
    Reminder of the quake. Dust
    Covered everything, a weary
    Veneer. We considered shopping
    Around for foot washing Baptists.
    Reaching the tin and cinder lock
    Church, before we disembarked
    I saw an old pair of gym trunks,
    Left behind, I presumed, but
    By whom? Then each child bent,
    Picked up the cloth and gave
    A quick shine to their shoes,
    Insistent on theirSunday best.

    N. Posey

  38. Savory Wisdom

    An aged woman
    Is like
    Antiquated wine
    With sage wisdom
    Shaped in a bottle
    Until savory
    Slow timed
    For delivery
    As amber dew
    Sherry wine

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  39. This is a bit of an older, reworked piece but will have to do I think…


    An unremarkable life, for all that
    mine was, and taken for granted just so
    Neither rich nor poor but, a good marriage,
    great kids; and, ‘we had our health’

    After all, you cannot ask for more really
    until, you wish you had, asked at least
    to keep what you had, or barring that:
    Learned the value of it while you had it

    Before the dragons, licking ’round the gates,
    their tongues of fire, charring
    just the surfaces of cells and synapses,
    crumbling what was real and what was not

    Until, they—the demon stuff of fairy tales
    and nightmares—became commonplace
    inhabiting most of every day and all of every night
    And the stranger in the mirror laughed

    Insisted the only way to slay those dragons
    was to actually slaughter them. It took
    everything you had left to stay their noise,
    go to ground, unreachable, for now.


  40. Walt, loved your “Simple Pleasures”! And, Hannah, have enjoyed similar “Drive-by (Mental) Snapshot” moments! Thanks for both of these. Running out of time, so posting & hoping to get back later for more. :-/

  41. A long-winded (& maybe odd) response to this prompt. Sorry! I was intending to write something more positive & upbeat, but this one just kept nagging me… and it does, somewhat, meet the requirements: “pick something others would consider insignificant and give it its due.”


    Guilty. He
    never saw it coming
    (wrong place, wrong time), this
    black masked bandit
    crept from the dark,
    stepped into headlamp glare,
    stopped, stared,
    rose up and froze, showing only
    eyes – glinting light
    at the height of a toddler;
    too late to brake, insufficient space,
    tight swerve, a percussive thud
    (thump, lump in gut and throat)
    catapulted to the curb;
    only a moment of brief relief at the realization –
    no child, but a beast, (nightly marauder,
    pilferer of garbage cans and bird feeders) –
    before traffic resumed,
    cars once again passing without pause.
    Everyone going somewhere…
    else. (Too busy. Too late. Nothing to be done.)
    Did any wonder what became of him?
    Guilty. She
    stole things at night,
    breaking and entering,
    thinking (perhaps), no one would know or care.
    It was cold, the house – warm, inviting.
    Who would miss this
    crust of bread, that
    bit of chocolate? But
    she was wrong; she didn’t belong here;
    her welcome — just an illusion.
    The intrusion detected,
    traps were baited, set,
    entrances sealed.
    She was snagged, bagged,
    (still clinging, barely, to life),
    and summarily disposed of.

    Guilty. This squatter
    did nothing wrong, only
    set up housekeeping
    outside in the open air,
    beside my own back door.
    Huge, hairy, scary and
    a tad too close for comfort.
    Silken lines stretched, spanned
    from window to basement bulkhead.
    This would never do, so
    heavy handed with an aerosol can
    (staying a wary distance away)
    I dispatched the intruder,
    leaving the body dangling –
    not bold enough
    to approach so close.
    Regrets came later.
    (They always do.)
    Manslaughter, entrapment,
    premeditated murder.


  42. Must pause here for a juried art show. I’ll return later to pick up where I left off. I’m loving what everyone has done so far. 🙂

  43. Signature Scent

    Years later, he saw her
    snapping a picture
    of blooming lilac bushes
    in the gardens. Maybe,
    he thought, I am mistaken.
    So many years had fluttered
    away, petals falling
    from a rose. He drew near,
    and a fragrance filled his
    senses. She still wore
    that same permeating perfume.
    He could never forget
    that haunting scent, and all
    those memories that went
    with it. They would linger
    a lifetime.

  44. The Nature of the Beast



    The beast





    The feast



    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  45. Such good poems here. Power outage for 4 days until cell phones and laptops died reminded me of small things I so often take for granted. Morning coffee, for example. A hot shower. Hmmm. Another poem? a sonnet this time.


    An oak leaf spread and veined like granny hands,
    a shriveled bulb that lifts its head a flower,
    a pink-lipped shell, a raccoon’s mask and bands,
    a woodland stream, a trout, a mossy bower,

    a single feather’s weight and will to fly,
    a rainbow’s spectrum arched after a rain,
    a zebra’s stripes, hawks’ keens, and tiger’s eye,
    a sunset’s rose and gold like day’s refrain,

    a caterpillar on a lacy weed,
    all wild things drinking from a crystal pond,
    a songbird’s flit and praise of flower seed,
    create a web, a universal bond.

    We witness wonders, possibilities,
    inducting us into life’s mysteries.

  46. A thousand reasons of insignificance

    How insignificant
    Is a thousand feet.
    Tap dancing
    In cadence…
    Piano’s rhythm
    In sync to feet.

    Broadway’s dapper
    Tap dancer:
    Come see now
    The pre-chyrsalis show!

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

    • Ben, your work is delightful… this last one made me smile and I recall a joke someone once told… of course I cannot remember all the little details of it, but the ending made me burst out laughing. It was something about an acquaintance of a caterpillar asking it to go for a walk… the acquaintance waited and waited and waited, and finally asked WHY it was taking so long… to which the caterpillar replied: “… wait! I’m putting on my shoes!!” Ha, ha, ha… 😀 !!

  47. Mirror Talk

    Objects are closer
    Than they appear.
    The real you,
    Is near.

    Behold and ponder,
    The true nature
    Of things.

    Tell me,
    What do you see?
    Or rather, perceive?

    We definitely don’t
    See eye to eye
    On everything.
    But let’s be clear,
    there can be only one

    Please don’t confuse
    Me for a mistaken
    Reflection of water.
    To cast a stone
    Rid yourself
    Of reality.

    When the ripples dissipate,
    The waters lie still,
    The true image always returns.

    Close your eyes.
    Count to three.

    This time,
    When you open
    Your eyes,
    See yourself
    In a new light.

    And just remember…
    I’m a mirror,
    Not a measuring stick.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  48. Poetry: The Written Arrow

    Not so.
    Voices spent
    Hearts in tow.

    Pulled by
    Written arrows
    With ropes intact.
    Hauls across
    Lands and sea
    In fact.

    Each reaches
    Quick for quiver,
    Considers his aim.
    Sees the mark.
    Says its fair game.
    Arrows delivered.
    Thrill is the same.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  49. Irresistible Splurge

    Can’t resist…
    The red eye flight
    Weighing of word
    At high altitude
    Skiing on cloud
    In multitude

    Must be…
    Weakness of Will
    To pen or quill
    Must rise up
    Once more
    And fill
    With word
    Ink a thought
    And write again

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas


    Is an extract
    Of heart

    A solution
    An essence read

    An organic ingredient
    In crafting bread

    A concentration
    Of thought

    Words wasted
    When spoken
    Fall dead

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas


    (fun prompt! whew-hew!)

    A mourning maple tree;
    Attempts to mind
    Her manners
    When her leaves
    Submit to season’s ground,
    And She’s left
    Exposed to the elements,
    Her crown no longer found.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  52. Forgotten Art

    Poetry is art;
    Like Claude Monet, lively as Leonardo Davinci,
    Pensive Picasso and
    Musical composure of Mozart.
    Startlingly scenic as Ansel Adams.
    Although everything is not black and white,
    As it may seem, but as dreams are painted it steam rolls with a barrel of color.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  53. Pingback: Home Alone | echoes from the silence

  54. Finally getting a chance to catch up on reading. You people are trying to make my brain explode with all this incredible poetry, aren’t you? 😉 I am humbled to be in your company, all of you!

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