The River
The River I want to go down the river one more time, see clear blue sky reflected in pools beyond white foam, dirty brown soup of choppy waves below the rapids. The river is what I want, that and wildflowers, leaves turning colors shivering in the wind, rainbows in the fall.
Recipe for Love Take two marginally sane people. Place in a large mixing cup. Add vodka, sugar and lemon juice. Set Vodka on fire. Add ice, quickly. Serve shaken.
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I just updated my recent post, poems from the Avocet, with an audio recording.
Poems from the Avocet
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These four poems appeared in the most recent issue of The Weekly Avocet, a weekly publication from The Avocet. Mockingbird has no song of his own. He mimics every bird that flies by. Like some people I know, the mockingbird remembers and repeats idle gossip. Ray Zimmerman, Chattanooga, Tennessee, znaturalist (at) yahoo.com
That last one!
Yes - the second poem hit me hard when I wrote it.