Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Pantoum
October 11, 2014
Completely Me
My paint brush sketches how I see
The world to be.
For tools, my eyes
Will improvise.
As visions, shapes and colors dance,
It’s not by chance,
They find their way
To rag or clay.
But pencil tells a different tale.
Fierce thoughts exhale.
Emotions fill
The waiting quill.
Expressing everything inside,
Leaves none to hide.
Completely me
Through poetry.
Type of Poetry - Pantoum
October 11, 2014
Completely Me
My paint brush sketches how I see
The world to be.
For tools, my eyes
Will improvise.
As visions, shapes and colors dance,
It’s not by chance,
They find their way
To rag or clay.
But pencil tells a different tale.
Fierce thoughts exhale.
Emotions fill
The waiting quill.
Expressing everything inside,
Leaves none to hide.
Completely me
Through poetry.
***************************************************************************************************************************************
Digital drawing by Bonnie Ellen Jacobson, done with a photograph, IPad Pro, Apple Pen, and the App, "Procreate". The poetry below is about that pony tail.
Digital drawing by Bonnie Ellen Jacobson, done with a photograph, IPad Pro, Apple Pen, and the App, "Procreate". The poetry below is about that pony tail.
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of poetry - Pantoum
October, 2009
A Moment’s Bliss
Oh, why had she walked toward him, with that ponytail swinging;
Smiling at him, briefly, with an energy that made her glow?
Blissfully transfixed, the boy’s heart began singing,
To the rhythm of a body that swayed blond hair to and fro.
Smiling at him, briefly, with an energy that made her glow,
She waved, just a twitch, reestablishing his heartbeat,
To the rhythm of a body that swayed blond hair to and fro;
Caused by pithy recognition and a moment bittersweet.
She waved, just a twitch, reestablishing his heartbeat,
Fantasy and bliss soared through the young man’s mind,
Caused by pithy recognition and a moment bittersweet.
How painful. He was simply an acquaintance; their lives were unaligned.
Fantasy and pleasure soared through the young man’s mind.
Blissfully transfixed, the boy’s heart began singing.
How painful. He was simply an acquaintance. Their lives were unaligned.
Oh, why had she walked toward him, with that ponytail swinging?
Type of poetry - Pantoum
October, 2009
A Moment’s Bliss
Oh, why had she walked toward him, with that ponytail swinging;
Smiling at him, briefly, with an energy that made her glow?
Blissfully transfixed, the boy’s heart began singing,
To the rhythm of a body that swayed blond hair to and fro.
Smiling at him, briefly, with an energy that made her glow,
She waved, just a twitch, reestablishing his heartbeat,
To the rhythm of a body that swayed blond hair to and fro;
Caused by pithy recognition and a moment bittersweet.
She waved, just a twitch, reestablishing his heartbeat,
Fantasy and bliss soared through the young man’s mind,
Caused by pithy recognition and a moment bittersweet.
How painful. He was simply an acquaintance; their lives were unaligned.
Fantasy and pleasure soared through the young man’s mind.
Blissfully transfixed, the boy’s heart began singing.
How painful. He was simply an acquaintance. Their lives were unaligned.
Oh, why had she walked toward him, with that ponytail swinging?
**************************************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Free Form
June 16, 2000
An Almost Perfect Summer Morning
Sasha and I wandered out into the garden
Which was wet with morning dew,
And the remains of a soft, blanketing fog.
The sun had inched it’s way north,
And now bobbed upon the water directly east of the house.
A morning fuzz of grey-blue salt marshes floated in silhouettes
Over the smooth, calm water of the bay.
One slim white egret posed graciously for me on a nearby piling.
A variety of birds sang in harmony,
A mosquito hummed in my ear.
Serveral gnats began to gnaw on my legs, neck and face.
The dog, one size taller than the blades of grass,
Began barking at the family of large Canadian geese gliding by.
Tiny green crawling bugs, shaken from the Locust tree,
Landed on my arms, and more than likely in my hair.
The sun disappeared into greying clouds.
Three fisherman motored by,
Their thirst for a lady standing in her robe
Was quickly quelled by a couple of brewskies
Swallowed whole at 6:02 in the morning.
The buzzing mosquitos chose to call me breakfast.
I became a repast for the gnats.
Dessert for the green crawlies.
I gave up on the morning
And followed my soaking wet, scratching dog
Back into the great indoors.
Type of Poetry - Free Form
June 16, 2000
An Almost Perfect Summer Morning
Sasha and I wandered out into the garden
Which was wet with morning dew,
And the remains of a soft, blanketing fog.
The sun had inched it’s way north,
And now bobbed upon the water directly east of the house.
A morning fuzz of grey-blue salt marshes floated in silhouettes
Over the smooth, calm water of the bay.
One slim white egret posed graciously for me on a nearby piling.
A variety of birds sang in harmony,
A mosquito hummed in my ear.
Serveral gnats began to gnaw on my legs, neck and face.
The dog, one size taller than the blades of grass,
Began barking at the family of large Canadian geese gliding by.
Tiny green crawling bugs, shaken from the Locust tree,
Landed on my arms, and more than likely in my hair.
The sun disappeared into greying clouds.
Three fisherman motored by,
Their thirst for a lady standing in her robe
Was quickly quelled by a couple of brewskies
Swallowed whole at 6:02 in the morning.
The buzzing mosquitos chose to call me breakfast.
I became a repast for the gnats.
Dessert for the green crawlies.
I gave up on the morning
And followed my soaking wet, scratching dog
Back into the great indoors.
*************************************************************************************
A very early Watercolor of Watch Hill, Long Island, New York
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Free Form
October 20, 1985
A Good Day at Watch Hill
We are a sleek boat glazing the water,
Passing young, strong clammers digging deep within Long Island’s Intercoastal.
Working the sand to bring up nature’s delicacies.
We take the time to wave and smile.
It will be a good day.
Watch Hill dead on!
A sailboat glides passed buoy markers,
Street signs on the bay.
Another year has come and gone.
We have changed but the magic of the dunes remains the same.
Slip chosen, lines tied neatly,
Coiled upon the dock,
Sleeping circles within circles,
Snuggled tightly next to their cleat.
The sun sits high overhead,
Browning little bodies as they run to raise their multicolored kites.
The breezes joyfully lift the bright pieces of fluff,
Filling the soft blue sky with dots of rainbow
That dance, bounce, and dive,
Like delighted children in a summer pool.
A tiny, four year old with long, unkempt braids,
A chocolate mouth and delicate little fingers waves “Hi.”
It will be a good day.
Bodies lotioned and smelling like July,
Walk together on the beach.
The cold ocean water greets their toes playfully,
Then disappears into the sand.
The way back taken on the boardwalk
Cuts through dense green dunes,
Dappled with purple bayberries and bright pink, wild roses.
From the top of the hill the marina below sparkles,
As the sunlight bounces off the masts of sailboats set in orderly rows,
And to the south,
Picnic baskets, toddler-trampled beach blankets,
Puppies panting to cool themselves,
And a large white, weather-beaten lifeguard stand.
Large cold drinks, a borrowed barbecue grill, toasts to neighbor boats,
Then a stroll along a walk,
Almost hidden by tall, slender reeds,
To the opening of the bay.
Who so cleverly placed massive rocks about,
Like loveseats in God’s Parlor?
The sun has shed her skin and grown into a giant red star.
She gracefully lowers herself into her own reflection,
Like a magician, turning the waters crimson, mauve and gold.
A misty breeze sends tiny currents of twinkling pastels.
It will be a good night.
Donned in Watch Hill finery,
Cozy clothes for chilly summer nights,
Perfumed with bug spray,
A final walk to watch the ocean birth the freshly eclipsed moon.
And as the rise of hill is reached, the moon is waiting there,
A giant Halloween pumpkin,
Bouncing on the ocean, smiling at us.
Breaths catch at the view and souls smile.
With wonder, the trail of orange slips to silver white.
The ocean sprays out diamonds,
The dunes sit silhouetted against a seal-skin sky.
Mysterious lights dot the beach,
Approaching quickly.
They are children, enjoying the shine from their flashlights.
You can hear their happiness, it’s infectious.
Their giggles make you laugh.
And through the black night their beams wave a greeting of joy.
It has been a good day.
Type of Poetry - Free Form
October 20, 1985
A Good Day at Watch Hill
We are a sleek boat glazing the water,
Passing young, strong clammers digging deep within Long Island’s Intercoastal.
Working the sand to bring up nature’s delicacies.
We take the time to wave and smile.
It will be a good day.
Watch Hill dead on!
A sailboat glides passed buoy markers,
Street signs on the bay.
Another year has come and gone.
We have changed but the magic of the dunes remains the same.
Slip chosen, lines tied neatly,
Coiled upon the dock,
Sleeping circles within circles,
Snuggled tightly next to their cleat.
The sun sits high overhead,
Browning little bodies as they run to raise their multicolored kites.
The breezes joyfully lift the bright pieces of fluff,
Filling the soft blue sky with dots of rainbow
That dance, bounce, and dive,
Like delighted children in a summer pool.
A tiny, four year old with long, unkempt braids,
A chocolate mouth and delicate little fingers waves “Hi.”
It will be a good day.
Bodies lotioned and smelling like July,
Walk together on the beach.
The cold ocean water greets their toes playfully,
Then disappears into the sand.
The way back taken on the boardwalk
Cuts through dense green dunes,
Dappled with purple bayberries and bright pink, wild roses.
From the top of the hill the marina below sparkles,
As the sunlight bounces off the masts of sailboats set in orderly rows,
And to the south,
Picnic baskets, toddler-trampled beach blankets,
Puppies panting to cool themselves,
And a large white, weather-beaten lifeguard stand.
Large cold drinks, a borrowed barbecue grill, toasts to neighbor boats,
Then a stroll along a walk,
Almost hidden by tall, slender reeds,
To the opening of the bay.
Who so cleverly placed massive rocks about,
Like loveseats in God’s Parlor?
The sun has shed her skin and grown into a giant red star.
She gracefully lowers herself into her own reflection,
Like a magician, turning the waters crimson, mauve and gold.
A misty breeze sends tiny currents of twinkling pastels.
It will be a good night.
Donned in Watch Hill finery,
Cozy clothes for chilly summer nights,
Perfumed with bug spray,
A final walk to watch the ocean birth the freshly eclipsed moon.
And as the rise of hill is reached, the moon is waiting there,
A giant Halloween pumpkin,
Bouncing on the ocean, smiling at us.
Breaths catch at the view and souls smile.
With wonder, the trail of orange slips to silver white.
The ocean sprays out diamonds,
The dunes sit silhouetted against a seal-skin sky.
Mysterious lights dot the beach,
Approaching quickly.
They are children, enjoying the shine from their flashlights.
You can hear their happiness, it’s infectious.
Their giggles make you laugh.
And through the black night their beams wave a greeting of joy.
It has been a good day.
**********************************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Sijo
May 12, 2013
Nature's Innocence
With natural precision, a flock of Black Bellied Whistlers
Cautiously circle the pond; heedful of risk, the ducks glide in.
Hand fed; devour GMO corn; future peril: unknown.
Type of Poetry - Sijo
May 12, 2013
Nature's Innocence
With natural precision, a flock of Black Bellied Whistlers
Cautiously circle the pond; heedful of risk, the ducks glide in.
Hand fed; devour GMO corn; future peril: unknown.
*************************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Free Form
June 30, 2005
Essence of Fog
4:44 A.M.
In view:
The dark, smoky fog has hidden all but the ramp, the dock
And two small buoys marking the path to invisible rocks.
4:58 A.M.
In view:
The “alligator head,” appears; a stone resembling an archaic head
Slipping stealthfully through padded water without a trace of ripple.
A nearby barrel buoy persistently flashes its softened green light.
The distance accentuates twinkling hints of remaining streetlights across the bay, in Turtle Cove.
5:14 A.M.
In view:
Tips of salt grass marshes materialize,
And outlines of small moored boats that sleep upon their reflections.
5:20 A.M.
In view:
Our entertainment last evening of jagged golden lightening bolts,
Had charged the water and cooled the air,
Causing me to layer clothing oddly, due to weather, not company.
Wasting little motion, in fear the fog would lift,
I grabbed pen and paper,
Threw a cozy sweatshirt over my flannel nightgown
And flew into the gray, chilly air.
Everything is painted with pastels, purple, green, yellow and pink.
The mist, the birch tree bark, bits of distant roof tops,
The tiny flowers on my nightgown,
The embroidered beach chairs of my Rockport Maine sweatshirt.
A unique moment of natural color coordination.
5:26 A.M.
In view:
The unseen sun further pinkens the mist.
Two tiny chirping birds chase a huge black crow away from their nest.
Seagulls everywhere are serenading;
Their familiar highs and lows dulled down by fog.
5:34 A.M.
Scents and views:
The altered birch is back to startling white,
Strokes of black slashes outstanding on its bark,
Clear against the mist that shrouds the distant hills and trees.
The moist air is scented with memory,
The fragrance of a freshly painted dock on a bay in Merrick.
This deck is petalled with yellowed leaves last evening’s storm has shaken from the tree.
5:40 A.M.
Scents and sounds and views:
The trees to the North are crowned with mist.
Motorboats begin to move, daring the lifting fog,
Causing ripples and a distant clang from a warning buoy.
The air is perfumed with salt.
5:45 A.M.
Scents, sounds, views and a decision:
There is kitchen clatter from a neighbor’s open window,
A breakfast bouquet of bacon and waffles,
A persistent guttural chirp from a cardinal balanced on our ramp,
And din from rolling tires on wet pavement.
The farthest hills are still non-existent,
But the sailboat masts begin to spike the scene.
The familiar white egret and its reflection glide over the peaceful cove.
Perhaps there is time yet for a painting.
********************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Poem About Annasquam, Ma.
Type of Poetry - Free Form
June, 2005
Best In Show
Frustration is the inability to capture this morning
As perfectly with my camera or brushes as I do with my eyes.
How does one paint the perfect picture?
“Connect the whites,” we’re taught.
The sun, rising behind the house paints a glow of warm, golden white
On the east side of every vessel that dots Ipswich Bay.
Each blade of grass that frosts the mud flats
Distinguishes itself from strong shadows
Created by the glowing orb, still low on the horizon.
The massive, challenging rocks that vanish at high tide,
Decorate the bright green flats
With an undulating line of lights and darks,
Thick, rough strokes of "paint",
That range from glistening white and pale gray,
To misty olive, cream, tan, burnt umber, beige and black.
The full moon last night has sucked the bay dry by this morning,
Leaving small sailboats resting sideways on mud flats,
Their tall white masts hinting the path of the escaping sea.
Tidal pools flow, one to another, white, pink and tangerine.
Artistically coordinated to match the outline of peaceful morning clouds.
The birch glows white against the prickly Hunter’s Green branches of a scrappy tree
That drips remarkably numerous amounts of pinecones along flat stone steps.
A pendant of Wild Roses glows pearl white
Against a necklace of giant rocks blanketed with waves of flowing sea grass.
The sun paints sheen on a clever white egret pecking for her breakfast.
The quiet, shallow pool reflects the bird’s determined splashes.
Her hunt quickens, challenged by a curious seagull.
Unsatisfied, the two scatter,
Neither willing to share the generosity of the pond.
Even the mud is pleasing.
Soft, oozing sand, white shells,
Tiny pieces of crab and snails.
Perfectly outlined by thin, green, jagged lines of flotsams,
Marking the edge of the flats.
Across the Annesquam, the shakes of most homes are “naturally” painted gray by the salt and sun.
But this is New England,
The window trims and fences are unsurprisingly painted white by the soul.
What makes the perfect picture? “Connect the whites.”
From morning clouds and shore line fences connected to windows trimmed,
To glistening boats and sparkling reflections,
To glowing rocks and tidal pools,
To birds, to birches, to roses –
Someone has painted “Best In Show.”
Poem About Annasquam, Ma.
Type of Poetry - Free Form
June, 2005
Best In Show
Frustration is the inability to capture this morning
As perfectly with my camera or brushes as I do with my eyes.
How does one paint the perfect picture?
“Connect the whites,” we’re taught.
The sun, rising behind the house paints a glow of warm, golden white
On the east side of every vessel that dots Ipswich Bay.
Each blade of grass that frosts the mud flats
Distinguishes itself from strong shadows
Created by the glowing orb, still low on the horizon.
The massive, challenging rocks that vanish at high tide,
Decorate the bright green flats
With an undulating line of lights and darks,
Thick, rough strokes of "paint",
That range from glistening white and pale gray,
To misty olive, cream, tan, burnt umber, beige and black.
The full moon last night has sucked the bay dry by this morning,
Leaving small sailboats resting sideways on mud flats,
Their tall white masts hinting the path of the escaping sea.
Tidal pools flow, one to another, white, pink and tangerine.
Artistically coordinated to match the outline of peaceful morning clouds.
The birch glows white against the prickly Hunter’s Green branches of a scrappy tree
That drips remarkably numerous amounts of pinecones along flat stone steps.
A pendant of Wild Roses glows pearl white
Against a necklace of giant rocks blanketed with waves of flowing sea grass.
The sun paints sheen on a clever white egret pecking for her breakfast.
The quiet, shallow pool reflects the bird’s determined splashes.
Her hunt quickens, challenged by a curious seagull.
Unsatisfied, the two scatter,
Neither willing to share the generosity of the pond.
Even the mud is pleasing.
Soft, oozing sand, white shells,
Tiny pieces of crab and snails.
Perfectly outlined by thin, green, jagged lines of flotsams,
Marking the edge of the flats.
Across the Annesquam, the shakes of most homes are “naturally” painted gray by the salt and sun.
But this is New England,
The window trims and fences are unsurprisingly painted white by the soul.
What makes the perfect picture? “Connect the whites.”
From morning clouds and shore line fences connected to windows trimmed,
To glistening boats and sparkling reflections,
To glowing rocks and tidal pools,
To birds, to birches, to roses –
Someone has painted “Best In Show.”
****************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Iambic Pentameter
November 18, 2009
Lost and Found on the Notice Board
The notices nailed to the Publix wall,
Create profound emotions readily.
They draw you in. You’re forced to read them all,
Intrigued by what seems set in destiny.
The messages are never quite the same,
What varies are descriptions of each pet.
Responses are provoked as words declaim
The sorrows and delights I can’t forget.
”Our small white dog, with large tan spots is gone,
Jack Russell Terrier, named Chardonnay.
He dug himself a hole beneath our lawn.
Chewed down the fence, then upped and ran away.”
“Found kitten, on North River Drive East Trail,”
(Both home and cell phone listed, just in case.)
“Our dog, named BonBon, with a missing tail,
Has vanished from our yard without a trace.”
“October – Free Adoption Month is here!
“A Racing Greyhound makes the greatest pet.”
“We’ve lost our dashing Rooster, Chanticleer,
Our hen’s distressed. She feels they were a set.”
An African Grey Parrot’s on the loose.
“I snipped her wings, they just grew back too soon”
“Retrieved, a Doberman, his tag reads, Bruce.
He wandered over Sunday Afternoon.”
A week or two goes by; the board has changed,
But sentiments and sympathy remain.
A Missing Pet says life’s been rearranged.
One Rescued means the notes are not in vain.
Type of Poetry - Iambic Pentameter
November 18, 2009
Lost and Found on the Notice Board
The notices nailed to the Publix wall,
Create profound emotions readily.
They draw you in. You’re forced to read them all,
Intrigued by what seems set in destiny.
The messages are never quite the same,
What varies are descriptions of each pet.
Responses are provoked as words declaim
The sorrows and delights I can’t forget.
”Our small white dog, with large tan spots is gone,
Jack Russell Terrier, named Chardonnay.
He dug himself a hole beneath our lawn.
Chewed down the fence, then upped and ran away.”
“Found kitten, on North River Drive East Trail,”
(Both home and cell phone listed, just in case.)
“Our dog, named BonBon, with a missing tail,
Has vanished from our yard without a trace.”
“October – Free Adoption Month is here!
“A Racing Greyhound makes the greatest pet.”
“We’ve lost our dashing Rooster, Chanticleer,
Our hen’s distressed. She feels they were a set.”
An African Grey Parrot’s on the loose.
“I snipped her wings, they just grew back too soon”
“Retrieved, a Doberman, his tag reads, Bruce.
He wandered over Sunday Afternoon.”
A week or two goes by; the board has changed,
But sentiments and sympathy remain.
A Missing Pet says life’s been rearranged.
One Rescued means the notes are not in vain.
******************************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Sonnet
January 17, 2016
Effects of the Blow
The air hints basil sweet, cut grass, damp cedar bark.
Winds fray banana leaves that whip like skaters on fast ice.
Attempts to gather floating worms, the egret patriarch,
Blown, this way and that, his pecking, imprecise.
Huge thunderheads, loom tall at this meridian,
Sprayed randomly with glowing streaks of silver dust.
Unwieldy clouds, light ashen and obsidian,
Roll westerly, full tilt, with each titanic gust.
Insatiate squirrels, Cardinals, Jays, will miss their brunch.
(They’re being fed, if you believe the scuttlebutt.)
Today all will go hungry, no Omega 3 to munch.
Withdrawal symptoms grow when high winds scatter each delicious nut.
By noon, winds subside, azure drapes a tranquil sky.
The tempest drops off and the animals drop by.
Type of Poetry - Sonnet
January 17, 2016
Effects of the Blow
The air hints basil sweet, cut grass, damp cedar bark.
Winds fray banana leaves that whip like skaters on fast ice.
Attempts to gather floating worms, the egret patriarch,
Blown, this way and that, his pecking, imprecise.
Huge thunderheads, loom tall at this meridian,
Sprayed randomly with glowing streaks of silver dust.
Unwieldy clouds, light ashen and obsidian,
Roll westerly, full tilt, with each titanic gust.
Insatiate squirrels, Cardinals, Jays, will miss their brunch.
(They’re being fed, if you believe the scuttlebutt.)
Today all will go hungry, no Omega 3 to munch.
Withdrawal symptoms grow when high winds scatter each delicious nut.
By noon, winds subside, azure drapes a tranquil sky.
The tempest drops off and the animals drop by.
***********************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Limerick
September 14, 2010
Those Who Stare Must Beware
There was an old man who was cross-eyed.
No one knew, 'cept his spouse, what his eyes spied.
He would take quite a chance,...
At all rumps he would glance.
His wife smiled, when all thought, “Suicide.”
Type of Poetry - Limerick
September 14, 2010
Those Who Stare Must Beware
There was an old man who was cross-eyed.
No one knew, 'cept his spouse, what his eyes spied.
He would take quite a chance,...
At all rumps he would glance.
His wife smiled, when all thought, “Suicide.”
*******************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Free Form April 3, 2014 Bread Balls and Peanuts She sits on our patio, Her feathered, warm belly Resting on the cool tiles Which are lightly carpeted with hot pink petals. The hungry duck calmly waits for her breakfast In shade, under a canopy of flowering bougainvillea. Right beside her, Nacho, our favorite squirrel, Waits less patiently, Swaying like an inverted pendulum on his spindly back legs, Front paws curled under his chin. His bobbing head peers through the sliding glass doors, Wondering what is taking me so long. A streak of bright red, swoops down From the thick, twisted vine. The male cardinal, recognizing the developing menagerie, Moves in right next to the squirrel, securing a spot Where surely peanuts will be thrown Along with tightly rolled balls of white bread. The troop of three stand their ground firmly As I disappear into the kitchen to grab their grub. There is a science to the tossing of bread balls and peanuts, Not too far, ...not together, ...not underfoot, ...or on top of. No need for animals crashing into each other. I can't help grinning. While I’ve I mastered the art of animal clamoring and food chaos, Those sweet little thugs have mastered the art of begging. |
*************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Form of Poetry - Trimeric
May 28, 2011
Love Bugs
A truck driver, double-parked, blocking my car; two strangers,
he and I.
One moment’s interaction; human beings sharing time.
But a common thread wove us together.
Was it Love Bugs, or all things great and small?
One moment's interaction; human beings sharing time.
I sensed a gentle energy as he tediously reassembled his ramp and cartons,
to move his vehicle just a few feet. What a bother.
But a common thread wove us together
When two love bugs, hitched, end to end, flew by.
“Too bad they have to die when the car hits ‘em,” he remarked.
Was it Love Bugs, or all things great and small?
“I’m a minister, as well,” he shared; smiled sadly and stated deferentially,
“At least they'll die together as a couple.”
Form of Poetry - Trimeric
May 28, 2011
Love Bugs
A truck driver, double-parked, blocking my car; two strangers,
he and I.
One moment’s interaction; human beings sharing time.
But a common thread wove us together.
Was it Love Bugs, or all things great and small?
One moment's interaction; human beings sharing time.
I sensed a gentle energy as he tediously reassembled his ramp and cartons,
to move his vehicle just a few feet. What a bother.
But a common thread wove us together
When two love bugs, hitched, end to end, flew by.
“Too bad they have to die when the car hits ‘em,” he remarked.
Was it Love Bugs, or all things great and small?
“I’m a minister, as well,” he shared; smiled sadly and stated deferentially,
“At least they'll die together as a couple.”
**************************************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Free Verse
November 6, 2016
Downpours Are Dinner Bells
A dowsing rain, with heavy lead drops,
Fills the grassy view with a swath of puddles.
Twenty snowy egretts cruise in on angled wings.
Downpours are dinnerbells.
Working oddly curvacious necks,
The birds scramble,
Poking at the ground
With strong, needle sharp beaks.
Earthworms, lighter than water,
Relaxing just below the lawn’s surface,
Inevitably, unwittingly, float up,
To become appetizer, entree and dessert.
*******************************************************************
Type of Poetry - Free Verse
November 6, 2016
Downpours Are Dinner Bells
A dowsing rain, with heavy lead drops,
Fills the grassy view with a swath of puddles.
Twenty snowy egretts cruise in on angled wings.
Downpours are dinnerbells.
Working oddly curvacious necks,
The birds scramble,
Poking at the ground
With strong, needle sharp beaks.
Earthworms, lighter than water,
Relaxing just below the lawn’s surface,
Inevitably, unwittingly, float up,
To become appetizer, entree and dessert.
*******************************************************************
Bonnie Ellen Jacobson
Type of Poetry - Rhyming
January 1, 2015
Blonde Forever
I tried to hide
My gray today.
May I confide
My tricks to hide?
I'd pick and twirl
Each little curl,
Then fluff my hair,
For added flair.
But I'm obtuse,
It was no use.
I'll dye my head
'Till I am dead.
The champagne had no foam, nor did my lip.
The foam was added using the app Procreate. www.procreate.art The "I, you, and hearts" were added using You Doodle. www.youdoodle.net and then click on Download at the Apple App Store
The foam was added using the app Procreate. www.procreate.art The "I, you, and hearts" were added using You Doodle. www.youdoodle.net and then click on Download at the Apple App Store