Right Nice


How funny are these vines
of Ivy
Who linger on this wall
Basking in silence
Praying not to fall
They cling and wrap themselves quite tight
To make a leafy green house right nice
The house itself is old
The age my gosh
Who knows
But it’s made of brick and stone
So the vines have something to hold
As time goes by
And the world grows cold
The vine will have the stone
And in my right nice home

I will have you to hold

Comments

  1. Ms. BelleNovember 9, 2017 at 9:10 PM

    The picture above the poem is completely original and I drew it myself!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poor Mother Hen

Thicker still the trees go the farther down the murder row In dreams roots weep a silent prayer still wondering who's been left up there Unaware and unprepared in the deep bog they feel agog and the grog descends Onto the mother hens who snoop and squawk and squint Not understanding the thoughts of twitching legs and the shells still left in beds Too soft of ground and no real heat but to hard and the boy begins to shrink The movie plays never loud or clear but wild and only into the left ear The plot it thickens and loosens and shrinks and grows In time his nose will get bigger while his confidence grows smaller And all the while still getting taller His mother kissed goodbye Her tears still flying And when he returns his legs are taller and his hair is longer And the sharp golden buttons of his green perfect coat are clean and shining An embrace of somebody Or the crumple of a sheet These women feel no respite.
Read more

Wanderer

“Not all who wander are lost.” said the man, his back against the wall, accompanied by a large pack sitting next to him which also served as his only table companion. The Pub went silent. The room  turned and faced the man. His hair was a shaggy brown that curled at the tips and hovered above tempting green eyes, and his skinny pink lips sat  crooked  on his face in a smirk that featured his dimples. His look encouraged the men about him to counter his statement. The green-eyed traveler fingered the glass of amber ale in front of him, concentrating on the swirling liquid inside. The silence had left the room feeling stagnant and overly warm until a rosy man with cheeks scarlet from drinking began to laugh, jostling his own glass and spilling the liquid on the table. The green-eyed traveler began to laugh as well and soon  the  room flamed and roared with a boisterous laughter. “Where are you from laddy?” slurred a man with a thick Irish accent. “I’m from New Zealand.” the traveler
Read more