Category Archives: triolets

Another Day

Have you ever found yourself wanting to write something and the blahs seem indifferent to the idea?  Hence, you can not connect with any mood to help you write something…..and….you have a time slot to do it…..even?

Well….guess what?  It’s another day….and it’s acting like it.   lol   This is what my ‘blankity, blankity,’ mind came up with…..lol

Hope your unique day is filling.

 

 

Another Day

 

When first you rise and eyes are blurred
with hair that’s all a mess,
and sounds are muted in every word,
when first you rise and eyes are blurred.
And getting up you feel absurd
stumbling as you dress
when first you rise and eyes are blurred
with hair that’s all a mess.

Today is just another day
that’s relinquished in the end,
so why’s the body in such a fray
today is just another day
that’ll start up in the normal way
and you’ll follow like a friend.
Today is just another day
that’s relinquished in the end.

That it’s completely different from
all the other days,
it plays a ‘tune’ that’s hard to hum,
that it’s completely different from.
And being unique from whence it come,
its ‘print’ will show the ways
that it’s completely different from
all the other days.

© copyright 2013 t. j. gargano

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Filed under mental block, mind, mood, poetry, triolets, Words

“No Bed, Grandpa”

Visiting at my daughter’s home in Denver recently, tensions always rose each night when the time for the twins’ bedtime approached.

And although they seem to be starting to adjust to their ‘plight’ each night, one or the other still seems to ‘fight’ going to bed, in her own way.

Grabbing a blanket and holding close to a chair, a strong defense of crying is applied in rhythmic surges toward the rule ‘enforcers’…. in hopes of weakening their demands….and of course, to no avail.  In the end, though, they both got serenaded to sleep by grandpa.

 

“No Bed, Grandpa”

In stare through moistened, reddened eyes
having wiped away her tears,
she sends her ‘arrows’ in disguise
in stare through moistened, reddened eyes.
They pierce the heart not by surprise
with sweetened vengeance that coheres
in stare through moistened, reddened eyes
having wiped away her tears.

Holding her blanket against her cheek
leaning against the chair,
she glares defiantly; her eyes bespeak.
holding her blanket against her cheek.
My heart is wavering in heightened beat,
still captured by her stare
holding her blanket against her cheek
leaning against the chair.

Saying ‘I love you’ with poignant heart,
I let my ‘arrows’ fly,
whose sting doth make my love impart
saying ‘I love you’ with poignant heart.
“No bed, grandpa,” is the difficult part
in the tears of a four year old’s cry….
saying ‘I love you’ with poignant heart,
I let my ‘arrows’ fly.

© copyright 2013  t. j. gargano

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Filed under beauty, Friends, heart, kids, Life, Love, poetry, triolets, young girls

DandYlions

To some a weed, dandelions to many are a thing of beauty.  The view is in the beholder.

DandYlions

Dandelions give us beauty
even though they are a weed.
And while flourishing is their duty,
Dandelions give us beauty.
And as bad weather makes some moody,
to some, it is a need.
Dandelions give us beauty
even though they are a weed.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Filed under dandelions, poetry, triolets

Hard Road

Rural roads in many states are either made of dirt or some grade of gravel.  They require one’s utmost attention when being traversed and in these areas, one considers themselves fortunate if they happen to live along a rare ‘hard road.’

The Hard Road

Up on the hard road that crosses county line,
out where the hills turn to sand,
the wind whistles eerily all through the pine
up on the hard road that crosses county line.
Drifts of  sand are  left behind
as the wind blows mightily  ‘cross the land
Up on the hard road that crosses county line
Out where the hills turn to sand.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Filed under poetry, road, triolets

Little Ones

‘Terrible Two’s’ might seem to be a mythical term to a non-parent.  But to a parent of a two-year old, they probably find out that this label describes a situation far too real.  A daughter of mine has two, two-year olds – twins, and the reality of that term is very real.

When We Turn Two

Since we’re going to be big when we have our birthday,
me, Zoe, and my sister Jude, can’t wait to be two.
We’re going to show mommy all that we can say
since we’re going to be big when we have our birthday.
We’re going to yell and scream cuz that’s how we play
and mommy’s going to be tired and say ‘what the who?’
Since we’re going to be big when we have our birthday
me, Zoe, and my sister Jude, can’t wait to be two.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Spring Is Late

Ever so often, it seems like the days of winter lag longer into the new year.  This ‘lag’ becomes foremost in many a person’s mind, impatient for their dreams of the new summer.

Spring Is Late

Though spring is late in coming by
birds still sing their summer song.
And tree to tree they playfully fly,
though spring is late in coming by.
To Nature’s rhythm, squirrels scamper and cry;
gathering twigs they carry along.
Though spring is late in coming by
birds still sing their summer song.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Old Barn

Driving in the car has always been my favorite mode of transportation because I can proceed at any pace;  I might want to stop and photograph a cluster of weeds or cattail clustering along the shore, if they present themselves.  And whenever I drive out into the countryside or across the country, the decay of the past is always evident along the pathway.

As a geographer, I have focused on such phenomena and one phenomenon is the plight of America’s farms and especially the barns.

Splintered Ol’ Barn

Though the little farm has long been gone,
the splintered old barn has stood for years
with birds in her rafters and a tractor, they sit on,
though the little farm has long been gone.
And through the night ‘til the coming dawn
barn owls prey ‘til first light appears.
Though the little farm has long been gone
the splintered old barn has stood for years.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Filed under barn, poetry, triolets

Late Summer Day

With the advent of winter and the freshness of declining temperatures, it is easy to dream of not so long ago when the puffy cloud skies spewed forth warm temperatures and dreams of a different nature.  So why not still be mesmerized by those summer days of past to keep us warmer,  a little longer.  Think happy.  Think warm.

Late Summer Day

Big sky, puffy clouds, monarch butterflies;
Cattail clustering along the river shore.
Birds all a frenzy blend in their summer cries;
Big sky, puffy clouds, monarch butterflies.
In the distance, darkened clouds bring forth stormy skies
with lightning strikes and thunder clasps, then suddenly no more
Big sky, puffy clouds, monarch butterflies;
Cattail clustering along the river shore.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Where Violets Bloom

Actually, the winter hawk is on his way, though hopefully not too soon.  And when it arrives, I will jump into Spring wishing mode and probably try to put into order memorable thoughts of vivid pictures of that time of year.  One .of those pictures usually includes bunches of violets.

Where Violets Bloom

In wild profusion the violets bloom
beside the reedy brook.
Where weeds and grasses mostly loom,
in wild profusion the violets bloom.
A place of peaceful, spacious room
where butterflies seek and look,
in wild profusion the violets bloom
beside the reedy brook.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Ace of Time

War will never be inescapable.  Countries need their men (and women too in many places) to defend their homelands.   I abhor war but it has been unavoidable in this dimension.

The reality of war, however,  is that all soldiers cannot return home to the life and lives they are protecting.  Sacrifice is inherent in the code of soldiers.  Bless them all.

I want to share a poem I wrote shortly after being discharged from the service.  It is meant to honor all soldiers that made the ultimate sacrifice.  These sacrifices must not be allowed to be forgotten .

photo National Archives and Records Administration

Ace of Time

He lies soft that has fallen hard.
He held a perfect hand except for one card.
That card he lost was the “Ace of Time;”
now his life completes his rhyme.

His life is now but a corpse.
The last living ounce has been drained.
Is this now the time to show remorse
for he who now rides ‘Heaven’s train?’

It seems to me we’re kind of late
to show our kindness instead of our hate
for he who lies somewhere, so still,
on a shore where we sent him to kill.

But now the story has been told
about the boy so meek and yet so bold
who took his cards and went his way
across the sea……. where now he lays.

copyright © 2011 T.J. Gargano

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Filed under poetry, triolets