Tomorrow

Tomorrow will be Christmas day
when those of faith kneel down and pray;
give thanks to God who sent his Son
and celebrate the chosen One
Who rose from death to show the way.

His effigies are on display
in stores where people shop and pay
until their buying has been done
tomorrow.

Why there is greed in each foray?
I do not know and couldn’t say
that they were out there having fun
but back to stores they all will run
returning gifts then shop EBay
tomorrow.

He Groans

He groans about his poetry
and wonders if someone will see
its value; who'll appreciate?
Some lines they love, but others hate.
Some change from heir to aujourd'hui.

A fickle public's not the key
to writing -- not for you or me.
It's for ourselves to write, create
the groans.

We love to play with words to be
our entertainment; you'll agree
that's what we like. It won't abate.
Not all who read demodulate
our humor. "What will be will be,"
he groans.

© MLee Dickens’son 26 Dec 2018
(Daniel J Ricketts)

Our Humor

Our humor is but for a few
while others never will construe
the underlying meanings of
its messages. They’re far above
their heads and fly out in the blue.

If placing hands on heads might do
then there’s a chance they’d catch a few
of innuendoes, then they’d love
our humor.

But my impressions are quite true
that things we write will not imbue
them with the knowledge of a dove.
Perhaps they’d trap, with net or glove,
or maybe they'd just have to glue
our humor.

Our trap is baited carefully
with words that readers do not see
until they're coming back again
to ask them where their minds have been;
we tell them that the laughter's free.

Some folks don't like our foolin' thee
with double-meaning designee
who's innocently courtesan
to show the unsuspecting man
our trap.

Still others tire of our degree
of plays on words, and most agree
we play the role of handymen
when we could be like Groupe Beauchesne.
Duct tape, they say, should referee
our trap.

© MLee Dickens’son 28 Dec 2018
(Daniel J Ricketts)



P.S. Larry, take a look back at some of your latest rondeaux, and you'll see that you've left off an A-Rhyme line before the final rentrement.

Hey Daniel,
Thanks for the heads-up on the final "A" rhyme. I've gone back and corrected all I could find so, hopefully, they are now proper Rondeau.

Larry

I'll get back to you soon with my next one.

Duct Tape

Duct tape is what we should have used
on those who came and then refused
to lend a hand with some critique.
A little help is not unique
and I don’t think it leaves you bruised.

We know a few of you perused
the poems and prose but then you cruised
off to another site to seek
duct tape.

You probably were not amused
with what you found. You left confused
and now you’re lost or up the creek
without a paddle; things look bleak.
You’re stuck and possibly accused
duct tape.

Missing Links

You’re stuck with phrases in your head
that will not coalesce, instead
they skitter into shadows where
your synapses can’t find them there
and figure out why they have fled.

They speak to you while you’re in bed
but memories of what was said
are gone and so you cannot share;
you’re stuck.

It’s not so much your muse is dead
or that your need to write has led
you down a path with words to spare.
Within that empty darkness, stare
at thoughts you merely wish to wed;
you’re stuck.

wild horses in early morning sun

In early morning sun they splash
unchecked by bridle, bit nor sash.
While most of us are sound asleep
they gallop, saunter, bound and leap
consuming energy they've cached

enjoying freedom as they thrash
through shallow waters – skip and dash
near shore where water’s not so deep
in early morning sun.

And as they run, they seldom clash
nor fight nor snarl with teeth that gnash
They’ve no appointments they must keep
so joy in leisure as they sweep
the beach and simply have a bash
in early morning sun.


© MLee Dickens’son 2022
Daniel J Ricketts

So Long

It’s been so long since I did write
of anything that wasn’t trite
yet here, you drag me to the fore
with something which I can’t ignore
and goad me from my mental plight.

Your mentioned steeds I would bedight
to view their beauty; feel their might
is venture I would love, adore.
It’s been so long.

Though I still rue each day and night
where life and love have taken flight;
the joys and freedoms you explore
have pierced my anguish to the core.
Your words now guide me to the light.
It’s been so long!

in mountin' solitude

In mountain solitude in spring
midst fragrances the winds may bring
from secrets in the forest hid
where no one comes who may forbid
the chants and songs I choose to sing

Beside the river, squandering
my time, I fish while pondering
what I will catch with baited squid
in mountain solitude

I will retreat till autumn, clinging
hold of strains sweet birds are singing
cloudy days or clear out here amid
my wildlife friends, off of the grid…
six months to rest on my porch swing
in mountain solitude


© MLee Dickens’son 2022
Daniel J Ricketts

Each Day

Each day is spent in solitude
with no respite to change my mood.
I do, however, thankfully
feel blessed for moments given me
until that final interlude.

It seems no thoughts or words intrude
except profanity; too crude
to even whisper silently
each day.

Perhaps, His plan I’ve misconstrued
so now I pray for fortitude
and peace; His gift that’s given free
so I may view the panoply
of love I shared with one I wooed
each day.

I love this place… a sanctuary


I love this place you've chosen for
your domicile, and I adore
your Spirit's presence every day
I visit here. It is your way
to hug when we come through the door.

I'd had no home like this before
I came... discovered your Amour.
There's little more that I can say.
I love this place!

Before I came I was at war
within myself, would self-abhor
unknowingly. I'd gone astray
but chose to do it anyway.
Found here your love... and want it more.
I love this place!



© MLee Dickens’son
Daniel J Ricketts

a reflection on Psalm 26:6 - "Lord I love the house where you live, the place where your glory dwells."

Although I Do

Although I do appreciate
the scenic views I have of late,
as autumn’s blazing colors scheme
to bless sad eyes; the tears still stream
upon my overflowing plate.

The holidays to come create
no joy. I know I shouldn’t hate
each night and its recurrent dream
although I do.

My friends and relatives all state
that life goes on; they can’t relate
to all the emptiness. They seem
to disregard each silent scream.
No one should suffer such a fate,
although I do.

Unto us a Child is Born

For unto us a Child is born
among a people long forlorn;
in darkness there's a sudden Light.
He offers hope amid our plight.
Messiah's come as God had sworn.

Now see the names that He has borne:
"Great Couns'lor," "Mighty God." He's worn
the Crown of Peace, an Israelite –
come unto us a Child.

"The Everlasting God," here shorn
of dignity, He'd bear the scorn
of coming kings, yet would ignite
a world-wide fire that would unite
the penitents who now adorn
Him come to us a Child.


© MLee Dickens’son 2022
Daniel J Ricketts

from Isaiah 9:6

Daniel, I wanted to thank you for your wonderful Rondeau paraphrasing Isiah 9:6. This passage of scripture has been one of my favorites for a long time. I have participated in a number of choirs performing Handel's Messiah and after reading your piece, I had to go on YouTube and enjoyed listening to both the Sydney Opera House's rendition as well as the Tabernacle Choir's performance. Both brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my face. Thank you for sharing your talents and your poem.

Larry

I'm deeply gratified by your response, Larry... and SO pleased that you took that opportunity to hear that beautiful music and rejoice in our Savior. deLightingly, Daniel

I’ve Started

I’ve started cleaning up my yard
and though I’m old it’s not too hard
to pick up limbs and cut up trees
that are remains of Ida’s lees.
Although I can’t get every shard

by raking, I know I must guard
against some pains as if I’ve sparred.
There’s no one here to hear the pleas
I’ve started.

A springtime view is my reward
if it looks like a greeting card
but winter’s here with chilling breeze.
Would that it stopped before I freeze
and my short tale’s a mere canard
I’ve started.

The spring will come

The spring will come before too long
though you'll still wear more than a thong
when you're outside... at least I think!
Besides, your skin will still be pink.
Revealing that much might be wrong.

We're neither of us quite as young
and we once were among the throng
of kids inside the skating rink.
The spring will come

to let us out where we belong.
I trust you won't don your sarong
'cause folks will think you're on the brink
of loony, throw you in the clink
and winter, that for you'd prolong.
The spring will come.


© MLee Dickens’son 2023
Daniel J Ricketts

After fifty-five years, can't recall
all the details. Was not at the mall
but at Clearwater Beach in my car.
I pulled over, got out my guitar...
no I didn't, just asked with a drawl,

"Will ya marry me, girl?" That was all!
She said yes without even a stall.
And it doesn't at all seem bizarre
after fifty-five years.

We went shopping for rings, had a ball.
Quarter-carat for her; that was all
could afford at the time. Students are
not the richest young people by far.
Summer marriage... and she's still a doll
after fifty-five years.


© MLee Dickens’son 2023
Daniel J Ricketts

I’ve Tried

I’ve tried three times after I’d fought
in Viet Nam; true love I sought
to heal my heart and mind. A bride;
both friend and lover by my side
forevermore as I’d been taught.

First two, we went to shop and bought
fine rings of gold with diamonds wrought
to pledge our vows. Those were denied!
I’ve tried.

It seemed, each time, my search was fraught
with broken dreams. Success was naught
but tears and prayers. God’s hand supplied
an angel in my life to guide
and share the happiness she brought.
I’ve tried!