Daylight savings time (an urban myth?)
Daylight savings time
Daylight savings time has been with us
For many and many years now
It’s time that someone has told us
About the where, the why and about the how
Where the heck do they put it?
Once they’ve saved all this light
And how in the heck do they move it about?
Do they move the light in the dark of the night?
Do they move it in light pickups?
Which would seem most apropos
Or does it require heavy trucks?
Because a lot of light is heavy, you spose’?
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poem by David Whalen
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Hard Hearted November
A cold grey mist…
Tiptoes aimlessly about
It's only companions
A few scudding clouds
That mill thru the sky
And wander without
And cast shadows
Upon farm fields and wilds
Tis the hard heart of November
A month as indecisive as mist
A month so incisive….bestowed
with the caprice of a witch
Which has by mistake
Or perhaps by misgiving
Allowed to endow us
The day of Thanksgiving
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poem by David Whalen
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March...Twas good I got to know you
Goodbye my old friend…
Seems I hardly
got to know you
You breezed in, and then
Took your ease again
Twas ever so hard to ignore you
I enjoyed your company
You're a welcome friend
And a capricious character too
You're a breath of fresh air
A tad crude, yet debonair
With always an air of change about you
At times you display a demeanor so gay,
and At times your demeanor
is much meaner
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poem by David Whalen
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Love of moonlight
Moonlight soft as down filled pillows
Cool as spring water washing over my face
filtered through the nets of weeping willows
Scattered beams… through prisms of lace
Rays of radiance, round ruffs and edges
Of clouds that scurry, to keep apace
Puddles of buttermilk, on ground and hedges
Moonlight phantasms of lunar grace
moon glow… with halo, aura of gold
Light worshipped by werewolves and covens of witches
Both bane and blessing…in lore of old
Light that has no need of man or of switches
Light that can be reaped from fall’s harvest moon
Light to be enjoyed by moonstruck lover
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poem by David Whalen
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All Living Things
The sea…a living sentient thing
As is the Earth…an organism alive
For who’s to say that oceans don’t think
And that planets don’t strive to survive
That trees and leaves have no feelings
And rocks…no emotions
That waves could’na be the heartbeat and…
The pulse of vibrant oceans
That canyons be not wrinkles
That mountains are not just features
That constellations…and galaxies
Not simply grand cosmic creatures
That lakes are not eyes
Valleys not ears
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poem by David Whalen
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A Poem's Ne'er Finished
A Poem’s never finished
tis just entirely begun
If you’ve gone back and looked
To see just what it is that you’ve done
Ne’er a piece has been written
that couldn’t use a wee fix
A more profound phrase
To throw in the mix
Sometime it’s the inflection
Oft times it’s the prose
That could use some correction
A tiny tweak of it’s nose
Perchance an error, a bit of imperfect elocution
A slight awkward feel, now felt in the flow
Where before one saw only, eloquent execution
Needed changes, upon reflection, begin to show
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poem by David Whalen
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An ode to snow (and a speck of dust)
Began it’s life a speck of dust
One of billions
Bourne upon the air
Transformed as all things must
Be… that blossom both…
Mundane and rare
A tiny mote imbued of moisture
absorbed within… and
Without a care
Tossed willy-niilly by caprice of wind
The mote of dust
Begins to dare
To attract electrons into it’s grasp
With static gasp
And electric glare
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poem by David Whalen
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Springy Phrases
What is this sound
So sharp and so clear
That tickles and titillates
Against my ear
What tis it that causes
My spirits to sing
What could it be
This most miraculous thing
What is that makes me
feel so alive again
After an infernal winter
That seemed without end
After the ice and the freezing
And the frost bitten fingers
What is that crisp new sound
That echoes and lingers
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poem by David Whalen
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Stream Of Consciousness
Stream of consciousness
Thoughts that come at random
With no foresight and no plan
My fingers type at their own volition
With no structured idea at hand
I live in an environment of inquietude
In an ambiance of unease and perhaps fear
There’s a weight upon my forehead
A sense of loss of things I hold dear
Today’s a day much like any other
I read, I eat, yet feel so incomplete,
and blandly smiling at me in calm so replete
On my desk, photos of sisters and brother
Just to sit and compose idle randomness
At my desk, takes my mind away for a bit
Yet at the back of my mind sits emptyness
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poem by David Whalen
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Consider This...(Every Ten Seconds Of Every Day!)
Like to have something
Different for dinner tonight?
Tired of plates
Full of the same old thing?
Tired of having that tight feeling
Of having eaten too much
Tired of letting
Your belt out a notch?
Not enough variety
In all the food you eat?
Overweight just a tad…?
Actually over 80% of us are
Do you frown when
You step on the scales?
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poem by David Whalen
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