Tag Archives: digital art.

Faithful Dawn

though the dark of night
may seem unbearably
long, know that soon comes
the dawn, bright and beautiful
breathing life and light into
every living thing…always


Magnetic Poetry – Nature Poet

Ode to Bluebirds of Happiness

Ode to Bluebirds of Happiness

outside my window
eastern bluebirds happen by
azure wings, orange breast bows
causing me to sigh
how they make these hours inside fly


With a focus on the ordinary (as in ordinary, everyday people, places, or things) I created a new form I called the Horatiodet. See what I did there? It’s a portmanteau that combines the words Horacian+Ode+et. A Horatiodet is a total of 5 lines, syllable count: 5-7-7-5-9 / rhyme scheme: ababb. In other words, it is a short Horacian Ode (only one stanza), a form based on the style of Horace, Quintus Horatius Flaccus (December 8, 65 BC – November 27, 8 BC), the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus.

On Pause

there is a
a blaring din
as we once knew it
on pause, love draws near…from a distance


Because it is still March…
The Pi-Archimedes verse is:
○ a hexastich, a poem in 6 lines.
○ measured by the number of words in each line 3-1-4-1-5-9 to match the numerical sequence of the first six digits of Pi.
○ unrhymed.


after a cleansing rain, hush
but for bird chatter,
soft blush of blooms on the breeze




everything seems normal in

a strange abnormal way, spring

is slowly blooming, song birds

twitter away and children home

from school on break are bored,

too bored to play; so normal, all

these little things, the moon and

stars by night, the sun by day and

gentle rain showers damp the

earth, now turning green from gray

but here behind these looming walls,

where home seems more a prison

cell; how long must we be doomed

to shelter here no one can tell, we

wait and hope our loved ones will

be safe from harm and well as days

grow longer, longer still, in this our

taste of hell…meanwhile sycophants

deny and lie and count the sick and

dead and scheme behind their

hallowed halls rewarding haves,

the have nots scraping stone for

bread; we’ve lost our heads, this

much I know, it’s true, if you are

sane you know it too, but there is

not much we can do but count the

hours, days and weeks, our hands

cleaned raw, faces untouched, sparse

company to keep, with nothing left

to do but sleep, to pray our weary

souls to keep beyond this valley

shadowed by the sowing that

we’ve reaped as history repeats


Week 1, Day 2 of sheltering in place, keeping my distance, washing my hands, feeling helpless yet hopeful we all make it out alive, knowing some of us will not.

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