Puff Piece

A canopy of cumulus projection
aligns itself enticingly and spills
its cotton candy succulent confection
across the canvas of the Texas hills.

A viewer, from the vantage of a hammock,
anticipates the daily matinee
with vapors in their drama-packed dynamic
of interactive whimsical display.

But, looking down upon the scene, King Cirrus
harumphs a haughty epithet, “The stage
is mine alone today!” And with the merest
regard he scatters all in jealous rage.

The lively cast of Comal County Clouds
will never fail to entertain the crowds.


cc-by-nc-nd

2020 Mary Boren
View Discussion

The Road Home

There is more to a word than the spelling,
neither future nor past in its tense,
and the story that grows in the telling
can jump over a pastoral fence
on the drive coming home. It’s compelling
in a deeper than physical sense.

When I think of the love that enfolds me
in the leap of a frolicsome pup
and the arms of a husband who holds me
like an obelisk propping me up,
there’s a presence that softens and molds me
to the shape of serenity’s cup.

From a window, the woodland is sounding
with the hush of an orderly mind.
In a natural rustic surrounding
there is space for the nerves to unwind
from the noise of a world that is pounding
the humanity out of mankind.

So the run-of-the-mill intersection
on the way to our humble abode
masquerades our affluent connection
to a heavenly area code
as it leads to supernal perfection
living large at a bend in the road.



o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.