Shiba bath, oh no Wet hair clings to her body Must do Shiba shake Shiba fur creamy, Silky, fluffy double coat I shed twice a year Rub against human Shiba glitter dots pant legs Smile, I walk away

Every year, the television plays t he classic movie, The Wizard of Oz. One year, when I was young, my sister emptied her toy basket, found a small stuffed dog, a dress, and the closest thing to ruby-red shoes. She twirled, singing that song, a childish voice squeaking through notes, wide-eyed, dreaming. Who knew what lay beyond that rainbow—

I first gather my stack of books Lay them upon the bed; they wait To be shelved in their proper location. I take one, look at the title; Then the genre and last the author; It's a biography book. I go to the bookshelf; find the shelf Which has the genre I look for. I scan my finger; the titles…

I hear the music, Old tunes from era grandparents would ever know. Yet still, the rhythm pulls me near, A sound so timeless, bright and clear; It stirs my soul, my feet take flight, Swinging through the velvet night. Songs with catchy tunes, Swinging through; A rhythm bold, a sound so true. A musician, who led the brass, The beat, a rhythm rolling…

A trilogy waiting finally read, Three—the magic number, woven in thread. Yet a love triangle is far from sweet, Three hearts in a tangle, tangled too deep. A stool won’t falter, firm it stays, Its legs in thrice-bound steady praise. Genies grant three wishes-no less, no more, And myths whisper of three witches Spinning fate behind an unseen door. Always at odd with even pairs…

Shiba Prom is drawing near, A gathering full of joy and cheer. Shiba lovers, from far and wide, Meet online with hearts full of pride. To raise support, to lend a paw or hand, For furry friends across the land. What will the DJ spin that night? A bold ‘80s beat to set the vibe just right. Never Gonna Give You Up…

Joyful laughter fills the air, Artist of dreams might be near. Chasing wonder, swift and free, Ever shining, wild with glee. Jumping high, a fearless spark, All full of laughter will leave his mark. Colors swirl where he takes flight, Echoes dance in golden light. Just like his name, a heart so bright, A healer’s touch, he might be a guiding light.

Nature especially, the sea bends to no man—except a god, How can they, when storms brew, Tossing man-made ships to and fro, Through a tempest wild beyond control of just man alone. The storm rages, until Neptune commands it to kneel, His arm extends, his hand raised high To quell swirling foam of the seas, as lightning tears at The fabric of the sky, winds howl their rebellion,

I had took one last look at you your furry body Your fur still soft to the touch; Though now your body lie cold in blanket No stirring as you already let your last breath out at home I had taken your purple coat off, Which still had your smell; I kept it close One last time I had hugged you; still couldn't…

As moonlight spill upon her velvet coat, A creamy white that shimmers soft and bright, Each silken strand, I find time to devote, Invites my touch—a cloud of pure delight. Her fluffy warmth beneath my hand unfurls, A whispered sigh, a hush of gentle plush. As fingers weave through downy, snowy swirls, Time slows, spellbound by softness in its hush.

Painting on canvas will calm a wounded soul A splash of color one will loose them self Brush dips in paint begins to loose them self Stroke after stroke begins the healing within Darkness loosen as soul is healing within Splash of color blooms upon the canvas Brush strokes of color bloom on canvas Whispering from each stroke call wounds to heal…

March 24th, 2009 One special night, my sister and I saw our father— Took him to see The Eagles, a band he loved. A band he would sing the song along with radio As he drove to his place to spend the night. The Eagles, would be playing new music from new album, Golden beams cut through the dark, bathing the stage in light,

Sleepy eyes open to dawn; slow to rise; Clock rings loud to awaken one so deep In sleep; coffee made to awaken one On Monday to start the day. Rhythm of hum to work and back; Clicking of keyboard; Checks the emails; Tasks start to take their shape On Tuesday the momentum builds a workflow. Reach midpoint; the hump day; midweek…

Two of us, one sitting at piano your hands flying across the keys, I standing, playing a alto saxophone vibrating a mellow, haunting tune. The piano murmurs in velvet tones, my saxophone shadowed whispers in candlelight a melody drifts between our hands, unfolding in the hush of night. Notes unfurl along a winding road, "let your soul take you where…

Dog sleeps on bed, Moonlight shine through windows, Music of crickets chirp soothing song, All is quite within the home, Dreams begin to spill like water. April 24th prompt: Write a gogyohka, a newly invented form of five lines. Each line is a phrase.

A shadow waits near water edge Through reeds and grasses that hush and sway. A deep and resonant chord Like something out of Prehistoric time, Breaks the silence A cry that comes-- A harsh refrain, Voice broken in sound, But rough and wise With their gaze so deep, A hunter's poise, a patient keep, As if the past still Haunts the skies.

The grass, meant to be soft, meant to be free, A carpet of green, stretched endlessly. But here they come, wings spread wide, An army of geese—no place to hide. They waddle across like army taking over, Their conquest is ruthless, they take each section, Dropping their landmines, far and near. Once bright green, fresh, and crisp to touch, Each blade rising high above the ground,

Opening the boxing, scattering the pieces on the folding table as if they are fragments of a thousand thoughts, each unnamed, waiting to be piece together. Edges first—the pieces fall in line, A puzzle waiting, thought by thought, refined; that since I was young, I would put together; the thrill of seeing the finish product; the final image, which looks like the picture on the box.

I boarder on always being early for anything I don't like to be rush; I have time to relax I take in what will happen around; It means I can find a good parking spot; It means I can sit closer to the speaker It means I can I decompress before anything start. Sometime though I am right on time;

The conductor lifts the stick, held firm and high, the orchestra wait, tails poised to fly. A hush falls-- the crowd leans near-- then, with a single clear chime—the triangle’s delicate ring—the symphony begins. Flutes yip in harmony, a chorus of high-pitched delight, while the strings swell in a graceful, howling song. Timpani mastiffs raise their paws high, then land them down in unison—sending thunderous waves rolling through the hall.

Tiny legs a pygmy hippo joyfully leaps Many people heart spins in smiles and laughter A name meaning "bouncy pork", delights; And frolics under soft moon light. She is small; cute as can be Dances a dance no other hippo can beat. Now she's garner a following large; Everyone wants to meet; an energetic Hippo which is very rare. April 21st prompt: There were at least two famous pygmy hippos born last year: Moo Deng (which means “bouncy pork) and Haggis. Write a poem about them or about any hippo.

I've been running, chasing time, Searching for a dream that's mine, Every road I tried to follow Always led to something hollow. And I keep reaching through the night, Stars are burning, shining bright, I keep on trying to find my dream-- Maybe it's closer than it seems. Never stopping till the moment's gone. Why does chasing my dream so hard to act on.

Tensions flare across US, rallies against one who, Does not care for us. Alarms sounds around Harmful comments made not true Voices rise for truth April 20th prompt: Write about something in the news this week. The online journal New Verse News publishes such poems every day, if you need inspiration.

February's hung cold in the air Coal dust settled, trouble stirred somewhere. A coal merchant working alone at night Fate came knocking, ready to fight. Oh, John Hadsell rode like the wind, Left no tracks, left no sins. Justice faded lost in time, A wage,a quarrel, a life left behind. Evening fell, lamps burned low Police found him lying cold below.

A tapestry spun of beauty Reformed from cream of milk; Youthful smooth surface change To lines like rivers flow Into wrinkles which rise To old age of one's face A scent of change from sweet to sharp Ferments changing face through life The milk slowly aged not of decay But as splendor born from smooth As old face breaks through…