Parental Advisory

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we propose to posit prose poetry
forming a form of continuous connectivity,
to communicate considerable contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you’ll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft are wrought, and revealed thusly,
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Snow Day


Would that I could stand, hand staid. 
I heard the call, so I aubade
upon the dawn. As lawns lay white,

winds blow. It snowed throughout the night.

It snowed, so here I sit, purveying
lawns upon which I've been saying
dawn alights and whiteness reigns,
melting fast on windowpanes.

We know more snow is coming soon;
twixt four and six, or mixed by noon, 
with sleet and rain, a plain old mess

proposed for those near this address. 

With this address, I guess you'll see 
what's supposed to be such poetry 
as one would witness in my home, 
weather or not here you come. 

Little Ms. Piddles is a mixed Spitz bitch. 
She naps upon my lap now, which 
may not mean much to you who 
do not know her like I do. 

Sleeping dogs lie softly snoring, 
knowing snow well, since exploring 
noses blew through new snow flying 
just before her snores, lap lying.



I love someone who threw snow balls.
She held them dear, snow balls, and all
she knew of snow ball holding goes
into this, and into her throws
of love, with gloveless hands.

Frost bit, we sit; ‘Snowy Evening’ planned.