Rose is cozy

in her bed,

crown of thorns

beneath her head,

leaves behind

no trace of blood,

staunching stem

with packs of mud.

Daisy’s crazy

so forlorn,

peddlin’ bits

from top–now torn,

entertaining

love or less,

puts the stress on

Daisy’s tress.

Glory’s hoary

late at night,

more sub’dewed

in morning light,

purple hue

like Jimi’s haze,

sees her through

her Glory days.

Bella Donna

disses dawn,

sleeping deep

till glare is gone,

dressed in black

at dusk—her eyes

–dilate to

twice their size.

Poppy’s sloppy

sleepy girl,

dropping off

she’s dead to world,

shake won’t wake

just rattle brains,

channeled where

she feels no pain.

Lily’s willies

mark her grave–

–manner & her

wish to wave,

banners bidding

you adieu,

wreathed & ribboned

final view.

©Karen Robiscoe

is where you live

a place to stay?

or where you hang your hat…

Is it house

–or is it home,

complete with dog and cat?

Is it space to show’r∙n∙shave

or do you deck its halls?

oiling squeaks &

> fixing leaks <

investing wherewithal?

Is it your crib?

Or do you flop…

Is it the spot

where you co-op?

Is it inviting–

walking in?

Is there fighting?

has there been?

Is it timeshare

–you its roomie–

is it cheerful?

is it gloomy?

whatever state of domicile

reflects Gestalt

of your lifestyle…

A book is like a photograph,

stilling life eternal,

in page preserved,

through written word,

captured truths–but kernels…

With long-range pens,

and shutter reads,

the sum of facts collective,

of angle chosen,

moment frozen,

is viewpoint that’s subjective.

Telescopes & microscopes

Kaleid in scopes mosaic,

dynamic mix,

of words that click,

that magnifies prosaic.

Like Polaroids,

of time gone by,

cut & paste to montage…

The focus rests,

with authoress,

who captions ink collage.

Life’s a party

birthday-surprise-wake

…a party…

all that

and a bag of chips

(arranged festively with nearby dip)

but what about after–

–after the chips are cashed?

post hummus

do we get another go around, d’ya think?

re-Pita

contingent on chips that remain in the bowl?

double-dip

fat-free, salt-free, and taste-free?

BOGO

(buy one, get one million)

Well, it makes sense. Why would God bother making chips

­er…souls…

from scratch?

Disbelieving of Time

cheeto

He doesn’t like to mark∙it.

(add campaign)

–doesn’t like to count beans and

doesn’t like to throw His die∙it off

so it’s amazing some brands

small potatoes

. . .

merit shelf space

at all…

the Penguin

married Poppins–

–and Batman: Dracula,

the one was due,

to shaded views,

the other

–maculas–

impaired by light

the Darkest Knight

went bats for pointed tooth…

Wonder Boy

went on to wed

–his Bread–

and what a wedding!

until the toast,

when guests disposed,

of bride with tasteless spreading…

(no big surprise)

since super-size

of bride begat baguetting

Mr. Freeze

dug

feline sleaze,

–the woman known as Cat

but pose she struck

was frozen stuck

when ice-man dropped to knees,

a sculpture that–

–graced punch bowl at

the rites of fellow thieves…

the Ridd’lah next,

wrote witty text

for vows employed in lieu…

but lost his wife

who failed to cipher

words to say: “I do”…

no punchline sung,

from twisted tongue,

just teleprompted clues…

yes, Batman and

prime-time brigands

–had lives off TV set–

that packed a punch

¡KAZOW!

(and stunned)

the Joker still on deck.

I have fork-fed

my hungry eyes…

dilated and sated,

the tin·e pricks

left holes

from whence a

saline solution

drips

…

purging me

of retch·ed

tears.