Wuncie

Still Life

Poetry writing is a passion I have enjoyed for many years and hope to continue in the years to come. Going forward, I would like to explore more genres and improve.






Trees swaying in the dark
Illumined by the full moon and stars.
Local color, background noises,
Music mixed with discordant voices.
Festivities coming to a close.
Images, sounds, fading in, fading out.
Daylight covets midnight’s doze
A cat’s whining, not unlike
An infant’s cry
Mingling with the
Whizz/pop of a firecracker
Jettisoned into
The nocturnal sky.

While grown-ups play
Adolescent rule holds sway.
Honking horns
Summon or warn,
“Watch out, take care”.
Cars idle in driveways
The occupants awaiting
Their ladies fair.
Grandmama’s and grand papas
Bidding grandchildren goodbye.
Teenaged boys bussing
Teenaged girls, feigning shy.

Exasperated, the budding Toulouse Lautrec
Tosses aside his beret and frock, a wreck.
He vacates his perch on the veranda.
Anything else he might have withstood,
But, not the last stanza
Of Ella Fitz intoning how
Her heart’s not made of wood.

For tonight, at least,
It’s nosh on finger food
With family and friends.
And once night ends
Bis with gouache and brushes.

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