Musings by The Poet Loriet
Stoop
Gazing into my gazing globe,
sitting on my front porch step,
stuck somewhere between
formal and casual.
My fancy black dress contrasts
tousled hair and bare feet.
Toenails painted with
mood-changing color
swirl between ice purple
and pop-art pink.
Ambivalent,
not quite sure whether I need
to supervise the kids playing
or observe quietly,
so I sit pensive and alone
with my notebook open in my lap
and contemplate inbetween-ness.
Chirping birds,
Barking dogs,
kids laughter,
the hum of the weed trimmer~
The ambience of outdoor life prevails,
and I remain unaware,
caught in a dream state.
Captivated by dancing rainbows
and distorted images,
I'm a decidedly undecided prisoner
of the spiraling irridescent orb
(a purple haze)
which creates three degrees of separation
between me and the real world,
which perches precariously
on the edge
of my acknowledgement.
Lori Beal
sitting on my front porch step,
stuck somewhere between
formal and casual.
My fancy black dress contrasts
tousled hair and bare feet.
Toenails painted with
mood-changing color
swirl between ice purple
and pop-art pink.
Ambivalent,
not quite sure whether I need
to supervise the kids playing
or observe quietly,
so I sit pensive and alone
with my notebook open in my lap
and contemplate inbetween-ness.
Chirping birds,
Barking dogs,
kids laughter,
the hum of the weed trimmer~
The ambience of outdoor life prevails,
and I remain unaware,
caught in a dream state.
Captivated by dancing rainbows
and distorted images,
I'm a decidedly undecided prisoner
of the spiraling irridescent orb
(a purple haze)
which creates three degrees of separation
between me and the real world,
which perches precariously
on the edge
of my acknowledgement.
Lori Beal
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Stoop
Stoop
