Sandpit
Warm sand sifts through my hand.
I sculpt curved roads,
plant trees of sweet fern,
then climb the pine to my platform
and snug my back against bark.
Year after year, I bury broken dolls.
The last hole I dig is for my dog.
A Poem Is
A poem foams on a wave’s crest,
surges and crashes onto sand
exposing polished stone and shell
and bits of salty contraband.
© 2012 Joyce Ray
Halloween Haiku
hollow eyes, grave grin
click, clatter, rattle —
bony escapee
Wild Ride at Popham Beach
The wave swells, head high
like a stallion prancing proud.
Jump!
I grasp his mane, grip his sides,
crouch low across my mount.
like a stallion prancing proud.
Jump!
I grasp his mane, grip his sides,
crouch low across my mount.
Charging in on my white steed,
mouth closed,
eyes squeezed,
up my nose
bubbles
foam.
Kick,
kick
to stay astride!
mouth closed,
eyes squeezed,
up my nose
bubbles
foam.
Kick,
kick
to stay astride!
Then he tosses me at the finish line,
salty and peppered
with Popham sand.
salty and peppered
with Popham sand.
Autumn
The New England forest explodes!
Shy green dares to become bold –
yellow, crimson, russet, gold;
fall’s memory meant to hold.
© 2011 Joyce Ray
© Joyce Ray – All rights reserved
Joyce’s poetry is published in Color Wheel, Entelechy International, The World According to Goldfish, Vol.II, Sight, One Hundred Gourds, the Aurorean and Lay Bare the Canvas-New England Poets on Art.