Pangramian

Let us just go, you and I,
on this quiet Sunday morn
and trek the Tappan Zee;
to view the golden sunrise
upon Hudson’s blue waters:
exceptional freedom.

©TPuma/MMXVII

Contemplation (9/10/17)

I awaken to pelting rains
a cacophonous pitter-patter.
Droplets streak across panes
winds versus windows [shatter?]

Palm trees throw off fronds
branches whiz-by like arrows.
Golf course sand-traps now ponds
home lighting by tallows.

T.V. sits as a mute gent
its weather voices still.
Hurricane howls its intent
Mother Nature can be shrill.

My house is a Cloister
a retreat from the tumult outside.
NO, the world is not my Oyster,
I’m just here for the ride.

Well, that’s it for now,
not such a bad fix.
No rescue in a scow,
my boat is on the river Styx.

©TPuma/MMXVII

Irma (TP/MMXVII)

Waiting on Irma
clearing my lanai.
I’m getting a hernia,
Rush says “it’s a lie.”

Will my windows last?
A category 4.
a non-impact blast
glass strewn on the floor.

It’s just a murmur
but not a rumor.
This condition Irma
(we’ve been there)
this aging Boomer.

So, I sit and let this pass
as I notch this event.
In line for gas
my disposable income spent.

This season of angst und sturm
with life sad and funny.
This too shall turn
and leave my Eden sunny.

I watch the horizon
and ocean too.
Signs of Armageddon
water churned grey, not blue.

I will sit-and-stay
and ride this out.
count each day
until we shout:

Irma, bye-bye
your likes have been here before.
I’ll take a deep breath and sigh;
“Is this it?” Al Gore.
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