A Love Poem, of Sorts

My Lily Pad Queen 

She sat on the leaf, my Lily Pad Queen 
It was one of two leaves in the pond

Hers always, when wearing Irish Green

Other remained back saved for her friend 

Waiting for me, her Lily Pad Prince 
She knows me not though I know her well

Holding tight to her perch afraid to dance

Looking around would I ring her bell 

Green eyes passed me over, then they teared 
Deep I dived, I'll stay a hundred years

..

  

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 - Poem and Photos Copyright, Jimmiehov 2020, All Rights Reserved.  The SECOND Photo of the Yellow Flowering Lily Pad, the poet's watery tomb, I took at Regent's Park in London.  The other three are Print Screen and slightly edited from the respective three links below.  

 - I'm linked with Shay, Chrissa, and Carrie, at the Sunday  Muse for celebration of their 100th week posting anniversary, http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-big-100th-muse.html?m=1  (BOTTOM Photo)

 - I'm linked with Margaret at her startup Web site, Artistic Interpretations s2, https://postcardartisticinterpretations.blogspot.com/2020/03/welcome-to-artistic-interpretations.html?m=1 (TOP Photo)

 - I am linked with Teemakuun #56, another artistic interpretation group from Finlan  at https://teemakuunkollaasi.blogspot.com/2020/03/teemakuu-56-kuva-mallina.html?m=1  (THIRD Photo)

100 Weeks of Sunday Muse

 - . - I'm 

A Prose Poem for Weeky Scribbles

I Heard a Noise 

Asleep with my head under the covers
Awoke with a start Airplane taking off 
Sounding way too close Why did it come here

Questions arise Why was that plane so close 
Was our between buildings long enough 
Why did its sound evaporate so fast 

Then I must have gone back to sleep it was still dark outside.  The plane episode had to have been a dream, those things could not have happened here.  

Coffee and granola bar in hand, Butler was ready for his brief morning walk and out we went.   Sniffed the bushes and found three just right, then he ran over to the complex "mess pit". 

On our way back, he was in his usual hurry to eat, we walked fast.  With key in the lock, I hesitated.  Things didn't look right.  Then I saw, my motorcycle was gone.  Only my chain and pieces of lock remained.  

Who would do such a thing, to steal my bike 
What kind of person, does a thing like that 
Would my bike soon be, thousands of pieces 

It seemed like ages, Butler and I waited.  In actuality five or ten minutes was fast for police.  But this was Houston, low crime sanctuary city.  Live and let, don't ask, they won't tell.  Working families and singles wanting better and safer life.  They tend our lawns, clean our homes, and pound the nails to build for us.

Where do they go when they get caught 
Would the children have to leave school 
Can they drive their cars through the gate 

I didn't dwell on those folk long, the police looked at my ownership papers,  which I had a hard time finding.  Then they smiled, one softly said, your bike has been found.  

It was speeding along the access road to the Gulf Freeway and our cruiser took chase.  The rider found a gate and was speeding through a small field.  But he hit a stump and flipped.   

He, a young man, got away, ran through the field and hid or was picked up.  Your bike is almost okay, a muffler broke off and a crash bar is bent.  Muddy and noisy but it runs and rides well.  Come down and get it. 

What will happen to that young man
Has he started a life of crime 
Had he come from another land 

The motorcycle and I led a charmed life.  It took to the parks filled with song, waited patiently while I sang along, joined the Hippie crowd on weekend nights, parked themselves  with feet dangling on the loading docks or standing around in the Armond Bayou Landing park.  We cruised ourselves slowly by the skating and  scooting hordes  up and down the downtown streets. 

That bike has ridden through East Texas  and West Louisianna,  with me and friends, family, or date.  It blended good with the bike clubs, San Jacinto High Rollers were favorites. 

It helped me court, helped teaching my new-to-be wife, naive and simple she was, what to do when I hollered back, "Hang on!!"  Then it got parked for twenty years after my fifth and last was born.  Since it had flooded I sold it for junk with a promise to restore.  Butler has died but he loved being a part of our new family until his death.  

What has happened to that young man 
Is he living a life of crime 
Or did he rehabilitate  

I do not know, not many know all the parts I've told here.  I hope for his best, he is the part of this tale that will never be written.
 _ _ _ _  

 - Poem Copyright, Jimmiehov 2020, All Rights Reserved 
 - I am linked with Sanaa Rizvi  at Weekly  Scribbles,  https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/03/weekly-scribblings-11-hypophora-and-all-that.html?m=1