John Myshkoff

Beautifully executed chandelle
I thought,
They practice of course,
Or do they?
...

The drab wooden mailbox
Crumbles unnoticed,
Its flecking paint tossed aside
By an unkind breeze.
...

Wild grapes and honeysuckle
Their pungent scents mingled,
Float heavily on moist summer breezes,
Crickets and pond frogs
...

Just a hint,
Of orange tendrils
Tint the darkening sky.
It wasn't July,
...

The last wisps of hickory smoke
Stolen by a half hearted breeze,
Hung faintly near the campfire.
Embers sharing warmth
...

The beached boat
Protected her skipper,
Giving refuge
When none could be found
...

Our neighbor Lawrence
Needs help haying,
Was all Harold said that morning.
The red pickup brought us there,
...

You could tell we were there
Our old tents still pitched
Fresh foot prints
Crossing one another
...

As summer days fade
Imperceptibly at first,
I walk through blossoming clover,
Wondering will they return
...

Shyly peeking over the east ridge
A hesitant sun tentatively appears.
Clouds have got the upper hand
Although, not for long I think.
...

Sneaky squirrel
Brazenly eyeing my porch pumpkin,
That innocent gourd
Sadly torn apart
...

My Standup Bass

Don't know for certain
When the woodworker
...

Surrounded and hated
For being chosen
And given holy ground,
Her people
...

Prepare your campsite,
Gather stones and kindling
Drink cowboy coffee on crisp mornings
While bacon sizzles in the pan,
...