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Below we present our second batch of Pinkie Paranya poems.

If you missed it, the first batch is available by clicking here.

And the third is here.

The fourth is here.



While walking down a dusty road,      One day I chanced to see

An old, bedraggled, dirty man—it was very plain to me

That he was just a no-account, worthless as he could be.

His clothes were wrinkled, soiled and old,

his shoes were badly worn.

His trousers sagged, draped like a bag

and the shirt on his back was torn.

His hands seemed a couple of sizes too large—

’till he bent, without a word

As he straightened, I saw in his hands,

a tiny, baby bird.

Gently, tenderly he put it up in the nest.

The tears in my eyes sort of burned.

For how could he know—this lonely old man

The lesson I had learned.



My garden’s filled with roses
and creeping, unruly flowers.
It ’s total anarchy, none are submissive
The petunias are apt to tower.

The ground cover grows in ridges,
eschewing the bottom line.
While the jasmine creeps and crawls
Oblivious to an upward climb.

Friends ask if I’ve planted tomatoes
They grow squash and lettuce galore
My flowers would be devastated
To share space with mundane bores.

So I smile and say no to the carrots
and frown when it comes to bok choy.
In my garden there lives not one practical thing
    except for colorful riotous joy.



I saw a slash of dawn today
as a narrow white cloud ripped diagonally
across the sky,
tearing apart the satiny peach blush
of the slowly rising sun.
Smoothly, the soft backgrounds
ebbed and flowed
around and into the intrusive cloud until
it was no more.
Unobstructed, the sun crept up,
creating its soft, serene dawn.

Lessons surround us in nature.
We need only to observe
that which slashes and tears apart
the fabric of our lives.
With gentle pressure of non-acceptance
we can regain our harmony:
the tranquility we need
to start each dawning day.



We’re card carrying members of an elite group from hell,

August in Yuma will bear that out well.

The devil vacations just south of Bard,

his own private playground, and Yuma’s front yard.

Sometimes in hell, when the burners get low,

the flames all die down and the heat fails to glow

Then he comes to Yuma — most times on the sly —

and charges his energy on our July.

And when he goes home, he giggles and gloats,

but until he gets seasoned, he must wear his coat.

Later hell heats up when Yuma turns cool.

but in thinking this over, we’re playing the fools.

Why don’t we all take our summers in hell?

Let the devil take Yuma — we’ll get even as well.



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