As spring brings life to all that sleep
Spirit, body and mind renew
Joy reflects in bursts of blossoms
Heralding new birth to God’s creation
As man and nature journey as one
In a dance of celebration
Hope reborn in all that live
As the summer of life screeches by
Visitors invited, welcome to share
Love, laughter, living and dying
Soon comes bittersweet joy of liberation
Knocking, bearing gift of freedom
As mountains rise along the way
As the autumn of life drifts in
The lights of my eyes will grow dim
Yet the hummingbird still sings
Joy of my vision, my rock
Through light of day or darkest night
Like a child I trust, I sleep
As the winter of life arrives
When my tresses turn white as snow
With the sound of my voice just a whisper
Though shallow breath, my prayers ascend
To the joy of my salvation
Just beyond invisible gates
I will in quiet adoration kneel
Note: Written 9/17/09
By Audrey Carey
Entry for Constance La France's "Why Oh Why" Contest
They organized a church bazaar,
To raise money for the poor.
A booth for selling chances
Was set up, outside the door.
When I bought the raffle ticket,
My reasoning was murky,
And I could only just believe it,
When I won that doggone turkey.
Now, the kids were all excited
When we brought the critter home.
So we placed him in the barnyard,
Where he'd have lots of room to roam.
Since the date was late October,
I'm quite sure you understand,
That to have him for Thanksgiving
Was my awe inspiring plan.
Well, the turkey was no birdbrain,
As I was very soon to find.
That bird knew what I was thinking;
Why, I declare, he read my mind.
I let the children care for him,
To my most profound regret--
He turned on his charming manner,
And, quickly, he became their pet.
But that fact did not deter me,
I told myself it didn't matter.
I was dead set and determined
To see that gobbler on a platter.
When the kids perceived my purpose,
They turned on the tears and pleas.
Then, the wife joined in their chorus,
And that brought me to my knees.
So I told my grieving family
They could dry up, and relax.
I concealed my disappointment--
Went and put away the axe.
Came the dinner of Thanksgiving,
Not a sad face could be found.
And our live Thanksgiving turkey
Was the gladdest bird around.
We gathered around the table,
And I humbly asked the blessing--
While Tom gobbled down his corn, outside,
We had hotdogs and dressing.
Within these walls…
Fragrant aura of comfort
Freshly washed baby hair and sweet breath;
Passed around in soft pink pajamas
Laughter and wit from older minds;
Even though the stories are well used
Awkward ramblings of youngsters;
Still testing their wings
Warm delicious wafts of seasoned meat
And sugared pies
From a kitchen full of women;
Sharing recipes and secrets while sipping Chardonnay
Rambunctious giggles from upstairs;
Playing children’s games in pretty clothes
While piles of coats, hats, and purses
Sleep soundly on the guest room bed;
Along with one gray tabby cat
Crisp fallen leaves dance with shimmering snowflakes,
The first of the season
In a chilly November breeze
Just outside the door;
Painted a vibrant red
Illuminated by glowing amber post lamps;
Stalwart sentinels for our
Within these wonderful walls
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Tonight I found friends
Not in human form but;
In the land, sky and nature.
I strolled along a country road,
Taking in what the
Good Lord bestowed.
The sunshine, green grass,
Birds of the air.
One could almost hear
Our Father's voice in the
A deer ambled
Out on the road,
Not noticing I was there.
Thoughts of Him that put
Us both there.
The locust sang their
Songs in the trees.
The glorious afterglow
Of the evening, as the
Sun bids a farewell
Oh, thank you Lord
For friends like these.
Everything is so still as the morning slowly comes,
from afar, the sound of a babbling brook is heard.
Perched high up, I wait for daylight to surround these peaceful woods,
as I sat listening to the dew dripping from the trees.
What a beautiful place to be, on such a cold November morn,
the first day of Deer Season has finally come.
Shhh, listen, strange sounds coming from behind, as I turn to look,
I can't believe my eyes, he is big, so big, sniffing, and grunting
he comes closer.
Counting the points, yes, ten I see, trembling, I take my rifle
in hand, zero in, he is mine, monstrous rack..
The echo rings through the woods, perfect shot, he is down,
shaking I climb to the ground to take a look at this BOSS of the Pines.
My first hunt of the season, and what a deer, one for the record.
I have two and a half months of this to listen to......
and this is his dream every night, and I hear it every day.
Through the air they came,
shattering the silent peace. A voice,
"is that the rain, it is the rain," as
they danced aloud on the metal
A memory asleep sparked as a
mighty flame;early in June when the
rains would come, the thirst of a
dying earth to quench, awaken
I remember the plain, that big plain
where children pranced: dead
brown, had life surely sprung in
awesome green, and gaping mouths
therewith would close. The healthy
plague spreaded, thus green life
I remember the trees, some fruit
trees, when their naked armes
would bud, then fruit came, along
with the wild birds who had their fill,
and the children, rambling with long
rods and plastic bags to gather the
spoils for later a feast.
The sleeping lands awoke and
happiness could breathe once more.
The dancing fades now and the
memory slowly sleep, for I will
always remember the rains.
Some sounds like the noise of bees
Hovering around the atmosphere
Or like rain drops on our roof tops,
I opened my round window
The window of my hut,
I wanted to know
Why my sleep won't mellow,
All i saw was sorrow
As the atmosphere turned green.
The cassava farm was over shadowed
Banana plantation feebled,
Apple orchard struggled
Yet their efforts stifled,
Lemon grass for mama's herb withered,
Rose flower shattered and our
Groundnut farm tattered.
Suddenly,the green army fled,
Tears exuded from my eyes
As i sputtered in pain,
Mother filled with melancholy,
Father tore his heart in grief
Villagers hope captured and crippled,
So their travail displayed as
Everyone mourned over
The locust plaque.....
BY: CHARLES MELODY (LIGHTNING INK).
They call me the dying month, the bringer of cold harsh winds from the north.
I sneak up upon unsuspecting late summer well wishers, wrap my cold hands around their cheeks and come forth.
Moving silently across the country side, I graciously give the kiss of death to the once green leaves.
In my path I leave nothing but skeleton shapes twisted and old, they are nothing but shadows of once mighty summer trees.
In death however comes beauty of colour, the brown crispy leaves illuminated by the red autumn sky.
The stage is set and the players cast, the final curtain call is all but nigh.
With a crunch under foot, hat and scarves protecting such delicate pale frozen skin.
The first frost falls upon my deathly hands, I greet winter as my old friend with an honest grin.
Like the leaves from the trees my time is short, but the cycle continues without me and I die knowing my part has been played.
I close my eyes as you do in bed, into winters night will an autumn evening fade.
My time has ended and I bow out gracefully, for the work I've done I feel no shame.
As all things that share a purpose and live with meaning, it's time for us all to return whence we came.
I’ve a vast store of mem’ries about Chicago
as I’ve lived there for a couple of years
helping out in the parish of many immigrants,
especially Mexicans and Puerto Ricans.
I’ve made friends and a number of them
still continue to correspond by emails;
it’s like a treasure-trove of relationships -
where friendship makes a big difference.
I still remember when I get invitations
from people of other cultures in their homes;
their different cuisines and customs,
a great experience, a wealth of culture.
Chicago’s known for many attractions,
home of architecture with modern skyscraper
the neo-gothic Tribune Tower in the north
along with white Wrigley building in the city;
rich in architectural history, a sight to behold!
Its classic and modern architecture so far,
complements each other in visible terms,
with innovative ideas and creative designs
a special city with marvelous history.
Daniel Burnham, the famed architect,
designed the Merchandise Mart and others
significant to his life like ‘Paris on the Prairie’,
a tapestry of combined art of old and new.
Renowned architects with their respective styles
such as Frank Lloyd Wright and his prairie designs,
Louis Sullivan and his visible ornate facades
Ludwig Miles van der Rohe for modern styles.
Oh, Chicago, known also as the Windy City
so rich in history and its uniqueness too,
the time when a huge fire razed the city
destroyed lovely buildings in 1871.
Well, with the growing skyscrapers in the city
Chicago Spire, for instance, with its 150 stories
designed by a renowned architect Calatrava,
stands as the tallest building in North America.
With the so-called Trump Tower in its 92 stories
and then, Waterview Tower with its 90 stories,
Sears Tower, the skyscraper with its 110 stories,
that’s the only tallest among buildings in the U.S.
Oh well, this is Chicago in the landscape of beauty,
as a windy city, as well as a gateway to reality;
there’s meaning to trace back in history
there’s continuing progress towards this century.
Sick of the monsters
that track my steps,
given the chance I'd
lay them to rest.
they trail my every
Gotta lose 'em
before the moon
Grab my carving set
and begin to think
attention- I get the
their frail skin,
I find the image of
blood in and on my
Cross-eyed and close
to the cliffs edge.
The moonlight sheds
time on the
and i drop my knife.
For they are me, I
was them, and soon
we will be together
Looking back it was
a full moon's end.
Deep in the woods I hear an angel's lyrical call.
Tranquil and serene, a majestic summer waterfall.
Where the oaks and wildflowers shade the creek,
reflections fall to earth from rays of destiny,
refreshing my soul and setting my spirit free.
I smell the aroma of rain mixed with the paradise breeze.
Tranquil and serene, a natural wonder and rainbow of peace.
A cascading sparkling jewel,
above a wave rippling whirlpool.
Upon the wind rides the angel's lyrical call.
Tranquil and serene, a majestic summer waterfall.
In the center of our galaxy
from 1992 through 2003
astronomers were able to observe
a star, orbiting compact radio source
The star had an orbit with average radius
and period 15 years.
From this information astronomers estimated
the mass of Sagittarius A.
v = 2π(1.4x1014)/(15x365x24x60x60) = 1.86x106 m/s
a = (1.86x106)2/(1.4x1014) = 0.0247 m/s2
0.0247 = (6.673x10-11)M/(1.4x1014)2
M = 7.24x1036 kg
7.24x1036/(1.989x1030) = 3.6 million suns!
Astronomers infer that Sag. A is a
supermassive black hole
(it cannot be seen)!
OH LITTLE STAR
LOVE IN THE WHITE OF NIGHTS
With storms my passions dance and play
As winter swirls above our heads
Sleep's embraces grab you tight
Hawaiian visions crowd our bed
Deep in frosty winds of night
While you are dreaming balmy skies
I trace the beauty of your back
And lick the whiteness of your thighs
Sometimes you smile,
sometimes you groan
But it’s my delight
to hear your moan.
I snatch you from that ivory shore
And wake you begging me for more
Cold spells get to a slow start this year,
with this month's full moon -
known as the Beaver moon.
It makes me think though;
of my homeland where people walk
and enjoy the precipice of the night.
While in New York autumn holds
symbolic meanings and stories to tell;
with a giant wind that looms over a coastline;
it's another landscape that beckons across the farmland.
Withered leaves drop and fall on the ground,
trees in their creeping sadness
continue to lose the sojourn of their youth.
At their height and moving branches,
make me stay up and watch them through the present time.
As I gleefully walk right up to the shrine of Our Lady,
there's a missing whisper, a song to my ears;
those birds spilling down the garden's main avenue.
Like an army, an orchestra that provides
melody in the midst of sympathy.
As a magical moment of Mother Nature,
I see enormous changes in forms and shapes;
an attempt to thrive for another threshold,
keeps me believe the power beyond
filled with images of life.
Mermaids and watermelon
Summer time I became an aquatic creature
My best friend and I cooled ourselves floating
Around and round the pool or rocking on an innertube
Waves as high as a couple of girls could splash.
Giggles and sunshine my summer fun times.
Mom would cut a watermelon after it was cold
The juice washed off in the pool and no one noticed
Summer time I grew fins and gills
That went perfectly well with little girl thrills.
Mom didn't know I would jump off the top of the slide
Right into the deep water....double dare you to try it!
the suns up , Its that magical day of the year
My heart is racing to go where I celebrate it
I've reached that place I long to be today
Its so familiar yet each time its a new adventure,
The season's songs fill the air
I see amazing decorations everywhere
Santa and his elves are here today
Families, friends,gifts are in every sight,
Lo and behold the magnificent tree
The atmosphere's cold but warm inside
I could stay here forever
I wish today will never end
there's nowhere else I rather be right now
This is the best place to celebrate christmas
For it is none other than my favourite shopping mall
I dont know much about her
but I heard she wasnt that talkative
She didnt like being alive
She was numb to all the pain she had to go through
I heard she didnt like anything that was green
She ate roman noodles everynight for supper
She always wore flannels and bellbottoms
Sometimes i seen her wear dresses and fancy tops
But lately shes been wearing band shirts
She wears converse shoes and uses an army bag for school
I know that she dosent like to communicate through talking... only through her peoms
or sometimes even her songs.
I see her drawing and painting all the time
She draws famous people
She would like to be famous and not so unknown
When she tries to speak to anyone they always walk away and leave her alone
When she gets home she goes upstairs to play her bass guitar
She hates chocolate cake but loves chocolate
Her family left her behind because she cant forget her past
Sometimes when shes alone she contemplates the meaning behind her life
Her favorite color is gray because her life is black and white
Everything she says is false according to the world
She is not so innocent
I understand that she dreams about the perfect life
When she opens her eyes they are pitch black
She is someone that is fake
She acts nothing like she should
She is very grungy and unclean
She knows of no safety
and of no time
Her life is smashed into pieces by the giant sun
She will always be a ghost
She knows of no god
She crawls around in the world of death
She remains forgotten
A Dalmatian is a dog on a mission
to save lives when Alpinists are lost,
or even worse are buried underneath
an avalanche that carried them down the valley.
Hear my bark, I am rushing to find them;
I sniff several times and warn the rescue team
that they are still alive, but not for long.
I may hear voices calling for help,
I quickly run to that spot and start digging with my claws,
hoping that they can breathe a minute longer...
and with my breath I start melting the snow,
making a tunnel for them to get a glimpse of the bright sky;
a frozen hand reaches out to me, his feeble voice is heard,
" I am alive, come and pull me out of this icy hole! "
The helicopter arrives in minutes landing feet away;
joyful commotion fills the hearts of the rescuers,
" Hold on, young man...you'll be okay! "
When the pale boy, barely eighteen, is pulled up,
he broadly smiles and pats me on the head;
I bark back to show my happiness,
being proud that the mission was achieved without a loss.
July 10, 2012
It’s mid-October, and the cool morning air
refreshes and replenishes the players as they march
across a muddy lacrosse field, the low sun
that manages to peek through the gray clouds
glistening off the beady surface of grass blades.
The stage is set for glory.
The murky rolling waves subject
to the whims of the February's wind,
far above the secluded lighthouse;
the roaming aircrafts vanish through thick clouds,
leaving behind a trail of hazardous vapors...
but the geese and seagulls can't continue their existence!
And still the sea offers them its promise,
a distant shore untouched by man...
by his greedy ways and incompassion,
causing the extinction of many species;
my reflection is based on fact :
we can't survive without them!
The stylish wild birds engage,
as if striken by a sudden rage,
in their frantic, daily dance over the marina,
as I listen the melancholic lyrics of " Nessun Dorma "...
the exquisite area of Puccini,
which comes alive through the extraordinary voice of Bocelli!
At four the fog thickens and shrouds the shoreline,
the brass lampposts light up with reluctance...
to shy away the presence of any ghost;
I, in transitive joy, hide my treasure beneath the tides,
hoping someone will find it and remember my work...
long after my thoughts will be no longer alive!
Peering from my window
Through a thin veil of frost,
It seems that an unseen force
Had resolved to obscure my vision,
As if it were saying,
“There’s nothing out there but darkness
And frightful frigid discomfort
That is best left to creatures
Who are suited for such environs.”
Hastily I wipe the frosted pane
For a glimpse of something rare,
When the Earth
Seemingly bickers with the Sun,
Demanding a moment more of its
Radiant solar comfort
Only to be abruptly silenced by:
Old Man winter,
Who masterfully placates this
Sibling wrangle and
With authority unquestioned;
With Winter’s command.
The wind blows,
The flowers blossom and grow,
The seasons come and the seasons go,
The waters incessantly flow,
Yet my heart is still full of woe.
It has been years,
Since I have let myself shed tears,
Or relinquished my fears,
For you, who all of a sudden just disappeared.
You were my angel,
Ever since my heart is twisted, by your spider's web it still dangles,
In your spider's web it gets more tangled,
And everyday a little more mangled.
At least I still have a heart,
What little you have not torn apart,
You always thought you were so smart,
Playing with my soul from the start.
If I ever see you again,
My heart will surely begin to mend,
Because against you my heart cannot defend,
As sad as it is... on you my happiness depends,
And I pray you will learn to love me again.
Memories of Christmas through the years,
Have brought lots of laughter and many tears.
Memories of those who have gone on home,
Sometimes leave us sad and alone.
The good times that were had by all,
Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, their happy faces I recall!
The gifts that were given, the fellowship we shared,
The love we all had, showed each other we cared.
The trees were so pretty, the food, oh so good,
Sometimes we would go caroling in the neighborhood.
We would exchange gifts by drawing names,
Some would get clothes, others might get games.
The homes would be decorated with ornaments and lights,
And we would all feast on the many delights!
There would be cakes, cookies, sandwiches, pies, and punch,
Some might eat a lot, others would just munch.
Before you knew it the night would be gone,
And the wait for next year would seem so very long!
But Christmas means more than just these things,
As we remember the birth of the Christ child and the salvation He brings!
He came into this world in a meek and lowly way,
Born of a virgin and in a manger lay.
The Shephards were frightened as the angels came to say,
The great news of His birth on this special day!
Born in Bethlehem, God's only son,
Savior from our sins, He is the only one!
So as I remember the Christmas's of old,
The greatest of all, was the one the prophets foretold!
Nothing is more delightful
and simply remembered by a sweet word...
than a walk through a green forest,
to find a remote spot on a low hill
and put those daily worries to rest;
the anxious eyes long for that vision
of a last, unforgotten season:
the gentlest rain which brings
a familiar fragrance from other lands...
when spring hides its flowers!
Whenever the lonely poet dreams,
his unerring hand is quicker that the flowing streams:
the distant vison of his flourishing thoughts
is carried to unseen places;
and all he wishes is to feel a sublime peace...
when spring hides its flowers!
The wishful child ,led by his mom ,searches
the leaf-covered paths with a sorrowful glance,
even the robins and blue-birds can't confort him,
or give him some kind of hope for his unleashed whim;
and will he relish the joyful promise of each year,
as a gentle hand caresses his blonde hair...
when springs hides its flowers from his zealous eyes,
and one of those adolescent dreams unexpectedly dies?
I, once, was like him: curious,cheerful and so restless:
seeking surprises in unexpected places...
finding myself in front of simple wonders
that couldn't be perceived by the adult mind,
as if they were another mystery, not the creation of God...
when spring didn't hide its flowers!
I rise in the morning
like a bright new flower
crawling, staggering and falling
like the leaflets of a ripe flowers.
With my four wek limbs
and my toothless mouth
sucking and pulling the nipple of her breast
and feeling her warmth.
I rise in the day
like a healthy young bird
running, jumping and singing
like a matured bird.
I rise in the evening
going back to my early age,
with weak body, my grey hair
and the wrinkles that show the age.
My two limbs can no longer
give the support without a staff
staggering, falling here and there
till i say "adieu" to the world.
"Come Autumn, come Autumn,
Paint the world!
Trees, give me gold,
And riches unfurled!",
The poor man sang,
in a pile of leaves
under the Autumn trees,
The branches digest,
And the gold fell down
Upon the man's happiness,
And all around
And for once,
The man in rags
showered with gold,
The Bird Song
Icy fingers from the lake
tenderly caress the dew.
Foggy digits turn to vapor
when the sun comes into view.
Sunlight bursts into the meadow.
Birds sing the song of a new day.
A family of deer finishing up breakfast.
I watch as the fawn begin to play.
Staring at the splendor of nature I'm humbled
by the magnificent day the Lord has made.
I'm reminded of a game of hide n seek as I watch
the sun playfully find the hiding shade.
The trees changing colors tell the season.
As the warmth of summer gives in to the fall.
Time rolling on in sweet harmony.
The bird song a testimony to it all.
As a visitor to this glorious moment
I must give the Lord praise,glory,and fame.
After a fleeting look back at the meadow
I shall go back from whence I came.
Once again the Supreme Player has dealt the unfortunate card
From the famine in my lands
To the quakes in Haiti, and the other parts
Then the floods in Australia
Now the quake in Japan
I wonder what to make of these times
In the meantime, I’m just gonna be glad to be alive
And send my heart to those who survived
Sorry for the greatest loss of your time
My kind and I will each lend a hand in kind
Continue to see yourself as worthy in the eyes of your creator
For such are the shortcomings of nature
Even we human beings who’re meant to be better,
Even the machines we make with our acute intelligence,
...always have their failures
It’s not time to point fingers of blame
It’s time to offer tonnes of help
Even he who has help worth only a feather’s weight
Will find his place in the plaque of gratitude
...For helping restore the better days
The past is what was
The present is the gift we’ve been waiting for
We must now make profit of the achievements we harnessed in yester days
For today is for the purpose of manufacturing a better day
It is so hard to move forward while fixated with the scenery passed
So please to all of us in misfortunes of a kind
Let’s carry on ahead and take from the past
....only the wealth of better lessons and faith
For as sure as one step ahead of the next will make us progress
Tomorrow is sure to erase all the sorrows and regrets
...and all the pains of yester days
Be keen, on your face a better smile to paint
Be keen, in your heart a better feeling to pump
Be keen, in your mind a better lesson to plant
Be keen, in your present a better experience to deserve
Be keen, in your future a better result to forecast
His home is always
where he is –
Beneath the trestles
of clattering trains, he huddles
in the damp & sandy wind,
eyes across the ocean,
filthy in his coat pocket
His home is just
where he is –
Now inside a box behind a dumpster in the middle of downtown nowhere,
surrounded by the
bizarre aroma-therapy of steaming, festering garbage
His home is exactly
where he can
no longer go –
Inside the placid, welcoming walls
of the house
where his sanity lives
He stumbles, aching,
crying from his
crying from his soul –
His pants encrusted
with what he could not leave behind,
clutching a desperately empty bottle,
His hair in stringy,
slapping his face in the wind
He, trapped & terrified
in a life beyond his living,
by public transportation,
wishing it could all
just be over
Wishing he could somehow
force his feet to take his body
into the path
of the oncoming bus –
But the driver
will not mow him down,
will not have him on her conscience –
She refuses his anguished gift
& slams the bus to a squealing,
furious, bone-shaking stop
& screams at him
I will not do it!"
Sad, relieved, horrified, pleased,
he views the scene as
one more evidence
of his beleaguered, hated,
And laughs his drug-indentured way
back to the motel
which has a dumpster
behind which he can once more
box himself in
until he thinks he can afford to
take the public transportation system on
And maybe this time, he’ll
find his win,
And never have to live
inside these walls of pain
which he only knows as home
In June everything was festive and green,
a patch of deep blue couldn't be seen...
the struggling sun was kept off, with dire,
by a dense foilage of emerald;
and the robins competed with the blue-jays
to harmonize a new song with notes
that even a great composer couldn't write...
Oh, how I loved that sweet sound!
Auburn trees in Fall showed a dull color
andulated by the softest wind,
which wasn't as perfumed as that of spring,
and its sadness was compensated by a beauty,
which inspired a poet and a composer
to write it with a tender melancholy;
and I jotted down the impressive images
of a peaceful Nature that revealed its loveliness!
The freight trains scurred through the defoliating forest,
I found a massive rock and laid my body to rest;
and finally those struggling sun-rays
broke through to warm my forehead quickly:
so glad to have seen, with awe and curiousity,
the forest's beautiful and swift creatures
storing away food for those gloomy winter's days!...
Oh, how happy I felt to have been the wanderer of the forest!
It was a glorious, hot day soothed by the August's breeze; the town's copper bells
harmoniously chimed in their old, sturdy bell towers
as the band tuned to their festive sound with trumpets, trombones and marching drums.
The large square resounded with thousands of voices,
a procession of faithful flowed to the Church of Saint Stephen.
I ran upstairs with heavy breath to tell my sister to follow
them, but there on the flloor she layed with upward eyes, kind of lifeless;
and so hepeless not to find anyone, I stepped outside and saw
the saint's pious face and invoked Him for a miracle...suddenly I went back,
and instantly her face regained color and she began talking. I was convinced
that such a miracle happened because of my firm faith,
and that vision reinforces my belief that saints are the intercessors of God.
On this winter's night
beneath sallow skylight
amidst prismic snow mist
wading snow banks that sank like shallow quicksand
beneath it deadened land
Falling snow gleaning grows taller than my height
stretching into snowfields,glowing bright as summer daylight
Yearning winter days photographed
when snow painted cedars cast
black shadows against incandescent snow
Timidly crossing glassen iced paths over frozen flowered meadows
snowflakes falling like flower tree pedals
windblown snow crystals pelt and prickle
Apparition whirlwinds whisper
glowing snow dust stirs and glisters
shattering ice crystals melting
glimmering streams pelting
celebrative seasonal window scenes
reflect and filter pearl moonbeams
through this winter's placid past is seen
winter nocturne dream
The potato plant's roots keep yielding her precious fruits,
As the youth of the Spring's breeze blows through the trees,
To provide the shadows of life on its green leaves,
A bastard child is born without the presence of a father,
Drugs and prostitution have destroyed her young mother,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...
Generations full of lust, lost in shame,
Silly ladies shake their pretty round hips in mischief,
The Summer's heat has came,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...
The great struggle of the poor man is a steady fight with all his might,
While the rich man gets richer off those huge city centers,
That help light up the night,
As the leaves from all the trees have fallen to the ground,
Diseases, poverty and sickness is all around,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...
The chill of the Winters's frost freezes the Earth's vegetation bear,
So, the people look to their governments for shelter and security,
But, it is so dam freezing cold,
And nobody knows if anyone even cares,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...
Centuries pass and life spans flows and goes,
Where the wind comes and goes nobody knows,
The Son provides the world with power and illumination,
Until the day of judgement,
Only the "Blood of the Lamb" will provide true salvation,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...
The Earth will exist until the end of times,
When God has defeated all the evildoers,
As it is spoken by his voice of thunder,
With the Saints of mankind,
For, there are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...
If life's motions and actions would pause for an instant.
To realize it is never too late for change and redirection,
Until, those great old trees crumble and fall,
As its trunk gives way to decay,
And the axe as the Lumberjack calls,
Or, when all men's souls leaves their bodies,
To be judged by the "Almightly",
When the lights grow dim...
His young heart departed from
that adored town adorned by the September's frost,
wisked away by an uncaring father
whose extramarital affair
marred the family's harmony;
and his pretty mother drying away
his tears so innocent and warm,
to console him with a touch that had no haste!
That unspoken wish lingered avidly
through the saddened and turbulent years,
resisting to give in to languidness...
imagining, at night, each star gleaming
over his friend: the moon which went wandering
to find that little boy, who loved to listen to the tales
of warriors and heroes that defiantly
wouldn't fall out of the History books!
He went on living, but couldn't forget at all
what he left behind: a precious friend
even worthier than a treasure of gold;
and why had he to fulfill fate's prophecy in due time...
by sacrificing everything he wasn't willing to,
and opposing his will could have helped him turn the tide?
And as he grew older in foreign soil,
it all became clearer to him that truth had lost its virtue!
How could life deny him its fairness,
and make him choose at an age of fancifulness?
To have outgrown time had its disadvantage,
depriving him of a wonderful youth
not lived in spontaneousness
and to have the chance to dream by night,
and, by morning, wake up in a brighter light...
to pursue another dream into the sunset!
Everybody knows him as Alessandro,
the handsome gigolo of Via Veneto,
and his lucky charms he sells to many a gorgeous lady,
he approaches them and says,
" Mademoiselle, parle vous Francais?"
as he struggles with words, she replies,"Oui"
And he continues with a perfect accent, "Je t'ame!"
shocked by the womaniser, the slender French young woman
looks at him and starts to laugh with an entertaining wit;
but the gigolo insists, " Tu es tres belle!"
And the petite mademoiselle exclaims," Merci!"
How can his sexiness win him this French woman?
"Vouz habite a' Paris?" and smiling she nods
" Oui...a' Paris, a' Belleville..un quartier de Paris!"
and the gigolo continues, " Un bel androit!"
" Beau garcon,, est-ce que La Fontana di Trevi...
est loin dici? And Alessandro excitedly replied,"
" Ce ne'st pas loin!"... and with a sign laguage,
he pointed to his red Ferrari, ready to steal her away!
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
Mademoiselle, parle vous Francais?"/ Young lady, do you speak French?
Tu es tres belle/ You are beautiful
Vouz habite a' Paris?/ Do you live in Paris?
Qui...a' Paris, a' Belleville...un quartier de Paris!/
Here...in Paris, in Belleville...a quarter in Paris!/
Un bel androit!/ A beautiful place
Beau garcon, est-ce que La Fontana di Trevi...est loin dici?/
Pretty boy, where's the Trevi Fountain...is it far?
Ce ne'st pas loin/ not too far
The Mayfly is up on the Kennet,
Well it’s Whitsun why wouldn’t it be?
There’s a fine downstream breeze,
And the fishing’s with ease,
Do come as you used to for me.
The Mayfly is up on the Kennet,
You ought to come down for a spot,
If you come on Tuesday,
I’ll meet you at Newbury,
The weather they say will be hot.
Last Friday they started at lunchtime,
Just a few duns to begin,
But at twenty past eight,
Yes, really that late,
‘twas as prolific as I’d ever seen.
The large fish you lost just last season,
With the ‘Rats Cat’ you left in it’s Jaw,
Came at me this morning,
Without any warning,
And god help me, forgive me I swore.
On Wednesday Julia’s brother,
Fishing on Shermans they say,
Got his limit by teatime
And whilst in the meantime,
Julia got me as well by the way.
In the long grass out along Gunters,
With the middle cut Hatch at it’s side,
We made love for hours
Amidst summer flowers
And the fishing is useless, I tried.
The emergence will not last much longer,
One more week is the keepers best guess,
But I’ve enough of the fishing,
for now I’m just wishing,
That Julia will wear her new dress.
She has ruined my season for ever,
Her tempting is all plain to see,
Just because of her eyes,
And of course her fine thighs,
There’ll be no more fishing for me.
So The Mayfly is up on the Kennet,
Please excuse my disdain and aversion.
For Julia’s Smile,
has detained me awhile,
I’ve a much more enthralling diversion.
Now the Mayfly is up on the Kennet,
The emergence is all fast and hopping,
On the Park stream today,
I got my own way,
Julia’s gone off to do her own shopping.
But as ‘the ladies’ go dancing at Whitsun,
Julia flashes her eyes up at me,
It is not my physique,
That she chooses to seek,
But my Fly box, for a pattern you see.
I taught her to cast just this season,
Her delivery is coming on fine,
She got a leash just last Tuesday,
And another on Thursday,
Now for romping she hasn’t the time.
But now the Mayfly is up on the Kennet,
There is one thing I continually wish,
That Julia’s beguile
Would detain me awhile,
And I ‘d taught her to land her own fish.
It was the night before Thanksgiving, had
trouble sleeping, counting sheep don’t work…
Kept thinking of the leftovers that we would have,
knowing that they would be calling my name before long…
With no will power to speak, no matter what
I would do, I will be haring the turkey calling my
name soon, and the sweet potatoes, homemade noodles,
bread stuffing, green bean casserole and cranberries too…
Wouldn’t be able to fight temptation, no matter how hard I would try…
Would go running to the kitchen, opening the fridge door,
getting a plate and start pilling on the turkey, stuffing,
bean casserole too, then pack on the cranberries to boot…
Keep telling myself, that it’s just once a year that
I eat until I am plump and stuffed to the gills you hear…
The stuffing is tasty, the turkey is so tender,
the sweet potatoes all gooey with marshmallows,
oh, so yummy and of course the pie too…
The gravy was tasty and smooth with no lumps…
Pumpkin pie was piled wildly with whipped cream on top…
Oh, yes, saved a slice of pecan for later into the night…
Keep the Pepto Bismol and Alka-Seltzer close for
you will need one of both before the nights over!
By Sandra Lea Hoban
City down south where fresh chill of every morning awakes to consciousness my likely to break into action bones
I have come from a place where the sun shines all year and time long for which it never tires out of giving heat; direct
and ardent, often scorching heat. Here I feel no heat from even the brightest sun for the wind blows cold that always
whiff the face as if saying "awaken the sun in your heart, your inner warmth inside which forever burns and now let it!"
So I smile and embrace the cold air in response saying "Thank you... I have let it from the time that you said Hello."
The everyday greetings of the trees never fail to please my eyes. I have never seen such lush and vibrant colors of
purple, pink, white, yellow, orange, and then from the daring dark of green to a subtle tint of yellow to gold. It all speaks
to me… depicting moods of everyday lives changing by the seasons and every moment of life. My mind raises to the
many seasons I long to see and experience and I feel very much alive.
since the year of 1952 the city of st paul Minnesota holds
their annual treasure hunt the king and queen of snows
goes out to a city park and hides a medallion worth
10,000 dollars if you are the winner and your carnaville
button is register with the st paul pioneer press
which gives out 12 cryptic clues and this little medallion
could be wrapped in just about anything from diapers to cookies
and the frigid weather here just may make you want to just
stay by the fireplace and sip on hot coco with family and friends
even lucky finder gets to ride along with the king and queen of snow
in the closing ceremony of it's torchlight parade
also watch out for the vulcans krewe for they like to dethrone the king
and leave you with a black smudges across your sweet cheeks
Tribute To The Winter Carnaville
Also Entry For
Christmas In Your Town Contest
Beyond horizon canyons
the sun cloaked in an amber haze
casting colored shadows
across steaming sandcrete
baron since an ancient age
when oceans filled its expanse
Cloud evaporation cooled sweat cleansed skin
burning like hot blood
mixed with dirtand sand,fail to form mud
Mirage shade stretch and fade invisable
yearning these is trivial
An ancient tale offers solace
its wisdom warped like an evesdropped story
infused with myth, its promise
"The heavens shall rain oceans shall fill desert plains"
An ancient burial grave
the desert's captives tortured desperate
thirsting yearn raining skies blue as ancient times
growing gray as storms from miles beyond horizon canyons
shadowed by skies dark as night
Hopper's painted a sober couple
with an unamorous sentiment;
two lovers with faces too distant,
with hands not touching, not feeling...
just being realistic and sensible,
reflecting on a tomorrow that was coming.
The exterior colors are of a depressing dark,
and the interior ones are mixed with bright
ones...with an ivory tone consuming their sober faces;
why are they staring into nothingness, sensing sadness?
We can't feel what they feel, or hear what they hear,
but their thoughtfulness is as intense as the evening' whisper.
Theirs was an era when Elvis was the undisputed king,
and his music was played on an old-fashioned record player;
perhaps his blues were the ones they loved to sing,
but the pretty boy from Tennessee was much younger and happier than they ever were,
not wearing a blue t-shirt, brown slacks and a classic hairdo,
and he rode in his red Chrevolet with a style that was envied by everyone in Hollywood.
Hopper's theme should have been much livelier than this,
not as morose as his summer's evening melancholic portrait;
and who could judge him for expressing himself in a such way?
Perhaps it was a realistic scene he had experienced with his fiancee,
observe the artist's rendition of the unpleasant mood he was in...
and shouldn't have he painted it with a more intimate and amorous sentiment?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In the corner of my eye,
Ah, ‘tis just a yellow butterfly!
A swarm of bees on its tail,
And whipping in the wind with a trail!
Gallantly afloat and drifting in the air,
A cardinal bird it did meet and then a bear.
Flying through the leaves of a tree,
And circling across the roaring sea!
The yellow butterfly zips on by,
Flying low and then flying high!
Through the winds it did sail,
Gallantly afloat a great big whale!
A swarm of yellow butterflies came to share,
The journey of flying from here to there!
Yellow butterflies were everywhere for my eyes to see,
And I was dancing in the winds when yellow butterflies started chasing me.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2006
He is as a field of lost value
Neglected by unknown reasons.
Seemed to have outwalked the furthest city light.
Becoming acquainted with the night.
A dark cloud covered him still
By those he never thought could still.
Help seems afar,
Like the stars in the boundaries of the sky.
Dealt by the strokes of the white water
That fall to earth.
A blessing he thought it was
For then sun never shinned its presence.
Sought for refugee,
As he was withering away
And made a fast decree.
But he had soon become a castaway.
All around our slippery ground
Rain dropping pellets
a quiet kind of sound
Darkened sky continues her cry
August is trying hard not to say goodbye
The passing of a season
Drenched as we forget
Hot summer to lay back
Even as we still become wet
There has been fair kind of weather
Downpours that make shiver
a lost flight of feather
Are we getting too old to remember the sun?
made sure it was done
Quivering commuters,waiting on the platform
Waiting to be safe at home from her Storm
Laughing children of the elementary size
Dancing to celebrate in the dampness of the skies
Communion in Fall
Status not clear
As we continue to hope
that a Rainbow is near
Drawing to a light breeze
The sky begins to dissipate
Clouds are rolling on
A full moon above
September's rain is a memory in Song
christmas is not about a toy
christmas is about joy
if you think holidays are fun with toys
what if there were none with just joys
the christ had risen
to the horizon
christmas isnt fear
Honeydew on the grass sparkles with life as the Sun comes up shining.
Way up yonder the Horizon’s preparing for its glorious arising.
Purple, blue and gray radiantly come together and all stand out alone,
Way up under this great big earthly dome.
Bird’s shadows fly at distances, yet each distinct by their flocks belted,
And each disappears away in colorful misty skies where all of them roam!
Beauty in foresight is clearly seen on this perfect unthought-of day,
Even to my own likings of a surprising.
Too compelling just knowing that all days are counted by,
Each exact group already individualized by being numbered!
Foliage secretes from its many branches of trees per several hundreds.
All with there own story to make known to the unknown.
Consistently re-budding as season’s change to each one that is now arising.
All seeming to prepare for that God-awful battle called Armageddon.
Years pass on and still the Sun comes onto the horizon.
Life’s at a standstill, yet, steadily ticking with the hands of time to carry on.
Nothing can be done to stop the cycle of our Earth’s creation.
For every beginning there is and ending as it is to see
Dawning is “The Sun on the Horizon”!
Be thankful that you have this very day,
For the Sun is rising upon the horizon,
What a wonderful liaison!
®Registered: Ann Rich 2001
Slow summer's day
rythmic ocean waves
soften beach shores
into tender clay as morningbyrds tour
crystal clear skies
over gentle lukewarm tides
somewhere miles from home
Crystal air and intide foam cools painful sand
hot and smooth against my hands
Rising intides hiding sand castles and tidal litter
palmfuls of hot sand sparkle like glitter
burning my tender hands like sunburn blisters
Worn from the sand's rising heat
found cool shade beneath
veradant leaves and dreamt until eve
Walking barefoot homeward bound
savored the ocean's last hushed sounds
lost in verdant camoflouge
thirsting fresh water , summer's mirage
passing orchard fields
tasting summer's yield
its litter...sweet , ripe and bitter
its temptation's like dodging sunlight
Amidst eve's paradise slept through night until first light
Butterflies, with their superb colors,
are the most amazing
in the insects's kingdom:
our recompense for boredom!
One can ever wonder
how they vitalize
the ungleaming air,
and without them
spring or summer
wouldn't be that thrilling!
Bees are the other laborious kind,
not quite beautiful and docile...
and they don't divagate a single mile,
bringing whatever food they can find
to their deep-dug hive by a shady oak,
not too distant from the hyssop!
They enter and exit
with incomparabe ability: protecting
their hard-earned harvest...
from others with an insidious intent!
Watching them swirling over
the dandelions' and clover's filelds,
which they befriend with their finesse;
while the sparrows seem clement,
letting them have a minimal share,
but the solicitious ravens
attack them and exile them
from that unwelcomed territory...
Be an observer of the laborious insects:
they don't work for wages or worry about money,
but they gather seeds to feed the unborn ones
and pollen to make sweet honey;
their existence is brief and full of usefulness!
Being small is not a deterrent to achieving less,
even the glowing fireflies have a purpose
in exuding bravado and mystery...
trasforming a darkenig sky above flowers and trees,
as light flees from the shadowy orchards!
Pregnant for the day,
sleepy, silent and still.
cozy, cold and calm.
with vomits of harshness.
Terrific, too horrific…
with masquerades of marauders.
Hunters hunting to hurt.
Fishers fishing to finish.
As silent as the night of the night,
winds noisy wind.
As still as the night
stone strolls striking still.
As sleepy as the night,
stress of the strong day stops sleepy.
As the night crawls in cozy,
a wind of change blows in cold,
causing cross feelings of channels.
The sleepy night, silent night.
Sleeping in the dark dark of the night,
waking worries of winter,
making the night to lose sleep.
The night still pregnant,
Unable to bear the day,
Unable to bear the day.
But, the forces of the bright morning star,
shine in the day.
Summer twilight skies...neon gold
ATOMIC THUNDER...GIANT ECHOES
Carried by the wind to the land of wherever
Yearning the day despite its weather
Cameras fail to grasp these pleasures
Sunflower pedals light as jaybyrd feathers
Carried by the wind to the land of forever
Cameras fail to grasp this pleasure
Summer's pretty floral decorations
their subtle sweet fragrance
timeless gift of patience
and celebration whenever
cameras fail to gasp this pleasure
An extinct era past
Mythical existence for centuries everlasts
Unphotographed ,cameras fail to grasp their secret past
The silent past unheard in instant photographs
aging fade until black...invisable memories
Unshared and unremembered like secret dreams
Snow is falling heavily by the minute
from the whitest sky, which yesterday...
had me fooled for a perfect spring day.
Fall, pretty and fluffy snowflakes, fall...
floating and gracefully coming down
on the frozen hollies with empty nests.
The breath-taking snowy spectacle
can make one fantasize and dream...
oh, I'm dreaming by feeling the chill!
Little sparrows searching for shelter,
don't brave the dangerous blizzard...
step inside quickly and keep warm.
Driving in snow and ice is very hazardous,
I'm staying home and listen to the forecast...
it won't get any better as the day progresses.
How much snow will fall, I cannot predict,
and the weather man is as puzzled as I am...
it would be embarassing to be wrong again.
Sweet, hot chocolate and lemon tea are my choices,
to prevent chills from entering these unwilling bones...
before venturing outside and shovel plenty of snow.
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
Tis Autumn and the tired trees
Drop off dead leaves as sap lays rooting
The long Spring war with gypsy worms
Has caused a few to come to terms
The humming birds are still around
But not for long we fear
The color change is way too soon
For such a lazy year
To fatten up and hibernate
In warm and cosy den
And venture out a time or two
To see the snow and then
Patiently enjoy inaction
In contemplative satisfaction
Fireside sipping wrapped up warm
autumnal feelings (Chilton or cheddah with the whine?)
Cracks of corral emerged between the Earth’s proud crown of evergreen
Gleaming down on grateful Father whose arms in bloom embraced his Daughter
Moon upon Moon in prayer he spent that God would grant his heart’s content
Now all his dreams no longer dreams but infant in his arms serene
They traveled on til trails converged and River’s roar ahead was heard
Then there upon the shore was laid, a bless’ed barge of birchbark made.
From the River’s roots they rowed, embarking on a fate unknown
Wide-eyed Child soothed by Father’s song amidst echoes of the Wild’s call
Sweetly metered by sweeping oar he told her tales of life before
The great divide of Earth and Sky, of Land and Sea, of Day and Night
How God by grace named each creature each fish and fowl each fir and fur
Then in His hands mixed clay and sand, the gift of life breathed into Man.
Between each bend dear Daughter grew and saw the world from worn canoe
Floating onward until the day she traded hums and howls to say
Father, Father, I understand! With lamb and wolf we share this land!
How scattered seed grew into tree and tree we carved for pole to feed
Father you’ve grown and given me your faith and love so I might be
Someday just like you a Giver on the road of life, the River!
The wind seemed colder that December day,
as I walked among the graves marked with
marble so gray.
Some had a story carved for all to see,
while others were just marked, Rest In
Pictures of the deceased, were on a few,
as I looked a little closer,
to see how many I knew.
Then in the distance,
I saw a crowd,
another loved one to be buried,
then my head I bowed.
Old graves stood out,
their markers so tall,
darker than most,
like shadows at nightfall.
Sad to think, some had to die so young,
but way back then, not much could be done.
Strange it may seem,
to visit the dead,
but facinating to me,
on the life they led.
As the children calmly sleep, snow begins to fall on this quiet Christmas eve.
Mom and dad slowly find there way down the hall to pear in on the children all
nestled tightly in there beds. Soon after mom and dad would retire to the front
by the fire. Mom with her book and dad with his paper. They too soon would drift
of into dream land. They all would dream of Christmases from yesteryear, here
and now, and the future. Soon the anticipation would soon pass for another
Christmas has come and gone. But don't you worry it soon will return with all it's
shimmering lights, love, and laughter. And always remember tis the season.
Silent as night's presence with ancient peace I'm blessed
summertime,burning heat magnified stress
my brained tamed by '60s narcotic dreams
the key to time capsule memories
Spiritual void,trading city noise for quiet flowering plains and blue grass
meadows lost in floral pedal
camoflouge I detour and dodge its poison ivy
rolling hills where time kept still
Deaf silence night's present...nature's dharmic lessons
Concealed knee deep in verdant poppy fields
and narcotic flowers...many kinds
where ripe orchards soured into wine
patient curiosity filled passing time
Slow night,poppies bloomed in pearl china moonlight
Pale stars cast broke through black overcast
New visions...brief surreal psycotic doom
Spent day watching narcotic flowers bloom
gathering flowers for keeps
my hunger cured by an orchard's reap
until twilight stars littered summer's night far from home
Autumn day’s pale grays hide as daylight crystallized
Crimson flowered plains and timber leaves bled crystal-rouge morning rain
Saturates plush carpeting where leaves collage
Beneath this camouflage
Sparse olive grass , black mud , clay tender and slick
Conceals impressions of travelers’ past presence
Clever color coordination , the eyes’ pleasure and autumn’s sacred essence
Plush red shades
Graced canvas mirrors , contrast heaven’s gentle grays
Stirring air untethers , bright floating pedals, light as cardinal feathers
falling ground ward settle
Leaves, red as rose pedals
Cast into floral meadows
Dusk’s gradient rays... citrus-crystal , rust-amber fade
Scarlet-tangerine , pepper-red , green ,ocher-rouge , and vermilion-nectarine
Covers winding trails which narrowed and vanished where sunlight paled
Timber silhouettes , lost definition in eve’s dark veil
Autumn timber’s radiant splendor, observant eyes remember
Preserved on treasured canvas paintings and mirroring photographs
Sacred mementos , windows into autumn’s past.
Alexandre, the young alpinist from a southern France,
attaches crampons to his tough climber's booths,
to ascend the dangerous ridges of Mount Rose,
and with the same ice axe, he climbed Mount Everett!
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
The sky was gray, the air was cool
I skipped home Thursday afternoon
Down the hill, below the trees
A broken hose, a sea of leaves
Unbeknownst to me I stood
Watching, waiting, in the wood
When Missus Curiosity
Whispering across the breeze
Somehow got the best of me
Orange clay beside my feet
Autumn gray consuming me
Curious, I took a step (splash)
My shoes became so wet
Suddenly, below the ground
I heard a rushing, rumbling sound
Missus Curiosity then spoke
The septic tank below has broke
You better run, you better hide
‘Cause here comes the crimson tide
I understood, but I could not
Move myself to leave that spot
As the wave crashed down on me
I asked myself 'am I asleep?'
And I woke up.
Snowing winter's night
death silent galaxy
sacred starlight...zodial destiny
shone through black sky darkness
Spring morning light crystal warm and gentle
twilight sun...radiant jewel
verdant orchard veils cool
my skin tanned remains soothed
Morning sun,eve's stars,twilight moon
in summer trilight amidst day's blue amber haze and golden highlights
day's summer glow fades and blendsin night darkness as day ends
Night's shade,rythmic black ocean waves
cool and pleasant , cooled my skin sunstained
from daylight pain
Autumn morning through eve
cooled by shading autumn leaves and gentle breeze
their sacred colors
blend with twilight skies that smothered
sunlight in an ocher amber haze
autumn's last remains
tuft grass bordered smooth vacant plains
twilight shades tamed
as night followed
I nestled sleep in ashwoods hollow
dreaming of Earth Heaven...until tomorrow
For the past three days,a torrid summer
scorched the windy bay
with an intense heat that
discolored the lustrous,wild grass;
even my light skin is turning dark,
resembling a blood-hungry gladiator
who fights for one reason only:
to earn freedom or die
in the arena where
people recite no prayer...
A feeble father and a robust son
pull out of the flowing and glimmering water
the fishing canes wriggling in hazy air;
this narrow beach adjacent to a lovely town,
is the safest haven for birds fearing captivity
and some traveled quite a distance
to find it without resistence or compromise;
my birds aren't found in a confined cage,
because they have never been subjected to rage...
they fly between sky and sea!
standing on a roaring yacht,
as the parching heat
from the middle-sky's sun,
makes sweat flow from their skin's pores;
they ignore the inabriated teens
dancing to a heavy-metal beat
while they throw pices of meat
to a barking canine
that has seen nothing
but skeletons of shell-fish,
realizing his desperate wish!
April decorates Nature
with snowy festivity...
to resemble a season so wintry;
will the unwelcome snow head for the shore?
The very disappointed skies gleam unpleasantly,
and the saturated earth weeps in agony;
who commanded the wrath of the tempest...
when winter supposed to be laid to rest?
The snow's showers cover the budding hills
quicker than the gelid rain of winter;
far and away...hope is illusory and brief,
and the questioning mind deflects its early coming!
Does this season have a late beginning,
or is it caused by an unknown factor?
April has smothered winter and hasn't protected
the trees, flowers and plants from frost;
almost everything has perished in its ferocious course,
and the desperate farmer deplores an harvest so scarce!
Inside is so cozy and warm, the gusty wind
is heard through the fireplace that retains the heat
of the crackling logs underneath;
some folks cherish moments like these!
April decorates Nature
quite beautifully and impressively;
brutally or unfairly...
it becomes an inevitable rapture!
A steadfast gust from the slamming of the door
grazed the terrain of her peach forearm
Her tiny chestnut hairs stood tall as
the ancient oak tree towering over their backyard
Signs of spring were blossoming
While a once euphoric state withered around her
Plucking any stimulus from her diminishing being
Tears dangled on end
of her spider-clumped lashes
She faught their release
for the journey down her visage
would only confirm his twisted exposition
How could the beholder of guilt
Be the bearer of insult
He could accuse of her unfounded infidelity
Well knowing his conscience was faulty
April rain purifies a soiled seed
Instilling deep within her
the catalyst for new being
A worthy blossom she is
and wither she will not
Under blushing sun
Swinging hands holding
Jousting to arrhythmic beats
Too shy to fluently speak
Whispered in ticklish ears
Searching to endear
Alternating until one
Longing lips converging
Under blushing sun
The people sit iced
In the winter
In the dark
They tremble in shadows
The night is cold
The night is endless
They're frozen in the snow
The flowers echo the sun
No one watches
No one rises
The fire of hope is our warmth
The flam is weary
It will die soon
One shadow. Two shadows.. Three shadows...
And two remain when the third one fades,
Until the light is directly behind me.
And then there's just one.
As I move further away, a second and third one
Is cast from the light just ahead,
And one of the three disappears
As the other joins the one behind me,
Like an off-centered aura;
And when I walk from whence I came
There is my shadow and its aura in front of me,
Mimicking my every movement, until they join as one.
Then two others appear as I near a light,
The two at my side are strong,
As the one in front flickers away,
So goes the one at my left side;
And the one behind, alone, slowly walks ahead of me.
Almost simultaneously disappearing,
Until the shadow with an aura appears
And move around from back to left to front;
And so goes the cycle as I move from light to light,
Until I see only one shadow,
Which slowly fades as I turn to go left,
Then a lighter one angles long and leftward,
Disappearing quickly as the two reappear
At an angle behind me, to my left, then a bit ahead
Until I turn left again and rest beside the column,
And there I rest just me and my shadows.
It is almost time, for fall to arrive,
I am so ready, been so hot, I almost
Winter is my favorite, I love the snow,
don't get much here in the South,
Been getting my wood, and stacking it high,
got the heater cleaned up, it is shining
Finished painting my house, now that was
a job, my hands are so sore, they ache,
I cut my grass, and trimmed my trees, and
pulled dang weeds, Oh, my aching
I cut my finger, thinning Pompas grass,
that stuff is dangerous, it slices
Tomorrow I'll weed eat, and start painting
my shop, I'm so tired now, about
ready to drop.
This is a typical day, for me at the ranch,
I need some rest, but there's not
I will see you tomorrow, after a good nights
sleep, and with luck, and a miracle,
somebody may come rescue me.
My great grandpa Ash, such a tall lean man,
would make sorgum syrup, his very own brand.
He grew his own cane, and chopped it too,
he would bring out his equiptment, he knew just what to do.
That tired old mule, that had plowed all day,
was his best helper, he didn't have to pay.
The fire was built with the wood he cut,
and the canes piled high, was his very own crop.
That old mule would go round, and round,
until it squeezed out the juice, and it ran in the pan.
Early October was syrup making time,
the whole family was busy, this meant a dime.
Early in the morning, until late at night,
he would feed the fire, it had to be just right.
Sometimes the yellow jackets would sting the mule,
and holding him back was all they could do.
Finally the syrup was cooked just right,
it had to be stored, if it took all night.
Another syrup season had come to an end,
and grandpa Ash always had that big grin.
All the neighbors in the town of Branchville,
talk of him often, for they knew him as friend.
Sitting out in the back I felt the cold north wind blow in across the lake.
Nearly a spiritual moment as my breath it did take.
The summer had been long hard and hot.
As I patted my wife on her hand as she lay on the cot.
The firewood has been all chopped split and put in its place.
Ready for another winter to snuggle and embrace.
This is the time of year I look forward to so much.
Like the feel of a warm blanket as winter sends us its touch.
Like a warm cup of cocoa to soften the nights.
Or to sit by the fireplace with its embers so bright.
To reminisce of past days and the glory we find.
Of loved ones that have past and their memories left behind.
Life has been good as I drink from its cup.
I’ve enjoyed it to the hilt since I was a pup.
And as the snow gently falls and white glistens the earth.
Remember before too long spring will return offering all a renewed birth.
Always enjoy what you’ve got and give the blessings to God.
Praise Him with honor and love as through this life we must trod.
The Christmas lights have now been lit,
Jack Frost has made his hit.
Before too long, the sleigh bells will ring,
as Santa readies his things.
That big day is nearing, the mood is set,
I bet this time of year, his wish is for a jet.
Magic is the hum of the tiny hummingbird,
I wonder if they talk, as fast as their wings purr?
Determined to drink, just as much as they can,
building their muscles, for that open ocean span.
Tiny, and cute they fight for the sweets,
sipping all day with that long skinny beak.
Alligator attitude, they attach with no fear,
remembering the course, year after, year.
Soon they will leave for much warmer days,
sometimes you will see, one that has to stay.
Nature tells them, it is time to go,
see you next year, after the snow.
The stores are busy, readying the shelves,
Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, what a mess.
Too much stuff, crammed into three months,
all at once, put out in front.
Buy, buy, buy, now wait a minute folks,
Santa is now wearing a Vampire cloak.
I see ghost dressed like elves, and turkeys
pulling the sleigh, I'm confused here, about
One at a time, is all we can stand,
not, all at once, cram, cram, cram.
The clouds hover above
Watching over me like an angel
Protecting me from the sun's fire like breath
A reflection off the water
is like the suns rays
passing through a diamond
Flickering and reflecting
Giving off an illusion like a master magician
Illusions, Illusions, Illusions in the fog
Playing Hide and seek with my eyes
Twisting my brain in knots
What is it, I ask?
The clouds start to laugh at me
But laughter soon turns to sadness and I cry
A Teardrop touches my face
And a teardrop slides down my cheek
Finally reaching my chin
As a solitary teardrop falls
You can hear the echo of a thousand more
It's the day after Thanksgiving, and all across town,
people getting up early, shopping malls bound.
Sleigh gassed up, and purses are too,
don't forget those credit cards, what ever you do.
Sneakers on the feet, gotta move real fast,
sales start early, the goodies won't last.
Santa will be waiting, perched high on his seat,
screaming children, and after this, he is sure to be beat.
When, from a store close by, someone began to shout,
they will sell you a gift, but there is nobody to wrap.
Some started fussing, where are the elves,
not too many toys left on the shelves.
Ho, Ho, Ho, came a familiar sound,
I will do the wrapping, somebody help me down.
I gained some weight during the year,
eating real late, and drinking the cheer.
So, let's get this season started, with laughter please,
just look at the presents, and all the beautiful trees.
Ho, Ho, Ho.....Merry Christmas
This weather in the South is a little uneasy,
today it was 80, not even a breeze.
The rest of the week will be the same,
only Thursday I think, it just could rain.
The weekend we may freeze,
that is what they say,
snow, and ice, Saturday, and Sunday.
What do we wear, when the weather is confused,
long sleeves in the morning,
and at lunch, in the nude.
My, oh my, I hope it gets better,
living in the South, and all this crazy weather.
Once the beach was my favorite place,
but now the mountains, I make my escape.
The cool crisp air in early Fall,
this is Heaven, and my name it calls.
A little retreat way up high,
My refugee is almost, where the birds fly.
As Winter comes howling through the great Pine Trees,
I know this is the only place for me.
Snow covered mountains that rise to the sky,
and down below a frozen pond lies.
Smoke from the chimney, gives a cozy hello,
telling your neighbors, you are home once more.
The grass has turned brown.
The leaves have all fallen down.
The air has taken on a different feel.
My allergies are back, oh where is that pill?
My eyes start to itch.
My nose runs with a twitch.
This would be my favorite time of the year.
If it weren’t for all the pollens around here.
As I stifle a sneeze.
That was caused by this breeze.
My inhalant is near.
Eyes are a blur I wished they were clear.
I feel like a sap.
Maybe I need me a nap.
My head wants to pop.
Food tastes just like slop.
Did I mention this was my favorite time of the year?
I can’t go outside I’m confined to right here.
The coolness at night.
Oh such a delight.
The tissues are near.
To keep my head clean and clear.
To the pharmacy my wife I have sent.
To find me some relief is her intent.
Just six more months and it will all be okay.
Then I can get out and play.
But until I see that day.
Inside I will stay.
The old haunted house upon sycamore hill,
Is the scariest place with ghosts for real.
You can hear their screams and crying out,
You’re welcome to look if you’ve got a doubt.
No one can last the whole night long,
Staying in that house from dusk till dawn.
The last one who tried his hair turned white,
And he didn’t even last one hour into the night.
The story goes Janey Freedman was caught by her husband having an affair.
He came home early and caught Tommy Stickmen there.
They both pleaded as he took dead aim,
Tommy pleaded that they’d done nothing wrong and there was no shame.
The shots were fired and the deed was done.
Then he shot himself with that same old gun.
Janey had hired Tommy to do a portrait painting of her for her husbands birthday.
They were discussing the details and the price she would have to pay.
Almost eighty years have passed since that horrible night.
A cursed place with those souls crying out for some one to make it right.
The place is still for sale,
If you’re not scared of all these urban tales.
It’s really quite nice least the outside is.
If you want to see the inside don’t ask for me please ask for Liz.
The golden leaves fall off
the cherry trees groping
on the steep cliff,
the tall marabous lament...diving
in dark, shallow waters
their racous cry announce
the arrival of winter on the reef...
while the poet dreams!
The lost kite has flown off
a kid's hand that waves to its friend,
shrikes wait on pines' brenches
for their prey to impal on thorns;
wagtails stand on rocks
being watchful and trustless of them,
living in danger is not staying alive...
while the poet dreams!
The jumping mouse scurrs
from scrub to scrub crushing their leaves,
as daylight haunts his footsteps;
food is scarce by the waterfront,
so he scampers back to the underground,
to return when everything turns dark
and finds no one endagering his search...
while the poets dreams!
The blind,white-haired man is led
by a retriever that's so attentive,
as he guides him to an empty bench;
he can't see or perceive a fall's sunset:
like other cheerful eyes bedazzled by light...
while the poet dreams!
The moon is bright, as the witches take flight,
over the trees, watching you, and me.
Trick or Treaters collecting their loot,
tis the season, to spook.
Bats are hanging upside down,
waiting for the right time, to come swooping down.
Ghost, and goblins roaming the streets,
looking for goodies to eat.
Vampires with teeth dripping in red,
their favorite night we all dread.
Scary tales, making goose bumps appear,
Halloween is coming, it is sooooo very near.
The morning was cool, just a little nip in the air,
then I saw her in the alley. with a hungry stare.
Digging in a dumpster, she was looking for food,
I could not imagine, I didn't have a clue.
She is someones mother, " I thought to myself." but
do they look for her, or do they even care?
How in the world does she even survive, then she looked
straight at me, never blinking her eyes.
This is America, the land of plenty,
why do some have so much, and others, not any?
I knew the weather was about to get worse,
so I ask her ,can I help , while looking in my purse.
I can take you to a store for food, and while we are there,
maybe, we will find, a coat or two.
"Where do you live, are you cold at night?"
"Do you have a family," then she got real quite.
"I'm all alone, I don't have anyone", but I do fine,
most of the time.
Don't worry child, this is the way I live,
and I can tell you the good ones, that always give.
I know everone that lives in this town,
and I can tell you their secrets, and who is running around.
Yes, street life is hard, but it's almost free,
it's not for everyone, but it is for me.
The smell of blossoms
fill the air in this season of
Beauty and new birth
Even as the touch of green velvet
shrouds everything coating surfaces
From car tops to deck rails
Filling the nostrils with cloying tendrils
That irritate and burn.
Sneezing, coughing red runny eyes
Prostrate us while we admire the bluest skies.
As we sniff the scent of tender new petals
We plead for relief from the scourge
of pollen that afflict sensitive beings.
Yet after the dead of winter..Spring brings joy to the heart
But as with all things in life, the good comes with the bad
Finding a balance is a challenging task.
But after life comes death …so hope always for the best
Expect the worst ...but take what comes
Knowing that rebirth follows closely on the heels of death.
Pull that broom out of the closet,
time soon here for a chance to ride it.
Put out the pumpkins, and light up the ghost,
spiders, and bats, sitting on a witches nose.
Vampire teeth, and a cape to fly,
trick or treaters, soon coming by.
Candy galore, put in little sacks,
don't let your path be crossed by a black cat.
Halloween is coming, that spooky night,
keep your children safe, don't let them out of your sight.
Fall shears the trees
of their discolored leaves;
the scattered robbins whine,
unable to find another place
for their little ones...
they go back to the rusty gutters,
not flattering themselves
to be without one!
Showers of gentle snow
fall on the brenches drooping low;
an early good-bye to a frosty land...
abandoned to a dormant state;
the hunched woman,in a red cape,
struggles an a wooden cane
while her black hat is whisked by
the impetous wirl-wind...
an erratic boy catches it with a leap!
Falls shears the trees
with blows faster than clipping scissors,
plucking the flowers' buds
and scattering them on dusty streets...
as they tussle to fall down
to resemble broken-winged butterflies;
toddlers twitter beyond illuminated windows,
bewildering before the torrid dawn...