It is spring in my garden
roses are blooming
cuckoos are crying
The winter has been passed
summer is coming
It is so easy to write a poem in the spring
when the river flows gently to the sea
when the sakura shines
in the moonlit night.
Honey-bee dances in my garden
because it is spring
Flowers spreading sweet smell
in the cloudless blue sky
Could you imagine a garden
in the moonlit night of a spring
It can make a poem of love
It can open all the windows of your mind
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
Making a change to change
to throw away and rearrange
things left undone now to do
leftovers of me and you
from the ceilings to the floors
and all in between
the clutter of yesterday
going out the door
wipe things down
fluff things up
can't take anymore
have had enough
bring on the sun
that sparkling light
it is time for summer
more hours of light
A prelude to summer… spring’s glorious awakening
Green meadows are alive, littered with hundreds of wild flowers
Soft and wet, bright, green grass sway, unhindered by morning rain
All awaiting warm sunshine to fill with more glee!
Out of woodsy habitats come young foxes and hares
Their watchful eyes keen as they search for a meal
Then hurriedly down a winding path the brave hares disappear
But soon become startled as a butterfly flutters by!
Note: For Kelly's "...As A Butterfly Flutters By" Contest
The coming of spring is just a few days away
That glorious time of the year
When the world awakes from it's long winter's slumber
To once again bring joy to all living things
Reborn is the feeling we humans anticipate
A renewed interest in the great glorious outdoors
After too many months of hibernation
We're free once again to explore nature in all its glory
Oh what a feeling!
Every year, this old Earth is reborn
Experiencing the joy again for the very first time
So throw off winter's cloak
Breathe in that exquisite scent
Of the first daffodils, tulips and crocuses
And enjoy love and life to the fullest!
© Jack Ellison 2014
When the red red robin
Comes bob bob bobbin' along
It's that long awaited early harbinger
Of yet another wonderful spring
When this sleepy old world wakes up
Yawns and greets the new season
With happiness and a song in its heart
Time to live, love, laugh and be happy
To feel like a kid again doin' what we did again
Oh those wonderful years
We probably didn't realize how wonderful they were
Only now, looking back, do we realize
Being a kid again, doin' what we did again
Would be sooo amazingly amazing!!!
Alas time marches on but the red red robin
Keeps singin' his old sweet song!
(A bit premature???)
© Jack Ellison 3015
“My grandfather was strong and mighty, till he died at age of ninety.
The clock then stopped to run no more.
Then one of my relations wrote a song, sung for generations.
I think of it more and more:
“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny-weight more . . .”
Shaken from his quaint digression, his face in tense expression,
He renewed his dire obsession
About what made the clock strike in the night.
He slipped to the room adjacent, above an empty basement,
Where stood the clock’s encasement – opened so very slight.
Moving with stealth, and in no hurry,
He saw an object hunched and furry;
His cat stood vigil in the night, with eyes reflecting light.
A mouse, the cat had faced, into the clock was chased,
And up the pendulum raced, quickly taking flight.
Climbing the clock’s encasement, the mouse’s weight displacement,
Tripped the spring so tight; it struck with awesome might!
Striking twelve it had numbered, his muddled thoughts encumbered,
Scared awake from slumber in the night.
“All of this is so confusing, could I, these years be using
The clock with spring so tight?”
In his mental delusion he added to the confusion,
For this intrusion in the night.
There was nothing he couldn’t handle
With his shotgun on the mantle by the door,
With it he could surely even up the score.
With the menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger
Then the grandfather clock was no more
And the cat and mouse— a taxidermy chore.
Even Jester Jack has his down days
This just happens to be one
Can't find a reason for my mood today
Perhaps winter is better than none
I'm Canadian, I should be used to it
But as I get older I find
Winters are a lot more difficult to endure
Seems the sun will never again shine
That's what life's like in the frozen north
Should be used to it after 79 years
Though we live in balmy Southern Ontario
Won't rejoice till the snow disappears
Suck it up princess, I heard someone say
We all have our crosses to bear
Of course you're right, spring's almost here
Been an extra long winter I swear
I hear what you're saying, I must be hardy
But living here brings on the tears
As I've gotten older it's a whole lot harder
So I hibernate till spring reappears
© Jack Ellison 2015
Mother Mary appeared 18 times
Young woman Bernadette Soubirous
Announcing: “I am the Immaculate Conception”
Mother Mary helped Bernadette
Discover a hidden spring of grotto
That Spring was soon to become
Fountain of faith, hope
Healing for millions of pilgrims
Lourdes, truly a place of healing
Church recognizes 66 miraculous cures there
Thousands more have been reported
Lourdes a place they found peace
In coming to understand
Accept Eternal God’s will for them
To all who are sick in body and spirit
The Lord brings hope
Comfort through Our Lady of Lourdes
WHERE HAVE THE BLUEBIRDS GONE?
The Bluebirds never came home to my pine grove that first spring.
Can't say as I blame them.... my family's heirloom recipe wouldn't fill
the regal gravy boat anymore, and fresh lemonade wouldn't delight
the elegant pitcher again; their services for important holidays and
special birthdays were no longer needed, so they departed.
I tried to erect new Bluebird Houses and put out their favorite seed,
but they never came back, even if I pretended nothing had changed.
I remember the day we chose our wedding china, the pattern,
cheerful Bluebirds at play in the warm spring sunshine, was the
happiest pattern we had ever seen. We selected all the important
pieces we would need for every occasion.
Today, spring flowers are in bloom again, and not a single
Bluebird in sight. I wonder if the regal gravy boat is still
the proud captain of the table?......I miss it
My pine grove is barren now, and the few dishes I still have
never leave the storage drawer to play in the sun anymore,
can't say as I blame them....
as I blame them
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!
in the aloofness
said the ground hog
to his captive !
I never alleged,
or whispered as to
your account !
its mine shadow…
will be spring !
Just a little fun here friends…I think in the last 20 yrs.
this fun forecast has been right 4 times, lol…have a
fun spring !
Seeing the spring flowers
with colors so intense and alive,
makes me praise their Creator even more;
amazed and breathless,
unable to find any imperfection
in all that lies under the infinite sky!
By the winding path, under a fluttering willow tree,
I sit down and begin my contemplation...
by admiring a beauty never seen,
hidden from me, who is too far from perfect!
If roses are prettier than teasels,
they, too, are plants that serve a true purpose;
and if the witch-hazels have only yellow flowers,
are they less valuable or useful than
the dandelions with notched leaves?
Wouldn't the jacarandas provide them shade
in those steaming afternoons, or shelter them when
an unexpected storm arrives?
Nothing is imperfect and useless,
if it was created by His divine hand;
the quatrefoils are as much admirable as
the sleek nodes found elsewhere!
Climbing the rough cliffs of mountains,
brings me a step closer to serenity...
where pine groves culminate in mystery,
as the purest spring refreshes me:
whenever the scorching sun dehydrates my rough lips;
and from an elevation that opens up to an entire valley,
I'm the smallest being with a probable fragility,
and being too far from perfect:
I become aware of every defect...
to realize that nobody has an invincible aspect!
If everything that's inexplicable and beautiful
excites me...to make me immensely grateful;
why wouldn't I be astonished and be elevated by sublime joy
anytime I witness the splendor of each sunrise:
when the eagles and seagulls flap their wings a thousands times...
to savor a freedom that allows them to emit a joyful cry?
And being so mortal and too far from perfect...
it doesn't mean I must live within a limit!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
About eleven years ago through a genealogical search I found out that my adopted
father is Salish Indian, thereby making me at least half Salish. I dedicate this poem
to the Salish people:
The sun rises and calls our people to the land
The babies clutched, children taken in hand.
Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air
Quickly we assemble for the journey
Voices speak quietly; our people are ready.
Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky
Keeping watch over us; sentries from high.
We walk past the spring where the water runs deep
Life blood of our people, quietly blessed
We trek along its path, continuing our quest.
A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes,
It whispers in ears and tells of the woes
Of a woman who cried for her starving people
A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears
Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years.
The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster
It moans and speaks for every ancestor
The land that we walk upon is our heritage
This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker
Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator
Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks
Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks
Searching for wild game and berries for the table
Teaching our young of flowers and fauna
Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva.
The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush
Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush
And find the small plant, the guardian of our land
The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil
From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil.
Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout
Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout.
A young voice cries, “I found it!” Excited and proud.
Young and old group to see the succulent
Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant.
Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder
The plant is taken and then held tender
Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator
For once again we harvest in tribute
The symbol of our ancestors, the Bitterroot.