Lover, touch her with a gentleness
which maker her quiver with passion;
when whispered words matter,
a delightful thought can enlighten
her sublime smile lost in happiness,
what else will she desires more than love?
Inside the fire is unquenchable,
and the joy is unsurmountable:
when it is started and given
by a lover with gentle hands;
a lover whose trust in her is pure!
In that meadow where wild flowers
are a dazzling red and invite fragile butterflies,
the waving grass of the fragrant hill
turns a solar yellow in extreme heat...
as two lovers weave amazing dreams
by the shade of a willow tree;
and who knows this season better than they?
Lover with gentle hands,
never take those hands away;
keep caressing her, never pretend;
and whenever she asks for another kiss:
be generous and make her delirious...
as the southern wind brings
another fragrance of distant memories
that a forgetful lover leaves behind!
Even this memorable day is coming to its end,
and the kisses intensify as you wish for stars...
chasing away the scarlet sunset with impatient eyes;
and she gladly expresses that intense imotion,
never refusing, ever obedient and silently
she lets every sense be taken by imagination...
only feeling the gentle hands of a lover, who demands
nothing more than faithfulness and generosity!
The carcass of my subliminal words echo through smoke filled corridors... it is an intricate dance where the subjective yearning of broken hearts and confused minds labor.
This is the food of the poet, deep emotion transcribed through longing, like the kiss of a long lost lover... feeling her... almost touching her... but she is gone.
So you wake up to sorrow and tend the flames of the candle of your heart, feeling her... but she is a ghost... you pray tomorrow she will come... the inspiration of a lovers heart, yearning to be touched. Dancing back and forth in this mired dungeon, from the window to the wall. Wondering if there are any roses in your garden that you could pluck for her before the seasons wilt young virulent life.
The life of a heart bleeding for seasons long passed when the dreams of champagne lips was the promise of tomorrow's wedding... When you find that you married the broken shards of a schizophrenic mind. That your wife has danced away and all you can do is to curse the wind that whispers of her a thousand miles away.
But maybe tomorrow, when you tend the flames again... the wind carries memories of new beginnings... maybe tomorrow, holding hands with a lover's shy smile... maybe tomorrow, she will let you begin again. We are in love with the seasons and dark winters eventually fade to spring.
Springs around the corner
what wondrous things we'll see,
bulbs popping up above the ground
giving joy to you and me,
time to tidy up our plot, lots of digging too,
weeds to pull, beds to hoe
lots of things will have to go.
You have to be a little brave
if that rose you want to save,
but you will learn that over time
you've got to be cruel, just to be kind,
The flower beds need a tidy
take all that dead stuff off the top,
veg plots being well dug over
hoping for a bumper crop.
Seeds to sow, hope they'll grow !
then the lawn will need a mow.
And when all the hard work is done
you can sit back and be pleased,
wind , rain and sun you have grown all you need.
The winter's been harsh, the winter's been long.
Still it's only march and I can't hear the song.
To have spring fever, you need to be a believer.
This winter's been harsh and this winter's been long.
Shovel's and sneezes are the call of the day.
Please hand me a kleenex, it's two month's until May.
We're out, well I guess I'll just use my sleeve or.
Man if I had my way I certainly wouldn't stay.
White winds wailing where weeds wait wondering.
If the God's will ever restart thier thundering.
Or if they have just slammed down the reciever.
In disgust of all of mankinds plundering.
Faith in the four season's is our only stronghold.
Waiting for the story of sping to still be told.
Hoping the book of knowledge is not a deciever.
Our spirit's are shaken and we dare not be too bold.
For the spring fever contest/ ballad
The cold weather is breaking its grip on the land,
Tiny bulbs are shooting up and showing their color in the sand.
They look for the heat from the sun to open their leaves,
Just like we do when we roll up our sleeves.
Snow still lingers here and there,
Frost wont give up until the land is bare.
Once spring sets in and the sun gets warm,
You will see young bees gather in their usual swarm.
New buds will appear on the branches of trees,
Soon they will open and show their leaves.
A very bright color ,when the leaves finally open ,
To make the trees look alive as all are hopping.
Light winds are blowing,to help them spread,
As the last dead leave blows off and rest on your head.
Now is the time to pick up broken branches,
That had fallen in winter,and now lost their chances.
Summer is not that far away,
A lot of people wish it could stay.
But its the changing seasons that make this world great,
They even help to put food on our plates.
A long walk in the forest in early spring,
Shows us just what each season brings.
The Lord and his goodness watches over our land,
He shows you His love , when He opens His hands.
I came here with flowers
held gently to my sobbing chest,
to bring them to my dearest;
I have departed from the living,
to come face to face with my ending...
I lay my flowers at this cold tombstone...
engraved with a name too sweet,
and yet so painful to call it out;
the heat in my throbbing veins
could warm it up with a loving wish before dawn;
but who can resurrect someone from death?
This morning is dazzled by an intense sun,
carnations, flags and tombstones
perfectly blend as the swaying pines
offer their breeze and soothing shade towards noon;
why are the noisy larks hiding,
and melancholically sing?
I rushed here to release these tears
and let them roll from these eyes,
like raindrops falling on this very quiet place:
where tranquility is as eternal as Paradise...
I lay my flowers at this cold tombstone,
feeling a presence so known;
others before me have knelt and cried,
not to forget whom they lost and dearly loved...
Oh spring, the fickle things you do
You tease with sunbeams on the face
And when at last we shed our winter coat
You bring a shower, or maybe two...
Oh spring, you are so full or sweet surprise
You bring the blooms budding on the branch
You blow the breeze soft upon our cheek
And bid us hear the lamb that cries...
Oh spring, yours a rainbow ore the hill
A time of lovers glances and sweet romances
And sounds of children's laughter in the air
For us you grow the greening grass, the daffodil...
Oh spring, you we welcome now with open arms
We with winter hearts that long to beat anew
You give us hope and feed our hungry souls
How easily we are subject to your charms...
Spring, stay with us awhile and wash away our winter blues
Until we have gathered strength and bid you a fond adieu..
There are three of them, Cinderella siblings:
shapely, deciduous, their leafy green
darkness undulating in the specter wind,
its silent snare drum emulating heartbeats
in syncopated symmetry. "Take us, Take us,
Don't stop!" say the sisters, moving as deliriously
as a woman beneath her lover, while their stripped-
down stepsister, one on one, spells out stillness
in inelastic nudity. Wind shears through her,
unconstricted by skeletal shapeliness.
Nothing to arrange here by the coiffeur wind
in the pared-down beauty of brittle lace-
work, if lacework be brittle.
One nest rests halfway up on a slender limb,
a single stem supports its phantom occupants,
imagined, their ravenous snapper beaks --
landlocked shark-lings, all minuscule jaws,
learning to prey under their mother's bellies --
inhabiting a denuded nest, awaiting a spring
of speckled eggs, cracking the silent thunder
of shells, to free those of gaping mouths, who
know nothing of being born, just that they
hunger and someone comes they do not name
as mother: She of the dependable providence.
For now, there are no newborns, only
a feather; feather, feather, whether or not,
provenance unknown, caught in a branch
far from origin like us, trapped in our casings
of skin: softness pinioned in lacework of limb;
ragged, if lacework be ragged. Here,
where the sisters have been to the Salon,
come back as frowsy as ever, but groomed
somewhat, from a blow dry and a cut.
Bound is the significance of autumn’s course
Perished in Decembers cold,
And a symbol of its thoughts and deeds
Shall go to they imagined,
But I lay on a bed of polished silk
Staring at an evening star
And hoping for winters passage
Trees ever sway in this calm breeze
Gracing the air of the cool night,
And moonbeams dance to songs that are played
While signs of twilight change,
Cast out a mark from banished light
That shall melt the winter snow
Under the softer rains of spring
Emotions dwell in the fallacy of life,
Like the whisper of a child’s tear,
When a meaning limited to its own intent
Remains in our desire;
Come to see a seed take route
In the quiet of the morning dew
As summer slips away
Let frigid winter come,
it feels nice to be lonesome,
seeing myself snuggled up
in a comfort blanket holding a cup
of cocoa by this warm fireplace...
while the wanderer's frozen face
is dotted with the whitest snowflakes
as he rubs his red, freckled nose!
Isn't this an unforgettable moment
to delight me feeling the thrill
of the Season with its distinct chill?
Isn't this the magic of Christmas
when joy is felt in a calm land
by the sound of chiming bells?
Let frigid winter come and cover everything in glistening, deep snow,
and 'though the evening will not have the moon's glow,
brightness can lead my footsteps really far...
shouldn't I play a Christmas song on this guitar?
I will go from house to house and knock on every door...
tingle everyone with great joy by spreading the message of the Savior!
I'm very confident that going back home
stars will gleam and children will roam:
singing, shouting, swirling and throwing heavy snowballs;
happy angels will be heard on gelid gulls,
but who minds waiting in the bitter cold...
when a Divine Child comes down to redeem the sinful world?
Entered in Carol Sunshine Brown's contest,
" Fire And Ice "
Written by Andrew Crisci
on 12/ 3/ 2012