FLUTTER BY BUTTERFLY
DANCE YOUR WAY ACROSS THE SKY
WITH YOUR TISSUE PAPER WINGS THOSE DELICATE AND DAINTY THINGS
FLASH WITH COLOURS OH SO BRIGHT STILL SHINING IN THE MORNING LIGHT
NATURE’S GREATEST WORK OF ART IT CANNOT HELP BUT STIR THE HEART
TO SEE THIS SPLENDID CREATURE IS THEIR NOT A BETTER FEATURE
OF THE BRITISH SUMMERTIME THAN SUCH AN INSECT SO DEVINE
EVER VIVID ALWAYS TRUE OH I KEEP THE BRIGHTEST HUE
WRAPPED INSIDE MY MEMORY FOR HARDER TIMES AHEAD OF ME
WHEN I’M IN NEED OF A SMILE I’LL STOP AND RECOLLECT A WHILE
THE BUTTERFLY’S HAPPY DANCE AND WITHIN MY PEACEFUL TRANCE
I FIND A SENSE OF CONTENT AT THE SUMMER THAT I SPENT
DREAMING WITH BUTTERFLIES
God named me a straying cloud,
and by His perpetual wish I abide...
as the loneliest cloud floating on the earth's breeze.
I glance below and discover the yellow daffodils pride,
and fluttering they dance beneath the apple trees;
and as a sparrow I feel the bond.
My night visitation is more exciting than broad daylight,
I encounter many stars and make them my friends,
and they love shining on the Milky Way...
looking down on the lonely bay so bright;
and tossing their luminous heads, they brightly dance:
so happy they have come my way!
Even the ocean's waves join them in their play,
but their dance is better than theirs,
and at such wondrous sight I make verse...
being offered their warm company;
I am amazed by how they roll and still gazing away,
I do admire the spectacle that gladdens me.
So often, on my couch I gladly lie to rest,
but overwhelmed by empty or moody thoughts,
that splendid image flashes in the glow of the sunset;
my daffodils still wave and invite me to dance,
and I dance with them, making a happy sound...
not to feel the loneliness of a lost cloud.
Entered in Brian Strand's Adaption poetry contest
This is an adaption of Williams Wordsworth's poem,
"I wandered lonely as a cloud"
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Orchard’s earthy mossy trails
Gray-brown bark like dragon scales
Crooked branches stretch to hold
Tender almonds encased in fuzzy fold
Leafy clusters filter sun
And dapple grasses newly spun
Bathed in tepid valley air
Rich soil echoes memories long grown there
Perfect crisscrossing rows align
Green canopy woven into tapestry fine
Nurtured seasons; pollinating swarms
Bare branches clatter in winter storms
Pale pink blossoms; fragile drapes
Fluttering down like blushing snowflakes
Prolific bounty once again
From a living sanctuary:
My orchard realm
I t’s in an Autumn kiss I feel again
N ostalgic yearning for the yet-to-be.
A wakened, I’m released from the mundane.
N o other kiss inspires so magically
A s fall’s! I breathe her colors in and sigh. . . .
U nleashed, I soar with leaves, for it’s a thrill
T o taste the wind and dance into the sky.
U nclad and glad, I swirl with clouds until
M isgivings come to me. Then down I float.
N aive as always, I’ve been led by this
K iss, for now a melancholy note
I s drifting through a mist. Farewell to bliss.
S oon winter will embrace me though I know
S eduction comes less easily by snow.
An Acrostic in Sonnet form, Written Aug. 26, 2012
for Francine Roberts' Autumn Acrostic Poetry Contest
The moor side broadcast,perpetually
amid airwaves of delirium,
aria that reverberates, from crag to scar
beacon to abbey century to century,
Everyday truth in simplicity
to ignite the human race!
Of the Gods own country
of this paradise
where green and blue
merge as one
in the north is a city
that encompass the beauty
where the dream lands meet
lined by kaasaraka trees
where seven tongues are spoken
and a unique lingo was woken
lined by shores and calm beaches
which meets with forts of ancient elegance
who can pass by with no notice
the mountains high and hillocks of beauty
forests green and tranquil rivers
places of worship, unique structures
renowned for coir and handloom
and for its customs varied
The people here, with a smile of warmth
welcoming with open arms
known for their variety dishes
which does prick ones tastebuds
of the sense of fashion
who can beat their passion
and their thirst for knowledge
is to be acknowledged
fame it has know from times of yore
of the arts and culture it beholds
this is the city of budding talents
feel the vibe and do relent
© Nadiya(14 May '15)
God’s Cleansing Tool
Cloud-Concerto… How Cool !
Plop-Plop Plopping into Pothole Pools
On the Grass, Pavements and On My Own-Sweet- Fools…
who, don’t have Sense enough, to get out of the Rain…
… I think I’ll go Join Them… Again
Orphaned footsteps round the old place.
Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered
coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise,
coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic.
The long land screams within its own silence.
Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge
for the undulating grass and, those it serves.
Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards
its head - and the barely living turn to listen.
The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright
blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for
its self-professed being and looming enormity.
She looks at the broken window glass and
through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those
were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens.
This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains
as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba
wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental
scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards;
always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer
shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness.
Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine
front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron,
rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of –
I lived. This mother of five young does not cry,
just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps;
to know them loved; hear the birdsong through
unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking;
feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg
to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living.
The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole,
marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own.
The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence,
welcoming her familiar face home.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009
*Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration;
celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving
Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there
every summer until it was gone...
Ah, morning glory, such internal blush,
defy the penetration of brash sun.
Oh, linger, trumpet of dawn within the dim
or haze of mid-morning's overcaste.
Oh, fairest of the fair, your milk white core
doest blush forth, a brim of purple poise
one pinked with the cheek of infancy,
the soft and silken skin of new born day.
Ah, let your vine entwine the aged arch.
Then, let the arbor, regal, drip delight.
Your limpid leaves all faint with August’s heat,
leaves like hands ‘tween fingers now enfold.
Oh, only heaven knows more of beauty
than the morn you blessed with this glory.
Whilst in deep sleep
Found a strangest place amidst
Strolled somewhere anew
Creatures lead wrong ways
But still best life chose its path
Mystic doors were closed
Glimpsed one and the rest
Until one by one opened
Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars
A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life
I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years
I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed
We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word
God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God
Sifting warm sand
through my fingers,
shimmering fine grains
glitter my palm.
filled with life’s memories
of nut brown days
A soft silk breeze
with our dreams
when we danced to the stars.
My heart laced yours
listening to the sea
undulating waves of emotion
as we kissed
on the velvet strand.
I still hear
the rhythm of the ocean.
Waves tumbling in unison,
a sweeping sound
as we lay silently
listening to sand
shifting over stone
to the faint chiming
My first love
a sea salted embrace
on a breast of sand.
in the sand
in glitter on my hand.
Once his brown alpargata shoes trod countless miles,
imagination burst from his vivid, traveler's eyes...
He traversed valleys leading to azure mountains,
and heard a chant sung with vivacious tones.
Like the invaders of the past that built sturdy castles
on rugged hills, he intruded in those ghostly places...
expecting swift lancers with fierce glances ready to attack him,
or take him prisoner and toss him in a dungeon completely dim.
But with his slick tongue, he would kindly ask for a fair trail
and be scolded by the drunken King with the fattest tummy
to explain with a few words his intrusion in that well-guarded territory;
and looking so young and innocent, his plan for deception wouldn't fail!
" Oh, mighty Frederick II...I come in peace and as a conquered native,
I would bow in admiration to be of service to your kingdom,
which extends from Naples to Sicily, your mercy is imperative...
may your soldiers unlock these heavy chains that make me lame!"
The Norman King with the bluest eyes ordered the knights
to free him and waited for words to flow from his mouth with dry lips, " My great
King, I have grown grapes that are so juicy to eat with bread and they make
the most delicious wine to bring merriment to your festive nights!"
" Where's this region you mention with such wonder and delirium?"
With red-inflamed pupils, King Frederick II asked him. And he traveler's deep voice
vibrated with loud excitement , " Into the valley of Baianum!"
" Let me out of this castle and I will show the purple grapes of a farmer's choice!"
" Let him loose!" ordered the tall, fair king. " Give him the fastest horse,
and let him bring me proof of his finding!" The soldiers obeyed with reluctance,
but little trust they showed in him: they assumed he was another well-paid jester,
who performed his comedy well...they knew the cleverness of that young traveler!
The young men sat, planted under the overhang
like the pansies and geraniums that surrounded them in boxes,
as the rain pelted the terra-cotta terrace.
The mountain air was sharp with the taste of lightening.
Having bid farewell to the arched shard of a rainbow across the valley,
they sat tensely watching the celestial bombardment of Katmandu.
The lightening stoked the day’s heat,
thickening the early evening sky like the yogurt they’d eaten for lunch.
A home-made rice wine poured freely over their tongues
from an innocent looking water bottle.
Their eyes turned garnet with the harshness of it.
The bottle sat with its tattered label, upon the arm of the white chair.
The wine within tasted faintly of the gasoline,
yet, they reveled in it, and the freedom from deep seeded societal traits,
it freed them from.
Overhead, the sky was draped in a bridal veil of stars;
as I emerged from the room to sit beside them.
She, Of The Cosmic Essence
Aware Of A Power
Aware Of A Presence
And Aware Of The Need For Our
Desire To Rise Higher
… and Higher
To Our Optimum Height
Patricia … You Are Like The Alaskan Lights
Those Northern Flares and Colors In Cold Night
Floating Dreams, So Mesmerizing
Patricia, Brings It To Her Poetic Themes
Such Are The Verses She Shares To View
And Reading Them, She's Showing You
Her Cosmic Essence Insight
Oh Patricia, You’re An Alaskan Light …
So, Keep Reaching, Keep Speaking … and Write !
For The Girl, Who Shared A Comfy, Snug Book Read
On One Of Her Snowy Days … (Via Her Poem- ‘Autumn’s Passing’
Also - Your Poem ‘Journey’ is One)
See … It Brought Back Some Wonderful Memories To Me …
People are commonly different
Symbol of diversity piece
Pure race doesn’t exists
Color and creed are just an identity
Believe only in human history
God sculptured them from clay
People are equally created
Having many opposites
But respecting others taste
When everyone is treated equal
Nothing appears but peace in hand
Discrimination, disunity and, suffering won’t be born anymore
Written to advocate to suppress racism
Bandar Sandakan, Sabah, Malaysia
10:30-11:00 am, November 13. 07, Tuesday
O impetuous Muse surround me
with ashes of moody youth
Recall silken moments,
marbled words wrote
an elaborate history.
not moments, dappled drab
where ruined feathers in darkness dwelt.
Ornate years of passion, spilling fire
allusive to all consuming ire.
When summer spoke,
when spring day-dreamed
and Autumn kissed me with
Swift and sweet, how memories rise
diamond- strung in a room of silver
Slick and sleek from a stormy world,
solid tree trunks on a bell- clear morning.
Blithe, dramatic, reckless dreams
flowing with precocious,
Luxurious with sadness,
time’s cruel wheel
rolls vast recollections
that slowly yield
cold, closed canyons of
touched with the starry
kiss of youth.
The afternoon outlined. The sunny strokes
of a samurai blade on her body
revealing things the eyes feign see.
Tempted, wounded, the virgin parchment floats
between her skin and satin cloak.
Artist; afternoon, craving company
draws her inside-out so innocently,
on purpose leaves the yolk indwelling.
The painter in the corner moans,
he jealous of the afternoons artly
Improving skin, bare olive tones
of subtle pastel, the moment partly lost
to the constellations.
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Wooden paths I seek forlorn,
I miss the smell where I was born.
The coolest air of blossoms bloom
no longer wait for me to loom.
No canopy to be my roof ~
now ashes scattered under hoof.
I had to leave I couldn't stay,
they took upon themselves that day:
destroying what I miss the most ~
now just a charcoal ghost.
I will never return,
Not even when the willows grow.
Not even when a distant bird
Sings my soul’s departure.
I’ll be alongside the river,
Tracing the few years of my love.
I gave my soul to this ancient stream,
Where the willows plot in silence.
They want to take my core
And carry it over
The fields, the skies,
Across my mind.
And I shall let my darling tree
Snatch my heart and take it far,
For no one else to
Grab it all over again.
I’ll endure the Willow’s magic
And contain my spirit
Within her bark, within her leaves,
Releasing my poison into the water.
She’ll guide my spirit
Into the Summerland,
Where I’ll rest by the
White Willow’s side.
Then I’ll be the child of nature,
Daughter of the Weeping ones,
Resting my branches
By the river, on a rainy evening.
And I shall weep
Every time you will,
And wipe your tears
With my leafy fingers.
I’ll be your undying guardian
And your oldest friend,
Enchanting you in the land of dreams.
I’ll be the willow on your bedside.
© 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila
Trees still shade the road
where Gramps and I once rode
in his old green car -- I drove --
on dusky early evenings
in my fifteenth year.
We stopped, as he insisted, at every spot
where an armadillo scratched
among the tender greenery
I was dispatched,
with Gramps' strong wood cane,
to kill a pesky armored creature
by striking hard, once, upon its snout.
Gramps waited in the car,
called encouragement or condemnation:
"That's it! Hit him hard!" or
"Can't you do a damn thing right?"
He knew I didn't like to kill
but was determined to toughen up
That hard old man was not accustomed
to being crossed or contradicted.
But part of him was tender,
and he had a sense of what was right
in the bayou country of his day.
How could I tell him that I hated
killing just to please him?
Often, I killed, then killed again,
although, at times, I'd miss the snout
or be slow to follow up,
and permit an armadillo to escape.
Sometimes, I'd temper force with moderation --
I'd stun the creature, grab the tail,
fling it far into dense bushes
to revive and live another day.
My grandfather eyed me darkly then,
but often kept his peace.
He gave me the treatment
I gave those stunned armadillos.
Could he have felt the same
toward me as I toward them?
on her tresses
mom's floral clips
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
Waves crash the rocks in ecstasy
as I pass the archway
to the sea.
Onwards to the village,
the aroma of coffee brewing,
as a power of teens gather, texting.
I venture down
a chestnut lined road
under a canopy
of Copper Beech
where bright shafts of sun
illuminate a lane of lavender
a sea of perfume
wafts the air.
Climbing an incline,
hills in view,
the distant sobbing
of water sounds
a trickling brook emerges
ambling through magenta heather
and thorny gorse.
I reach a stile,
entrance to the woods
where a carpet
of frosted red cyclamen
bleeds down to a deep dark glen.
A chicory lake lies there, frozen
as a mist uncurls between reeds.
The granite hills,
soft with snow,
luminous against a whale grey sky.
A copse of pine trees
surround a curving river
where trout pout, bubbling.
At the fold of day,
The pale sun sinks the horizon
as stars tremble
into a velvet night
felt and revered,
stirring an awesome emotion,
which stillness repeals
whenever brightness shines;
and the primroses' scent spreads the delight
of the mild season.
What do the stars
tell a lover's heart...palpitating
in tranquility, amid shadows
that advance with the pretty fireflies?
Dream, and reprieve from the loss...
hoping that love doesn't lay at rest,
but chooses to celebrate
'till after the evening, and tell romantic tales.
The invisible crickets chirp,
somewhat awkward to the ears,
I'd rather hear the coos of the owls,
which are richer and more harmonious in sound,
but where are they in this darkness, unless
they are mating in the willows of the lake?
Our blanket is spread on the wide Sheep Meadow,
with a superb view of those Manhattan's skycrapers,
towering over us as sentinels in castle's towers.
Juliet wanted to taste this freedom,
embracing and kissing her handsome Romeo,
not fearing anyone intruding in her paradise,
unwilling to leave anytime soon;
and unruffled, she would continue to love him.
What do the stars tell a lover's heart?
Accept the lovely rose that he offers you, and adore it,
because it has no thorns, to make you bleed in despair;
Sing with him a beautiful sonnet that Shakespeare wrote
for his lover who crossed the Atlantic ocean,
when ships took months to reach America's shore.
Lying in my hammock, I'm looking at the sky.
No matter what goes on down here, the birds go sailing by.
They don't pay me attention, for I am no concern.
I feel if I watch long enough, there's so much I could learn.
What is it that they're showing me that I have yet to see?
They fly and soar without a care, just happy to be free.
I guess I'm very lucky to be living as I do.
I have nothing that I yearn for and my bills arn't overdue.
I'll just lie here in my hammock on my front porch in the shade.
I'll thank the birds for showing me that I've really got it made! !
I imagine the echo of the once thundering herds,
Before the Bison succumbed to the tallow vats.
I listen for symphonies of the missing songbirds,
That made the Osage foothills their habitat.
The land that was theirs is no longer pristine,
Now the hills are interspersed with pump-jacks.
Barbed wire fences make today's boundaries clean,
And pickup trucks are the source of most tracks.
In scrutinizing my thoughts I invariably ask why?
While realizing that time man can't rearrange.
Then God paints a sunset on the evening sky,
An awesome portrait that man can't change.
I wonder, do daises tell?
Among us, who hasn't tried
More than once petals to expel?
Watch whispers of white-hearted hope
From within this circled chain;
Petaled path on which we grope.
Numbers hold this uncertain
Mystery until they're plucked
One by one. Life is taken
From each one because of lore,
To assuage the human heart.
They die to make your love soar!
Immersed in the sound of the low rustling wind
Memories and places they haunt yet again
Passed by so quickly as each falling leaf
Drifting and flowing on an unyielding stream
A current to carry from birth right on through
Filling our moments with cares which ensue
A mind lost in remnants of lovers and friends
Babies and children and time long since spent
Familiar, intangible, just out of reach
Longing for ghosts that my heart doth beseech
Winter is looming and summer is past
A time for remembrance the years gone so fast
Beauty is captured in my last breath of life
The sparkling colors in the warm golden light
Do mimic the glory and wonder be told
In those bright days of autumn and a life to behold