Water rushing through the brook
leaving drowned out laughter
and a blooming lilypad
A mother with a weary look
as she wades through, feet clad
It’s her children she’s looking after
Hair threatens to fall in her distant eyes
She remembers when she hadn’t worried
stealing kisses under barnyard roofs
She begins to chastise
“Children put on your boots”
She raised the voice, and they scurried
But inside she was grinning ear to ear
Thinking of sweet-smelling memories
and grass-stained linen
As her children crawled near
She said, “Now listen,
I must share some stories…”
Copyright © Mckenzie Boyer
Peering through plate glass at a puzzling view,
In the midst of hot coffee’s morning ritual brew.
Staring out with amazement and wonderfully struck,
By our Cherry Tree’s overnight sensation run amuck!
By nature’s own standard, cruel joke she has played,
Million blossoms wide open one February day.
This juvenile sapling knows not what it feels,
Sprouting vivid Pink colors, the show it now steals.
From those all around laying dormant in state,
Expecting nature’s cue to blossom their own petals awake.
And by then poor young cherry will have muted her splash,
Replaced by green leaves summer storms will soon thrash.
But alas all this splendor making warm visual sense,
In the short time required for fresh java to dispense.
Tomorrow I’ll once again observe through plate glass,
The wonders waiting just beyond cold winter’s Rye Grass.
Submitted to Giorgio A. V. Contest themed: Impress me with a small poem II!
1) user name: wedge
2) choice of motif: nature
Copyright © Michael Wegman
Pit pat pit pat
Zoom slosh and soggy felt
Runny nose, midday doze
Aching knees steaming tea
Crackling logs, evening fogs
All promises of Spring
Copyright © Douglas Dicketts
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
Copyright © Suyash Saxena
Fast, colors whirl by
In the springtime of our years
Now seems like a dream
Copyright © Willow Lawrence
“You’re not a spring chicken,”
My husband blurts out.
The truth in that statement’s
Beyond any doubt.
My running around’s
Surely taken its toll,
As Nature reminds me
I’m not in control.
For age has its limits
And mine’s reached a peak.
What I do in a day
Should spread over a week.
I try for it all
But my body’s refused.
As I conk on the couch,
There’s my husband – amused!
Copyright © ilene bauer
Sunshine bursts with lovely adjure
All over the land of no snow, taboo
In all the land on sunshine days a blur
Closing doors life outdoors is the rule
Open minds open hearts fear away
All values clear on sunshine days everywhere
'Tis not a dream, competition slows, as snow goes
Steam rises from the land somewhere
The glare of sunshine glances off a window and rolls
Along the heart, into the aged, balancing on a beam
Belongs to each not someone else, races along a stream
The silver rills gleam upstream- sunshine coming clean
Copyright © Marian Baker
From rime comes revival;
The old is renewed.
A hint of revitalization;
Breathing fresh life
And casting a revitalized shadow.
Rooted redwoods edge the bud,
Preserving the potential of what will be.
Copyright © Ashley Lowe
BLACK SWAN SINGING…LOVE
There is an itching in my heart
I cannot scratch---
A raging rash ravaging through
The depth of my soul
A burning fire in my spirit
I cannot control
A teasing urging of mind
Challenging the body to match;
As nature would have it
The winter of age has its season
That last for a while
Teaching the wisdom of her reason
Why spring comes with a smile:
Bringing vigor to the tree,
Moisture to the nest;
With her eau de vie---
Renewing old interest---
So when you hear the black swan singing
Its cooing song,
Know that love is about to run like a river
Oh what a wonderful spring thing:
Arrows of silver for the golden quiver!
Copyright © millard lowe