Tell me of your peace.
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place
As it gently sloughs the pain away
Tell me of your peace
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease,
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within
Waiting for you
For you to let it be
Little sparrow, what troubles thee
is it the stigma you face
little sparrow, what pierces thee
is it the shame of disgrace
is it the bitterness in your heart,
or the offense you can't forgive
is it the anguish that sets you apart,
or the hurt that holds you captive
what befalls you
is neither unfelt nor unknown
God cares and calls you
when you're cast out and all alone
God will never forsake you
in your time of need;
God will never permit you
to suffer or bleed.
02/19/2014; for "TO HEAL A HEART" Contest
Reflections of imperfections
have shown me a way
that I can move mountains
through my power of faith
even though I can't see him
I know he is real
through the power of prayer
and a Love that I feel
It's growing inside me
like a flower in bloom
shall I reveal my powers
or is it too soon
I am reading the signs
through my darkness I find
a reason for belief in
the light of mankind
that I know shall overcome
the greatest of odds
the Love I seek amazes me
especially through the flaws
because now I am inspired
through the hero's that bring
my throne through the darkness
on which I return on as your King.
‘Do you like Pigeons Dad’
“They’re scummy things
They’re Rats with wings
They’re vermin of the sky”
‘That can’t be right Dad’
“They pilfer seed
They breed at speed
And harbour disease you know”
‘Are you sure dad’
“Since the Rock Pigeon flew
And ended up in a stew
Since their domestication by men”
‘But I like Pigeons Dad’
‘I like how they sing
I like the shape of their wing
So you should like them too’
“But I don’t like Pigeons Son.
Their walk is bizarre,
They crap on my car
And they’re really not that clever”
...they wake me in the morning,
With their delightful coo,
Their plumage is wonderful - an iridescent blue.
They look good in the garden Dad
They don’t make such a mess
Do you like Pigeons Dad?’
[This poem was the result of being asked this question many, many, many times by my son. My son is on the autistic spectrum - he has Asperger's Syndrome to give the official diagnosis. He is a lovely human being & I love him dearly. But one of his most irritating traits, is the fact that he asks the same questions continuously all day every day. No matter how you respond, the same question will be posed minutes later. Currently and for at least the last 2 to 3 years: 'Do you like pigeons daddy?' is his favourite/most frequently asked question. Now that you know that, perhaps you can really feel the exasperation in that final ..."Yes"]
The peaceful, humble beauty
of a white lily drifting on reflective night
hums a sweet melody
of contrasting light.
Trusting the darkness
to be his throne
and the moon of loneliness
to crown his soft, unheard moan.
I watch from bushes of scorn
that mock him cruelly.
His fragile crest is pierced by the thorn
of rejection and bleeds its sorrows silently.
The rejected jewels of nature are mourning
for the king of the skies to raise his wings
but he can't see beyond remembering
and can't see past the thorn's stings.
Oh, scarred heart of grace,
spread strenght and flee with wild freedom
unto priceless solace
away from this desolate kingdom.
Oh, jewel in creation's crown,
look not to stirred reflection
for it is mere perversion, a frown,
of the white rose of perfection.
Go now, leave behind only
a legacy of despised beauty.
On an open road through the driving rain
She drove fast and deadly like a hurricane
Sad yellow stripes in between white lines
Covered cold dead flowers and some valentines
Her baby grows and her mother cries
A painful evelution right before their eyes
She left him bleeding as the future glowed
From a dying past down the open road
She fights the lions as she curse it all
The men the drugs and the alcohol
The radio dj makes it all look good
With songs about love and of motherhood
She saw her future going down the drain
Her baby's tears feeds her growing pain
A blade in the night and the bad blood flowed
Down in the gutter on the open road
A big black bird at the top of the shelves
Judging what they all did to themselves
With fingernails growing like a raven's claw
She will never see what the big bird saw
Like the drugs of the dying like a martyr's faith
There was light in the dark but no open gate
She hunted the keys to the secret code
As she watched him fade on the open road
by the seashore
open your eyes
and you shall see more
of the world's magik
in front of your face
why oh why
would I ever replace
the memory of that foamy sea
crashing onto the shore
while the seagulls are laughing
with the children once more
who feed them with eyes full of wonder
to their curious delight
seashells from dead oysters
shine of the moon's pale sea light
as they mate like the birds and the bees
my sea kisses the sky when it rolls with the breeze.
Bursting with luck
Dragons dancing in the street
I once joined the procession of colors and lost my heart
Till a wave colors distilled through night knocked me down dead.
Besides the mountain, the midnight festival of colors is on.
Lying in my arms you imagine your blood is burning in my veins
I am only listening to the chariot of the queen joining the revelry.
I knew you were being vain when you came to see me
I did know when your heart missed a beat. For the air was my friend.
And the tiny bird building its nest in the rafters of my roof
Did not bring a straw as long as you talked.
You never said bye. For you wanted me to do that. But I had no time
And kept riding on the wave. The storm is not away. What if I fall.
Tomorrow I will be lying in these shores caressed to sleep by a smiling sun.
I don’t have the time to forget you in the endless expanse of this blank night.
Last night’s sun was but a spot hewn out of the tragedy of the heavens.
A tragedy that survived the ages to live in my heart in fire and smoke.
You keep away while I create my pieces in these desert sands. When I proceed
To give them the finishing touches, you shriek in despair. For you think
I am going to spoil the lovely piece of some great master with my clumsy hands.
Tomorrow is the illegal child of today abandoned in the dark.
I end up at night and my child is born at night, having passed
Through the summer that seared my skin and heart.
The cup of sorrow is never full, so there is no overflowing.
Yesterday we witnessed the winter night breathing its last.
Winter was in lament for the little bird that went up but never returned.
I bear no gifts for you. I know not your names. I know not who you are
But I recognize you without mistake against this backdrop of misery.
I come here with my empty bag to gather the drops of your sobs
And consign them to the flame in my mind leaving your smiles behind.
For: Catie Lindsey's Free Verse contest
Big blundering beast
Poor fish have no chance whatsoever
Neither does the slowest runner in your group
Through a school window,
I watched a bird fly.
It landed on the window sill,
and we stared, eye to eye.
I thought, Oh little bird,
change places with me.
You study geography
and I will fly free.
Important chicken poetry coming up,
though no binary fantasies shall deconstruct
into raucous biddy enjambment.
Grandfatber always kicked Grandmother's chickens away
while he sat whittling under the Oak,
Those ruddy, Cherokee cheeks sweating even in the shade
as sweltering Carolina summers and bifocaled
old women melted him away in his seventies;
(Nothing heard by telephone,
cackling when he put the speaker to his mouth
or laid down to rest from the planting or harvesting,
On the flowered sofa
fussing with him to take off this boots,
putting The Liberty News under his feet);
But watching was Grandma's joy,
Haystack Calhoun and the Nature Boy,
wrestling on Saturday night
on the Philco black and white,
jumping up and jumping down
fists flying with each takedown;
Her fussing when he kicked her chickens--
He was a man of the Land not of the Leghorn;
Course he still cut off their heads for
with a whistle of his axe,
quick and clean;
So much better than Grandmother's
Flung blood and feathers,
The live body's flight
After wringing its neck.
Must take chickens seriously.)
my brother and I hated that rooster!
I'll give you Mean!
Why that Leghorn from hell,
with the perfidious, featherless rear,
That wily old bastard,
laid for us kids from under the porch
flying at us spurs first
when we snuck out to play.
You had to admire his fierce
Protecting his brood
or just plain crazed for children's blood
Therefore, I must insist
That you take chickens seriously.
The greatest chicken lit will not be televised,
but written by neurotic poultry
flirting with free verse
or thrown helplessly into concrete idioms,
wallowing in dirt-poor sentience;
on the identity crises of Rhode Island Reds
and the propensity of White Leghorns
to transfer insecurities of undifferentiated
as violence enacted on certain small children
will be written but will probably not help chicken poetry endure.
I pledge allegiance to the celebration of chicken poetry,
And the underappreciated poultry for which it stands,
One species, flightless but enduring,
With free range and corn for all.
So wonderful I feel
I’m dancing, always dancing
My life is such a thrill
The flowers outside are blooming
The birds, they sing for me
The sun is shining brilliantly
So I just say ‘Yippee!’
I’m old yet I’m so happy
I have no gripes at all
My life is flowing like a dream
It’s all so beautiful
I feel just like a child
Having fun and feeling free
The power is deep within me
So beautiful life be
I suppose one day I’ll die
But I’m going to keep on dancing
I’ve not got time to cry
I live for all this beauty
I Love this ecstasy
I know my days are getting long
But I just say ‘yippee!’
28 April 2015