You have caged me for too long
I want you to just let me go,
I have to spread these feathered wings
I need to feel the wind's blow.
You know that I love you truly
I said that I would never leave,
I want to see the rain's dance
Not just sit here and perceive.
The scene never changes, day after day
I want to go where white roses bloom,
I have never seen an ocean's wave
And neither have you, I assume.
I need to see the autumn tree's change
I want to see the snowflake's glisten,
I am wishing on the stars as they fall
This is my dream, so please just listen.
I want to fly in the sky's blue
I need to feel the sun's burn,
When I have experienced these wonders
I promise that I will return.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
Slipping away in time and space
Stuck inside these four walls, lonely souls tangled and lost, they dance to
s evets h
and swirl inside of innuendos. They claim desires, the desire of longing
The desires of love, they demand yet make no claims
Opening hearts leads to bloodshed, despair, agony
The dance of desire leads only to emptiness
So on misty clouds, the dancer dance
Entwined in thought, yet never that first kiss
Sadly the love fades into the night
Copyright © arthur vaso
Her visit is bright!
It brings life and warmth. Butterflies, surfers, children, hikers,
and bungee jumpers celebrate her coming. Fireworks, fireflies, and balloons
of different colors in the air, are visible to see. We hope that she is here to stay, but Autumn is sure to show her the door again.
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi
The wind rushes through the valley
whispering your name.
Autumn trees begin to release their leaves
reluctantly, trying to hold on to summer.
I see your reflection in droplets of rain,
I share your joys, and feel your pain, yet
you have moved on without a thought of
what we once shared that summer so long ago.
As the crisp air and rain touches my face
all those memories tend to cascade. . .
flooding my mind and nearly drowning me.
Blue is my mood and my chosen hue that
lays to rest happier times in the summer sun,
in the clear cool lake, under the trees in your arms.
I, now in my autumn years, and feeling so much
like those lovely trees, reluctantly let go.
© August 24, 2013
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong
Standing out in a field alone, a little white flower named Daisy longed for someone to share her world.
One day a blue flower named Bachelor Button entered her world they became friends.
She knew by his name that he was not the propagating kind, but that didn’t stop their relationship she called him BB short for best bud.
The seasons of Spring & Summer they enjoyed the sun, laughed in the rain and held on fast in the Fall.
Winter came it was long and hard they were both covered in a blanket of snow, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again or even survive .The snow fell then came the ice, this went on for months.
The Sun shone brightly the first day of spring. A few days later warmth of the sun melted the snow, Daisy popped up .
I’ve been waiting days for you to come out, said BB, they both chanted hooray!
The snow was completely gone in a few days, the birds started building their nests , bugs were crawling around ,butterflies began to visit the two flowers. I wish there were more of us Daisy said, to BB.
They laughed as the sun and wind blew through their leaves. Then it started the sun and rain took turns until one morning the air & field was filled with the smell of flowers.
Daisy and BB looked at each other and asked what kind of flowers are these ? they’re not white like daisies they’re not blue like bachelor buttons. They did not know the birds and bugs carried the seeds from the two of them and the caterpillars buried them under the soil.
The seeds from the new flowers were then carried by the winds many miles away, they landed in fertilized gardens and flourished, although they faced danger everyday.
as they were called WEEDS ..
The Gardener pulls weeds out of the garden so they don’t choke the flowers, which cost a lot of money and require lots of maintenance.
However there was a Gardener who saw her friends spending hours weeding their garden , that they didn’t have enough time to admire and enjoy the labors of their love
So she set out to give a home to all the weeds ,she provided a place where they could fit in and multiply, they required no maintenance, rain provides their water .
The best part of all is their beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Ask my granddaughter-- What are those flowers in the garden ?
She will answer "WILDFLOWERS " their parents were Daisy and BB
Copyright © kj force
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Copyright © Gokul Alex
as soft as her breath
large snowflakes upon
*my first attempt at a haiku without verbs
**Yes, it is subjective and does contain metaphor :)
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan
Overwhelmed with fear I whispered into the rain
Disarming defenses, Giving in to the gray
Tearing down all of my shelter within my hollowed decay
While this echoing silence gave every tear drop a name
They begin filling the voids with mundane hopes for a change
Heaven will save me from this hell and blue skies will reign
Lazily lay in green grass watching clouds drift away
It's all but a deflated dream now that the colors have changed
My thoughts have become restless noise of uncertainties rearranged
Damning all of my emotions, lies decorated with grace
Now I stand with a hardened heart in the sobering autumn rain
I'm disarmed and defenseless, Giving in to the gray
Copyright © Jesse James Forster
Through the lonely woods, I may head,
Upon the autumn leaves, I may tread,
At the secluded horizon, I may stare,
And only you, I may see,
In those symphonies of silence,
In those melodies of calmness,
In those euphonies of quietness.
By the silent lake, I may lay,
Till the twilight fades, I may stay,
Then in reclusive silence, I may walk,
And only to you, I may talk,
Through those toungueless emotions,
Through those wordless attachments,
Through those voiceless sentiments.
In the lone meadow, I may wander,
Along the untrodden paths, I may waver,
In companionless seclusion, I may hide,
And only in you, I may find,
The depths of oneness,
The bonds of togetherness,
The cozy feel of coalescence.
In the wilderness of emotions, I may die,
At the merciless daggering, I may sigh,
Through a million wounds, I may bleed,
And only in you, I may seek,
The balm of love,
The warmth of affection,
The heal of inseparability.
Copyright © Suyash Saxena
so far the days of singing rays
have come to meet their sullen end
twixt nights of joy with hidden ploy
a sweetly tone, they do offend
O gasp! the serpent true must strike
O gasp! the lustful raging psych
whose cares are lost forever long
roaring out, O hear my song!
ideas soon drain, decisions fill
a mind at pace with thoughts that spill
float soundlessly thy solstice chill
the misty seep, foreboding reap
emotions run amok like thieves
for darkly cast, a favored past
along is lain misguided leaves
Copyright © Samuel Robinson
Into a vortex chemically unbalanced,
Soft velvety dark smooth to the touch.
My heart broken asunder my Souls' pain enhanced,
All darkness Inverted oh so much.
Soft velvety dark smooth to the touch,
Outside reality searching space.
All darkness Inverted oh so much,
I hear the call of ancient race.
Outside reality searching space,
Searching out for ancient rune.
I hear the call of ancient race,
Before a cold lonely winter moon.
Searching out for ancient rune,
Weeping starlight crystal light.
Before a cold lonely winter moon,
Cold desolation In the night.
Weeping starlight crystal light,
Always watching In silver shadows.
Cold desolation In the night,
As cold as old ancient barrows.
Always watching In silver shadows,
Rising spirit of the old mountain dew.
As cold as old ancient barrows,
An ancient calling beckoning you.
Rising spirit of the old mountain dew,
Playing haunting tunes.
An ancient calling beckoning you,
Casting musical runes.
Playing haunting tunes,
Drunken on the old Celtic pipes.
Casting musical runes,
By ancient Arrachs' stripes.
Drunken on the old Celtic pipes,
Enchanting magic sings.
By ancient Arrachs' stripes,
The ancient Celts she brings.
Enchanting magic sings,
Happiness a virtue of Joy In heart.
The ancient Celts she brings,
The glory of ancient days ne'er part.
Happiness virtue of joy In heart,
Breathing In sighs deeply linger.
The glory of ancient days ne'er part,
Kept alive by sorrows' timeless finger.
Breathing In sighs deeply linger,
Staring off Into a horizon distant.
Kept alive by sorrows' timeless finger,
My timeless sorrow runs consistant.
Staring off Into a horizon distant,
Beautiful salted fresh air echoes.
My timeless sorrow runs consistant,
Now my grieving thought upon you flows.
Beautiful salted fresh air echoes,
Churning waves whispering silver cherished memories.
Now my grieving thought upon you flows,
As I receive waves' memory deliveries.
Churning waves whispering silver cherished memories,
Rocked over so gently under a crescent moon.
As I receive waves' memory deliveries,
As Celtic music plays Its ancient tune.
Rocked over so gently under a crescent moon,
Your bright light touches one vision.
As Celtic music plays Its ancient tune,
My heart weeps In Its derision.
Your bright light touches one vision,
Standing out most beautiful lady.
My heart weeps In Its derision,
As warm before me you stand In glory.
A Collaboration by Liam Mcdaid & Michael Clarke.
Copyright © liam mcdaid
It is time.
I have been enwombed like a casted fist.
I am long overdue,
Inside the suicide when spring came through.
It is nearly winter now.
The people go in;
I leach out.
I am something nocturnal;
Phasic, the darkness of a new moon.
I was smothered inside my own cocoon;
A flower doomed to bloom too soon.
I woke up raw and markedly harsh;
Fall swallowed me up like a scarlet reservoir,
And I drowned
To the sound
Of my house burning down.
Where are you now?
Now that I woke up outgrown and awkward,
Aborted from the happy child,
Who thought that life would be worthwhile,
And that winter is simply a season to come;
When I never know what I’ll become.
Copyright © Jessica VH
The Wisdom of Winter
Oh the memories of Spring
Much more the sweeter grow,
When you are at Autumn’s end
And faced with Winter’s snow.
Oh the new and budding things
That make for Spring’s delight,
Fast mature in Summer’s day
To fade in Autumn’s night.
Oh that it were Spring again,
Life pulsating anew;
Hope dancing in its gentle breeze
And promise in its dew!
On that it were Spring again,
I’d more the wiser be,
And linger longer on its path
Of sweet simplicity!
But one cannot be wise in Spring
For it’s a time to dream;
And only Winter sees the truth
Of every season’s scheme.
© Sandra M. Haight
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Rhyme Time
Sponsor: Pendleton Arkwright
Copyright © Sandra Haight
The smell of coffee: hot and bitter in the cold winter night
With the rhythm in the left hand and the rhyme in the right,
He wrote a poem in his secret pocket,
A wistful star like a speedy rocket
Ready to leave this planet intense blue
In search of other traces of life anew.
He remembered after mother had died,
In the cold touch ,stalagmites and stalactites cried.
Father and son felt a strong taste for sweets.
As in the sunset, the blind boatman meets
With an awkward touch the water`s ring
But generally they needn`t to eat anything
For a while they rested an extraordinary team:
Father insistently (sometimes boring) told him
All his recollections:childhood,war and the rest…
All muscles and teeth pressed hot, like ice on the crest.
The son learnt them by heart, and later
He would retell them to father, even better…
One was on duty to wash the dishes;
The other tried to follow his wishes…
Their only joy was to read and read and read…
One had to cook at home ,and to bake the bread
In a bread factory:He was happy even when he was sad.
He could recognize each bread: All his loafs were bad.
He was like Chaplin in “New Times”.
He was speaking in figures and rhymes.
He wore a monk beard and father was much more younger.
Looking through the window: grey hunger and anger …
At the weekend, he used to ask his father
About the favourite meal, but rather
He would find a surprise the next day.
Each day was windy winter and grey…
Father had the same touching answer:”Something good”.
In the strange interference ,water and fire ,one was rude.
Solitude was their common friend stealing in like a lizard,
But, in the afternoon they played sweeping their courtyard.
They had leaves in autumn and snow in the winter.
The sky was grey without sun, the clouds were bitter.
Father was counting the leaves, in the old horizon
The son was painting the days ,in the cold horizon.
The war with the falling down leaves fighting hard
With red faces like an inveterate drunkard .
And years after his father met his final hope,
The son would stop in front of the sweets shop ,
Ready to buy recollections as Christmas tree sweets.
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa
Oh walker’s will and lander’s way…
Did not we grow in love’s dismay?
while wandering by the garden path
that led us to “the grapes of Wrath”
but also by the Lake of Tow ....and woe
still... on we wandered … did farther go
to where the wake of Willing’s way
slammed us like the tides…to our final days
against the side of Trivial’s Pass
no easy going, unto the last
So Now! Away my love!... turn now away!
The sky is dark... tis end of day
no more to walk hand and hand
no circle to be broken
no promise in sands
of time...ticking time ...that has now stopped
the boom has struck... love's hammer dropped
Let us land …in this peaceful place
in this subjective joy… in an objective space
we journeyed long unto the bend
of bow and break...relent and lend
but even we must greet our circle's end
Copyright © Ingrid Showalter Swift
the spring sun shines so clearly
on a simple holly leaf
bringing to life in bright green
Christmas' warm spirits
Copyright © Elly D. A. Wouterse
A blue bird sings,
a raven calls,
how sweet the sound,
how strange the fall.
Copyright © dani wil
The blood of nature
seeps from branches as it falls
carried by wind’s laugh
in a journey through time’s bid
onto man-trodden concrete.
Thunder bellows rage
while clouds shroud themselves in tears
and lightning shreds night
carving glimpses of shadows
into dusk’s timeless glory.
Grey skies petrified
look over earthen colors
winds of change in the seasons
as was done in years of old.
Copyright © Robyn Thomas
The toppling hyacinth,
Excitedly bursting at every corner
To show the world its colour.
The soft chrysanthemum,
A rosy brush of autumn's breath,
So stoic in their blush.
The pale gardenia,
A soft unfolding in cautious masses,
The tokens of a lover.
The quiet lilac,
Without a care for frill or grace,
Growing where it may.
The meadow shifts.
There is such blissful sorrow
In watching flowers bloom
Copyright © Sean Pope
Memories on Branches
Sitting in the warmth of sunlit joy
awakened from the sleep of never sky
subtly, with time, the urges rise
to leave the nest and somehow learn to fly.
Heat, loves demon in disguise,
shocks all nature’s senses into lust
cooling in the shade of lengthened day
the desire to fulfill an unknown trust.
Climax, in kaleidoscopic red,
faint hint of coolness in the bed,
winds that steal the words unsaid
cold tears of summer loves sole dread.
Sitting in the icy gale of one
no heat from fading, distant sun,
returned into the world of never sky
Reminiscent of the day we learned to fly.
John G. Lawless
Copyright © John lawless
The honeysuckle nectar is gathered with a buzz
Cactus flowers perform their sweet encore, just because
Sandals tip toe in short skirts, so busy are the eyes
Spilling ink are poets, minding minds of the wise
Love is in the air breezing through limbs and leaves
Newlyweds sniffing with mouths under dancing trees
Spring has sprung and love is singing everywhere
While country clocks crawl and standing still is Time Square
Copyright © Warner Baxter
/Locks and Clocks
We change locks
like we change clocks,
as flippantly as daylight dims,
as easily as days grow slim;
we try to bolt the sunlight out
with combinations masked in doubt
to shorter hours, as if we could
feel like the conqueror who would
shut out those close and dear to us
who used to be the ones we trust.
Clocks and locks are both the same
as tokens in some wordless game
to keep out fear and trusted waifs;
our meager souls no longer safe;
the locks have failed and so the trust
is gone and turned to flaking rust;
the moths have eaten through
those things we hoped to keep brand new;
again our dark night will descend
and we will once again offend.
Like locks and clocks we change our friends
(if ever we could make amends
for things we did with ignorance in place)
and do not receive the coveted embrace
from absent friends who come and go
as night to day diminishes its glow;
where hope runs true within,
returns to come around again
to lengthening days where suns shine bright,
and will dismiss the darkness of our night.
Copyright © Merwin Rylaarsdam
It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,;
Autumn rust,red,gold,so gay
Drystone walls edging fields,
Apples gathered,holly berries
Flash so brightly
Look like flowers
Sun shines sideways,shadows long
Of trees appear.I dwell among
Woods of gentle beeches sing
Swaying with the sideward wind.
See their roots, all intertwined.
Feel their geometry in the mind.
Look up now into the sky,
See the V formation high.
Geese fly home at end of day.
My heart is moved by patterned dance
In this peace and great silence
My mind widens like the sky
And in this moment I would die,
So I would stay with this still vision
Of geese set out on autumn mission.
Snails in rain pools slither near
My feet upon the terrace here
And look,upon their whorled backs
All the sense of life is packed.
And yet so easily Life’s destroyed,
When blind foot steps into the void
Copyright © Catherine Prose
One day, watching a reddened evening sky
over the western horizon, it’s peculiar though,
a thought that is so preposterous suddenly came to my mind
and that was the earth is not revolving. Is it because the world was
too quiet? Or the world was too chaotic.
Once this absurd thought ran through my mind,
neither of those great names, Copernicus nor Galileo
bore weight on me and their heliocentric theory faded away
The papal absolution bestowed on Galileo after four century’s
long years of silence, to me, was not only the meaningless gesture of
such an arrogant God’s institution but was the subversion of God’s majestic power or it means that God was ousted from his throne and became subservient to his own creature, man.
After all, it can be said that then,
it was not because the earth revolved on its own axis, time flowed,
or the earth orbited the sun, seasons changed. But because I think
time flows, the time flows. I feel seasons change, the seasons change.
For my wildest notion came to this far I felt uneasy inside. I wanted to hear sound of passing clouds, I was keen on seeing winds pile up under my feet, in this utter stand-still-soundless world.
That is why I thought I should spin earth with all my strength,
though I was weak and flabby. I pushed earth leaning myself
against air, I pulled it, I tried to carry it on my back, but, alas, earth did not move.
I was, therefore, all run down, and that’s why I laid on the ground
staring at the sky and grumbled just like that cowardly Galileo muttered
while exiting from a sacred and inviolable court of the Inquisition after his recantation, “E pur si mouve”—[But it does not move!]
As I grumbled, I heard the sound of drifting clouds,
I saw flowing water resting on the corolla becoming clear dew,
I was stepping on the pile of fallen leaves blown by the passing winds. And even, before I was aware of them, I noticed that stars were twinkling in the darkening sky high above.
Copyright © Su Ben
Autumn is fallen leaves,
the shoots push out from a gap of rocks that still covered
with yester-year’s snow, by a brook runs carrying melting ice;
it grows to a tree struggling though long and wearisome summer days
beaten by fierce heat all the day and the night.
And in that way, when the summer’s long days move to west
shoved by the west wind and dye a corner of the sky to red,
the leaves also become red and move to the west following
the waning sun.
And when the tree becomes not able
holding the weight of the west wind that comes hurriedly
pushing the weakening sun rays aside and violently shakes
the limbs the leaves fall to the ground and men, because
the leaves fall, I suppose, call it autumn.
The leaves breaking to pieces under feet,
rolling on the ground pushed by the wind
and drifting along on the water are dead leaves
and humming with the decaying season watching
those autumn leaves is a touching requiem.
Copyright © Su Ben
What difference does it make where I come from
because I am not an extraordinary but one who exists
while putting his feet on the earth. And, since, I am an ordinary man,
I must someday return to earth as dust.
If, therefore, the place where I sojourned was spring,
I should live and go as a flower blossom.
If it was summer, as an unquenchable glaring sun.
If it was autumn, carried by the wind as a fallen leaf.
If it was winter, covered by a blanket of white snow.
I don’t know, however,
why I am walking up and down on this path
until this very moment, though I should have gone
long ago as a flower, sun, a leaf, or of a snowflake,
for I have lived my life long enough on this earth
as a lonely wandering soul.
Copyright © Su Ben
The metaphor of
great love falls from
a two-way kiss,
warming the coldness
of time, passing, unnoticed
by the aged rocks
on naked island, where
upon flowers, sharing
no one hears, but
the sky, the birds,
the sea, the water
and every li’l thing on it,
certainly, feel the silent
commotion of minds, giving
death no space…
to speak in its tongue.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago
Will I grieve you, only if you grieve me
Said you couldn’t rest
So I lay in this casket with you
A bouquet in a basket, why risk the truth
Delusional I may be
A happy ending, a sympathetic conclusion
Is something we’d pay to see
Cross your arms and lay with me
The aspects it’s okay to be
You or me, whom shall we grieve
There are certain things I need from you
Like we feed
There are pertinent things I need you to do
As we grow to be adults
We simply do what needs to be done
Across from the morgue
Smiling faces soaked in with the sun
Outside these walls of Berlin
Suited individuals call for her sins
Will you grieve me, only if I grieve you
Through the many hours of this day
Tragic circumstances flower our May
In a declining sun set it reflects from my window pane
A metaphor of my life lived in feign
As if I demand that you be my friend
Take this childs hand to the end
Down those spiral steps
Admire the depths of a single breath
Your or me, whom shall we grieve?
A mother dropped her bags to comfort her daughter
On and on through the years she brought her
These missing links of murder
Kissing a stench never before heard of
Full of bars, cool as scars
Precious jewels of mars
Like I lost my tongue
I’ll start a thousand wars
For I will not be forgotten!!!
Copyright © Jerry Golden