it is in this mural of splashing fuses
that I am lit with a solemn torch……
I gaze with back deck musing
but front porch eyes….
I see the distance beyond this world
(my own cosmic existence)
a residence I squandered
but my feet want to tread there
the green that surrounds me
suffuses me with lakeside dew
melodies drifting only the quiet can hear
ripples that only valid observers see
the kentucky breeze carries a lonely wind
where has it been?
has it touched the sand I have?
(bare toes buried)
somewhere a child cries in the still
shattering this serenity
(though some don’t hear it)
along the bank of shoal like tranquility
the birds will wail for broken dreams
(severed by thoughtless hands)
oh, its only a portrait
(an inspiring one though)
as open lashes stumble
a horizons sinking sun
multi hues of reckless red and pink
a blue print of what life should be
snap shot deftness in the perception
while beneath lay the sorrow
the last lingering tangerine shades
tease and taunt the tops of dogwood trees
oh beauty as far as eyes can see
a few silver shimmers of clouds
in a blue grass sky
flowers bloom sweet pea and peonies
raw carmine kisses in the silence
pretty pansy faces
and grass is verdant
green!! peacock sage and pine
arrayed in darks and lights
a myriad of different shades
brilliant in its lush velvet on my feet
to only live life this way (skimming surfaces)
just as the honey suckle does
how blissful that would be
(in all its exquisite ignorance)
branches sway in the song of a blue bird zephyr
as the fingers of it caress my skin
this expanse is my companion
but still I perceive it
what lies beneath
in stunning cognizance
bearing a strenuous burden
it is in this mural of splashing fuses
that I am lit with a solemn torch
I gaze with back deck musing
but front porch eyes
Copyright © Christie Moses
It is spring in my garden
roses are blooming
cuckoos are crying
The winter has been passed
summer is coming
It is so easy to write a poem in the spring
when the river flows gently to the sea
when the sakura shines
in the moonlit night.
Honey-bee dances in my garden
because it is spring
Flowers spreading sweet smell
in the cloudless blue sky
Could you imagine a garden
in the moonlit night of a spring
It can make a poem of love
It can open all the windows of your mind
Copyright © Mohammad Abedin
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
Copyright © Andrew Crisci
A prelude to summer… spring’s glorious awakening
Green meadows are alive, littered with hundreds of wild flowers
Soft and wet, bright, green grass sway, unhindered by morning rain
All awaiting warm sunshine to fill with more glee!
Out of woodsy habitats come young foxes and hares
Their watchful eyes keen as they search for a meal
Then hurriedly down a winding path the brave hares disappear
But soon become startled as a butterfly flutters by!
Note: For Kelly's "...As A Butterfly Flutters By" Contest
Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick
Making a change to change
to throw away and rearrange
things left undone now to do
leftovers of me and you
from the ceilings to the floors
and all in between
the clutter of yesterday
going out the door
wipe things down
fluff things up
can't take anymore
have had enough
bring on the sun
that sparkling light
it is time for summer
more hours of light
Copyright © chris hardy
The coming of spring is just a few days away
That glorious time of the year
When the world awakes from it's long winter's slumber
To once again bring joy to all living things
Reborn is the feeling we humans anticipate
A renewed interest in the great glorious outdoors
After too many months of hibernation
We're free once again to explore nature in all its glory
Oh what a feeling!
Every year, this old Earth is reborn
Experiencing the joy again for the very first time
So throw off winter's cloak
Breathe in that exquisite scent
Of the first daffodils, tulips and crocuses
And enjoy love and life to the fullest!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Copyright © Jack Ellison
Even Jester Jack has his down days
This just happens to be one
Can't find a reason for my mood today
Perhaps winter is better than none
I'm Canadian, I should be used to it
But as I get older I find
Winters are a lot more difficult to endure
Seems the sun will never again shine
That's what life's like in the frozen north
Should be used to it after 79 years
Though we live in balmy Southern Ontario
Won't rejoice till the snow disappears
Suck it up princess, I heard someone say
We all have our crosses to bear
Of course you're right, spring's almost here
Been an extra long winter I swear
I hear what you're saying, I must be hardy
But living here brings on the tears
As I've gotten older it's a whole lot harder
So I hibernate till spring reappears
© Jack Ellison 2015
Copyright © Jack Ellison
When the red red robin
Comes bob bob bobbin' along
It's that long awaited early harbinger
Of yet another wonderful spring
When this sleepy old world wakes up
Yawns and greets the new season
With happiness and a song in its heart
Time to live, love, laugh and be happy
To feel like a kid again doin' what we did again
Oh those wonderful years
We probably didn't realize how wonderful they were
Only now, looking back, do we realize
Being a kid again, doin' what we did again
Would be sooo amazingly amazing!!!
Alas time marches on but the red red robin
Keeps singin' his old sweet song!
(A bit premature???)
© Jack Ellison 3015
Copyright © Jack Ellison
“My grandfather was strong and mighty, till he died at age of ninety.
The clock then stopped to run no more.
Then one of my relations wrote a song, sung for generations.
I think of it more and more:
“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny-weight more . . .”
Shaken from his quaint digression, his face in tense expression,
He renewed his dire obsession
About what made the clock strike in the night.
He slipped to the room adjacent, above an empty basement,
Where stood the clock’s encasement – opened so very slight.
Moving with stealth, and in no hurry,
He saw an object hunched and furry;
His cat stood vigil in the night, with eyes reflecting light.
A mouse, the cat had faced, into the clock was chased,
And up the pendulum raced, quickly taking flight.
Climbing the clock’s encasement, the mouse’s weight displacement,
Tripped the spring so tight; it struck with awesome might!
Striking twelve it had numbered, his muddled thoughts encumbered,
Scared awake from slumber in the night.
“All of this is so confusing, could I, these years be using
The clock with spring so tight?”
In his mental delusion he added to the confusion,
For this intrusion in the night.
There was nothing he couldn’t handle
With his shotgun on the mantle by the door,
With it he could surely even up the score.
With the menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger
Then the grandfather clock was no more
And the cat and mouse— a taxidermy chore.
Copyright © James Tate
Walking along from the public house late that night
My lantern giving just a little light
My thoughts as I walked, was I very late?
The time unimportant the year eighteen thirty-eight.
A scream I heard, from a far off distance.
Commotion coming my way, do I make a stance?
A lone figure running towards me, I stop dead in my tracks.
Do I move aside or run away, or even turn right back.
My lamp is only a candle; its light is very dim.
I see a tall figure with glowing red eyes; he is tall and very thin.
With a hooked nose and ears, those look as if they are pointed
He bounds past in the lamp light, with a hood and cloak appointed.
I know not what it is, but to me it looks very evil.
Wrapped in cloak with hideous looks, I am sure it is the devil.
The mob that is chasing it, finds me standing in their way
With cudgels and with pitchforks, but they let me have my say.
Satisfied it was not me, the chase begins once again.
I join the mob in the chase; my heart begins to feels the strain.
We chase the devil along a dark narrow path hoping it makes a gaff
We catch up and corner him, he gives a demonic laugh.
The devil turns to the mob; he’s trapped by a fifteen foot hedge.
His laugh rings out his claws are drawn, silver talons, light glistening on the edge.
One of the mob shoots at him, but the devil opens his mouth wide.
Blue flames and fire shoot from it, blinding the shooter, who steps aside.
The devil leaps the hedge with a great agility
I am aghast with fear and shock, a demonic laugh reaches me.
We stand not knowing what it was, will it be coming back?
A voice from the mob, whispers you know what…
That was spring heeled Jack
Spring Heeled Jack was seen during the time of Jack the Ripper in the streets of London in 1838.
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl
Mother Mary appeared 18 times
Young woman Bernadette Soubirous
Announcing: “I am the Immaculate Conception”
Mother Mary helped Bernadette
Discover a hidden spring of grotto
That Spring was soon to become
Fountain of faith, hope
Healing for millions of pilgrims
Lourdes, truly a place of healing
Church recognizes 66 miraculous cures there
Thousands more have been reported
Lourdes a place they found peace
In coming to understand
Accept Eternal God’s will for them
To all who are sick in body and spirit
The Lord brings hope
Comfort through Our Lady of Lourdes
Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza
Your suitcase was home where you left it
We had left in a hurry
A clock on the sterile wall was ticking away dwindling moments
And was the only sound to break the morning silence
Outside a pale May sun, was laboring to start the day
And was the only thing that held our years together
I had stayed by your bedside if they allowed me to,
If they didn't, I walked and paced and waited until the dawn
I knew every crack on the hospital sidewalk
Bombarded by memories I could not remember to forget
Losing your battle, there was hardly a chance to say goodbye….
They handed me your slippers, and night things in a bag
I tucked them under my arm....for the trip home...
Later if people asked …..those same old questions they always ask
I wanted to say simply…."Why? Does it matter?…..All that mattered...
Copyright © Carrie Richards
She drew near unto me
And whispered in my ear
Her words, like melodies
Coursing through my veins
"We will meet tomorrow"
Then, she disappeared behind the clouds
I prepared myself well
I bought her a bouquet of roses
Not more delicate than her
Both were ravishing though!
At five sharp, we were there
She didn't come before me
And I didn't come after her
We have never been late!
Together on the bench
Two cups of Mocha
Two smiling faces
But lonely lovers were awaiting
Watching our flying hearts
"When will our turn come?"
I felt sorry for them
Perhaps they were unlucky
Perhaps they lost their love
Again, she whispered in my ear
"They will smile, and much"
Copyright © Black matta
WHERE HAVE THE BLUEBIRDS GONE?
The Bluebirds never came home to my pine grove that first spring.
Can't say as I blame them.... my family's heirloom recipe wouldn't fill
the regal gravy boat anymore, and fresh lemonade wouldn't delight
the elegant pitcher again; their services for important holidays and
special birthdays were no longer needed, so they departed.
I tried to erect new Bluebird Houses and put out their favorite seed,
but they never came back, even if I pretended nothing had changed.
I remember the day we chose our wedding china, the pattern,
cheerful Bluebirds at play in the warm spring sunshine, was the
happiest pattern we had ever seen. We selected all the important
pieces we would need for every occasion.
Today, spring flowers are in bloom again, and not a single
Bluebird in sight. I wonder if the regal gravy boat is still
the proud captain of the table?......I miss it
My pine grove is barren now, and the few dishes I still have
never leave the storage drawer to play in the sun anymore,
can't say as I blame them....
as I blame them
Copyright © James Marshall Goff
Nothing is more delightful
and simply remembered by a sweet word...
than a walk through a green forest,
to find a remote spot on a low hill
and put those daily worries to rest;
the anxious eyes long for that vision
of a last, unforgotten season:
the gentlest rain which brings
a familiar fragrance from other lands...
when spring hides its flowers!
Whenever the lonely poet dreams,
his unerring hand is quicker that the flowing streams:
the distant vison of his flourishing thoughts
is carried to unseen places;
and all he wishes is to feel a sublime peace...
when spring hides its flowers!
The wishful child ,led by his mom ,searches
the leaf-covered paths with a sorrowful glance,
even the robins and blue-birds can't confort him,
or give him some kind of hope for his unleashed whim;
and will he relish the joyful promise of each year,
as a gentle hand caresses his blonde hair...
when springs hides its flowers from his zealous eyes,
and one of those adolescent dreams unexpectedly dies?
I, once, was like him: curious,cheerful and so restless:
seeking surprises in unexpected places...
finding myself in front of simple wonders
that couldn't be perceived by the adult mind,
as if they were another mystery, not the creation of God...
when spring didn't hide its flowers!
Copyright © Andrew Crisci
Seeing the spring flowers
with colors so intense and alive,
makes me praise their Creator even more;
amazed and breathless,
unable to find any imperfection
in all that lies under the infinite sky!
By the winding path, under a fluttering willow tree,
I sit down and begin my contemplation...
by admiring a beauty never seen,
hidden from me, who is too far from perfect!
If roses are prettier than teasels,
they, too, are plants that serve a true purpose;
and if the witch-hazels have only yellow flowers,
are they less valuable or useful than
the dandelions with notched leaves?
Wouldn't the jacarandas provide them shade
in those steaming afternoons, or shelter them when
an unexpected storm arrives?
Nothing is imperfect and useless,
if it was created by His divine hand;
the quatrefoils are as much admirable as
the sleek nodes found elsewhere!
Climbing the rough cliffs of mountains,
brings me a step closer to serenity...
where pine groves culminate in mystery,
as the purest spring refreshes me:
whenever the scorching sun dehydrates my rough lips;
and from an elevation that opens up to an entire valley,
I'm the smallest being with a probable fragility,
and being too far from perfect:
I become aware of every defect...
to realize that nobody has an invincible aspect!
If everything that's inexplicable and beautiful
excites me...to make me immensely grateful;
why wouldn't I be astonished and be elevated by sublime joy
anytime I witness the splendor of each sunrise:
when the eagles and seagulls flap their wings a thousands times...
to savor a freedom that allows them to emit a joyful cry?
And being so mortal and too far from perfect...
it doesn't mean I must live within a limit!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci
in the aloofness
said the ground hog
to his captive !
I never alleged,
or whispered as to
your account !
its mine shadow…
will be spring !
Just a little fun here friends…I think in the last 20 yrs.
this fun forecast has been right 4 times, lol…have a
fun spring !
Copyright © James Peranteau
About eleven years ago through a genealogical search I found out that my adopted
father is Salish Indian, thereby making me at least half Salish. I dedicate this poem
to the Salish people:
The sun rises and calls our people to the land
The babies clutched, children taken in hand.
Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air
Quickly we assemble for the journey
Voices speak quietly; our people are ready.
Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky
Keeping watch over us; sentries from high.
We walk past the spring where the water runs deep
Life blood of our people, quietly blessed
We trek along its path, continuing our quest.
A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes,
It whispers in ears and tells of the woes
Of a woman who cried for her starving people
A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears
Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years.
The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster
It moans and speaks for every ancestor
The land that we walk upon is our heritage
This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker
Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator
Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks
Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks
Searching for wild game and berries for the table
Teaching our young of flowers and fauna
Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva.
The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush
Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush
And find the small plant, the guardian of our land
The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil
From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil.
Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout
Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout.
A young voice cries, “I found it!” Excited and proud.
Young and old group to see the succulent
Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant.
Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder
The plant is taken and then held tender
Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator
For once again we harvest in tribute
The symbol of our ancestors, the Bitterroot.
Copyright © Diane Caudle
First comes Spring, with daisies and Easter eggs,
And little girls running around wearing their Sunday best.
My peony's start blooming, followed by
long walks with my dog, who is sniffing around
fire hydrants for the first time in 3 months.
The sun's eyes are open later,
While the moon takes his time rising deep in the horizon,
And the stars are just so much more,
Summer brings newness and fresh green everything,
Everywhere it spreads, wherever it can touch and see.
The burning heat is combined with sweating,
which then turns into family reunions,
Followed by swimming with my cousins.
And I can hear the sound of tiny footprints on lawns
Running through the neighbor's favorite sprinkler.
And sweet smell of marshmallows to eat,
My favorite one of them all, would have to be the Fall,
The sweet scent of fire lingering through the
Twilit cool breeze,
And there are yellow, orange and red leaves falling,
Like confetti from a pinata,
They have a certain destination in mind,
Mostly it's for my children collecting them with papa,
Or using them for their 3rd grade Science project.
Families all over the world get to do one thing,
At the same time...
Collect nature's beauty marks,
And jump so excitingly among,
-the beauty of a season..
Not too long after that, the Winter I saved for last.
Not because I don't appreciate this weathered season,
But because there's nothing better than that first time
You can see your breath when you breathe.
I'll never forget the first time I woke up as a child,
Gazed out our front porch window,
And experiencing awe for the very first time and saw,
Snow dipped pine trees with little green, and a lot of white.
There are icicles dangling reflecting a prism into
All surrounding light, and when they decide it's time to melt,
It's about that time of year when the sun stays up a little later,
And when the moon takes his time rising deep in the horizon.
And when the starts are just so much more..
Copyright © Laura Urbaniak
I'm so sorry about what happened
can you hand me one of thse garbage bags
full of that winter?
I'm a lot stronger than you dear and I don't mind
why didn't you tell?
now he's dead and I can't do anything
would I have?
well I don't know
It would have really
caused a lot of trouble wouldn't it.
Let's just take these out to the curb
and it will all be taken away.
watch out don't drip any of that
on your brother
you know he has a weak stomach
look it's dark,so dark outside
too dark for this
let's take these back up to your room
just for now
you know we can put them in your
Hope chest until the garbage runs next week
take out those old dolls and teddy bears
you're too old for that stuff now anyway
aren't you dear.
you should not have kept so muchof this
for such a long time
that's why it smells so bad
it's your own fault after all,isn't it dear.
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren
The smell of blossoms
fill the air in this season of
Beauty and new birth
Even as the touch of green velvet
shrouds everything coating surfaces
From car tops to deck rails
Filling the nostrils with cloying tendrils
That irritate and burn.
Sneezing, coughing red runny eyes
Prostrate us while we admire the bluest skies.
As we sniff the scent of tender new petals
We plead for relief from the scourge
of pollen that afflict sensitive beings.
Yet after the dead of winter..Spring brings joy to the heart
But as with all things in life, the good comes with the bad
Finding a balance is a challenging task.
But after life comes death …so hope always for the best
Expect the worst ...but take what comes
Knowing that rebirth follows closely on the heels of death.
Copyright © Margaret Okubo