A giant snowball in springtime
From twenty yards out the sound and smell
Closer now; breathing her numbing scent
Listening to the drowsy hum
of greedy and jealous bees
forced to share her bounty
with Tiger and Zebra Swallowtails
School will be out soon...
Memorizing every branch within reach
Her limbs are just low enough
for a boy to scramble up quickly
fleeing imaginary monsters
still lurking and prowling below
Taking ignorant and blissful advantage
of this daughter of the wild; his protector
His big sister to run to...
Shiny and slippery black bark
that oozes burgundy sap
which dries in animal shapes
Summer twilight is coming
Bats twittering overhead
chasing nasty mosquitoes
A noise echoing from far off
A door slamming maybe...
Tucked safely away in his favorite pew
(Naughty boy, eating during church!)
sampling her forbidden fruit
sweet and sour...half is seed
Thieving Blue Jays get the most
Screaming and scolding arrogantly
yet flying away unpunished
Grannny will make jelly...
Oh everlasting Father, creator of all things
He knows that heaven is far beyond the grasp
of a feeble and fumbling mortal mind
But when You decide to send Your beloved Son
back to rule the earth for one thousand years
If he is judged worthy to be in that count
May one humble servant say if it's like this
that would be just fine...
Those Were Golden Days of Splendor
Rushing clear water splattered over the rocks
melding into a huge spraying white foam
The sounds made sent heavenly tastes to my ears
the sight pierced my heart with love's stab
Stab that melds heart to a gentle Soul
a sweet pain born again and again so happily
Fast running stream in my mind's eye endures
stamps images with a clear splash of life
Just a swift stream from my youthful forays
days spent exploring Nature, the world anew
Memories time stamped , precious cargo aboard
faces of family waiting home for my return
Rushing water, a life in a bubbling brook
A memory, a love , a mental picture I took!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-26-2014
note: Looking back at the greatest time of my life.
I was ten years old, rambling the fields and woods
like a roaming gypsy on the prowl. My father was still alive,
my mother young and in good health and best of all my
baby brother was two years old, destined to live 12 more years.
A happy family of 11 children and two parents. Life was good!
The sweetest sounds of burning trees
A gentle stroking in the breeze
The calm has lasted past the storm
Cloudy visions, Satan’s roar
Too many sights have passed my way
A time found only in the haze
The softest screams are running bare
My aching bones creak as I stare
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark
The battle’s started at the end
No one is coming to repent
The sinners grab their wine from prey
No judgment calling here to stay
The sport is reckless to be told
The one is laughing at his souls
It falters nowhere to be sure
The power grows forevermore
Like a spirit in the wind
I have no say in where you’ve been
But cross the line to come to me
And pay the price for ecstasy
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark.
One moist patch, like dewy grass,
surrounded by a field of weeds,
emerges first and breathes at last,
through openings, the air it needs.
Cut off from, and cut off of;
counting on, and counting in;
from down below, to up above -
A smack on tender, crimson skin.
There is a pulse.
One spring bud, like seedling stems,
surrounded by a garden wall,
is standing out from all of them,
despite the fact, they're just as tall.
And though the bud has not yet grown,
the soil and the water see
more than just the seed they've sewn.
They see the flower it will be.
There is a pulse.
One tall stem, like climbing vines,
surrounded by its petals' plumes,
shares its elegant designs,
and stretches as it blooms.
And when the wind begins to call,
the flower spreads it's pollen 'round.
It falls in love, and loves in fall,
and falling love renews the ground.
There is a pulse.
on sorrel moccasins
roosted on tortoiseshell
of root cellar
in numb imaginings
lit with half-light
squeezed in jars
of russet and avocado
a cornice of sky
split with laughter
for broken arrowheads
gold and silver among leaves
air billowed white
soft frail bones
scattering in breath
into apple night
It can be an orchard with peach trees against patches of blue
as they swerve downhill and meet the foaming sea,
see him capture an indelible moment after
moment until he's amazed by that wonder
to have captured a breathtaking view...
which will be eternally frozen in his memory.
A photographer lives what he feels,
wouldn't it be a celebrity on high heels,
or the most gorgeous child cuddling a puppy
that she saw shivering when snow fell in February?
Didn't he anxiously climb that remote, sun-sunken mount rising in the East...
to find tiger cubs suckling from their mother as she watched a flock of sheep?
UNGRATEFUL CHILDREN A parent's lament
Pounce on the fleetest of hearts
Hospital frights of prematurity
of EMS sirens
HIV trembling tests
Breathless Worry atop cloud kissed Trees
Sleepless Nights of bully battles
Struggles with Education’s foes
Mad Escapes from Fathers of Violence
The teary wave good bye for fledgling endeavors
Day night day night day night…unending
Slight Imperfections and Imagined Slights
Shortage of Cash
It could have been you
Hiding behind the post
Stretching out your arms
Your tiny face upturned
To the early morning sun
Waving at me softly
While swaying with the breeze
It was only wishful thinking...
But you look so much the same
that I walked a little closer
and nearly called your name
A scent so very subtle
Drifted through the air
Reminding me of the last time
I tied a ribbon in your hair
I picked the wildflower for you
But you’re much too far away
Shall wilt before you see it
This one I picked today
Against the velvet petals
You won’t get to press your face
But together we will pick the one
That grows up in its place
I’ll save this in our special book
Pressed between the pages
And hide it in our secret place
We’ve known about for ages
The next time that you come again....
You’ll know right where to look!
My three trees
When I was a young lad, I lived in a jungle
A jungle of concrete and bricks
We had there but few birds, and yards without flowers
At times it did make me so sick
For I loved the forests all filled with lush growth
That I’d seen in the books I had read
And life there in Peckham it did nothing to me
It seemed to be dull, and quite dead.
And yet in our front yard there lived these three trees
And oh, how I loved them, I did
They filled with lush growth in spring and the summer
And then their rich growth it was hid
Until the next spring it would come back to life
And oh, how I loved to see this
When the sun did shine down on this beautiful foliage
My young heart was filled with such bliss.
Then one day in winter my father chopped down
These wonderful trees I did love
I cried, and I cried, and I sent all my anger
It must have reached Heaven above
For when the spring came those stumps they were loaded
With wonderful Foliage again
Those trees they lived on and I was delighted
That my dad tried to kill them in vain.
11 June 2014 @ 1155hrs.
We bend low under over-hanging branches
lit by reflected river-light gently shifting.
Our boots suck the muddy bank.
We wade into clear water
the dappled up-light playing
on our serious faces.
Intent on our task
Cold-shocked I gasp.
You hold your jar steady.
I scoop mine.
Triumphant in a shower of icy prisms
we hold our prizes aloft,
laughing and shouting,
water streaming down our arms,
jars teeming with tadpoles.
Faces pressed close
to these underwater worlds,
we stand transfixed.
Each reflects a small disc
of sparkling sky.
April trees rake scudding clouds.
Far away farm dogs bark
at wind-snatched shouts
of bird-nesting boys.
Somewhere, a cuckoo calls.
In the back garden
a blackbird stakes out his territory.
Ignoring him the cat purrs,
yawning in the sun.
on the garden table
beside a upturned jar,
of flattened tadpoles
drying in the sun.
The bored cat
her tail held high
in the shape
of a question mark.
The rumbling of thunder
From some bowlers in the sky
Makes me shudder, gape and wonder
Why we tell our kids that lie.
Does it reassure them, thinking
All that noise is just a game?
Or are they aware we’re winking,
Making such a silly claim?
As a child I did envision
Rip Van Winkle getting strikes;
And I pictured the collision –
Pins and ball – each bowler likes.
But I knew that my perception
Didn’t make a lot of sense
And that grown-ups used deception
At their little ones’ expense.
Still, perhaps their best intention
Isn’t really so off-base
If it soothes some apprehension
And puts giggles in its place.
So when thunder starts resounding
I will think just like a tyke
And find comfort that the pounding
Is another bowler’s strike!
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
In the orange land,
the sidewalks race wild with them,
postured like statues of royal gardens
the marble lions
amongst hibiscus limbs.
I like the smell of them,
earth warmed dirt
and fallen honeysuckle
beneath the Florida sun.
I poke with
one tanned fingertip
where the flesh
cocoons around their
it is like
the open sesame
The open mouth of a lizard
has no bias
it dangles on ear lobes
like Coco Chanel
classic in style.
the tail becomes an asp
wrestling with the truth
of it's loss.
Babies soft fingers and their tiny toes,
are like lucious petals on a bright red rose.
Little wild mushrooms like babies bald heads,
constantly growing in most flower beds.
Their fingerprints, white stars in the sky,
and the rain, oh the rain, the tears babies cry.
The sound little rattles make when thrown on the floor,
like the noise of the thunder when it's starting to pour.
Babies are like flowers,
tulips or lilacs, a daisy a rose.
Babies soft fingers,
and their tiny toes.
The moon, pausing near her zenith,
On that balmy night in May,
Painted a warm, nocturnal landscape,
In varying shades gray.
A mockingbird insomniac,
With golden harp did play,
And serenade his lady love
With songs as bright as day.
A shy, retiring whip-poor-will
In some hidden, forest swale,
Intoned his lonely-heart refrain,
In a melancholy wail.
The gentle breeze, that washed my face,
Tasted honeysuckle sweet,
While silver dewdrops glistened,
On the grass beneath my feet.
Though my magic, childhood years have gone
On frightened wings of flight,
I treasure, in my reverie,
That enchanted full moon night.
Drop of water
In the river -
Sound of joy
***NOTE~TO BE READ WITH A RIDICULOUS "SILKY SOUTHERN DRAWL" (have fun:)***
"Storm over yet...?"
"Well hay'ell ye'ah!
sum'body git me a da'gumm cole beer.
whadda'bou that boy th'er?
sum'body git him'a cole beer too!"
"Diddy! that boy ain't nothin' but 8 years old!"
na'I don't give a jolly'durn, if he ain't nuttin but 8 year'owed!
'dat boy dun' sat him thr'ew a big ol', storm!
torna'durr warnin' too!
he gonna have him'a cole burr;
mama, git him'a cole burr!
ta'days father's day!"
© 2011 ~JSLambert Esquire
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
Once was a gal who felt so alone
Tornato came up rooted farms home
Landed on wicked witch
Munchkins came out of ditch
Gave dog lollypops instead of bone
Like sick allergies,
Boredom can be passed around
I call it: THE BOREDOM DISEASE
Like a horrid storm,
Boredom can catch you off guard
Hold on for DEAR LIFE!
Like the whooping cough,
Boredom can be serious
If I were you, I’d
Get a vaccination !
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
Firelies flapping wings
light dark trails in fields at night
laterns bob and sway
like twinkling stars on high
while small hands reach to capture
In response to Nette's "Splashes by Evening"
Miss you, Nette!
There's something unspecific about the autumn nights
A certain shade of color that uplifts my inner child's eyes
Beside a cashmere moon Venus and Jupiter shine bright
Complimented by a sea of blinking infinite twilight
The scent of burning oak lingers in the air from home made fires
Reminiscent of a time when this man was just a child
Careless and so free to dream and any dream to live
Like feathers floating across a field carried by the wind
As a gentle breeze blows through the leaves shivering delightful gloom
Unlike flowers of springtime the disheveled autumn vibrance bloom
Leaves crackle beneath my feet along the skeleton tree path
Where I try to find my peace or a song to make me laugh
The air is so much crisper and also soothing when I breathe it in
Underneath a starry sky and brighter constellations of Heaven
Amidst the trail I pass a lovely couple holding hands
While their children run aside frolicking in a playful dance
An old man and his wife admire the view from a wooden bench
With smiles on their face as if nostalgia is still their closest friend
Its these specific autumn affects that bring me sorrows and joy
Reminding me of all theses things Ive wanted as a man since I was a little boy
Its times like these that I wish I wasn't always so alone
Because I would light an fire with my family and call it home
Berries on a vine
in bright sunshine.
Gravel on a road.
A fat green toad
glistens in the light,
waits for cool of night,
croaks one flat note
only frogs could quote.
Oh, the day was bright and sunny
How the birds both chirped and sang
While the lads and merry lasses ran and played
On the hills their laughter echoed
O'er the lake their shouting rang
Vibrant joy upon their faces was displayed
Some were splashing in the shallows
Others yet were skipping rocks
While the rest were loudly tromping through the green
They appeared supremely happy
With the water in their locks
'Twas in all the merryest sight I've ever seen
All too soon the light was fading
They were surely loth to go
But the dinner bells were sounding far away
And before they ate their dinner
They had chores to do, you know?
But they'd come again and play another day
The feather beds are a string of mountains near where I live, famous for its raised bog lands, where my father and his brothers cut turf for many years. In spring / summer a wild cotton flower blooms giving the mountains their name.
In youths embrace I walked in mountains,
My father’s steps I tried to follow.
He led the way from town to wilderness
And there it was my soul he freed.
Windswept hills of raised bog and peregrine,
Swooped winds flared the will of the wisp.
Cotton top flowers waved their white clouds,
Beckoning me, to loose myself in awe.
Slain and sod, man and muscle worked as one,
Bright Heather draped the hills a regal hue.
Bracken fronds greened the soil of spring.
Larks and curlew cries hung upon the air.
As my father shushed us to silence and embrace,
His wonderland of peace.
At seasons turn and Bracken colours fade,
Gorse and heather flair their restful hues.
Sheep saunter through with heads bowed,
They slowly leave the mountain once again.
The feather beds dim as clouds dip low and veil.
And silence flees before winter wind and rain
In adults disgrace I left the mountains,
My father’s steps hard to follow.
Still longing to find the way of wilderness
To free my soul once again and be with him.
< amidst flocked needles ...
woven ornament strewn ...
a star is ... born
I had survived how many summers? Five?
Six? 'til, self-taught, I learned at last
of terror that lurks in situations
which those I trust (myself included)
would swear offer only perfect safety...
My ball rolled under my Grandma's house
and I, well-guarded, scuttled after to retrieve it,
mindless of the tarry soil fleeced with fluffy,
small red feathers, newly molted by matrons:
hens that clucked contentment,
set upon their hidden egg troves.
Spying their nests, I thought to rob them
and so earn a Grandma's love for a city boy
unversed in country ways. Thinking, I acted,
reaching for a nest unoccupied,
half hid behind a house block.
I closed my soft, expectant hand
upon a wriggling creature coiled among the eggs,
drew back like lightning to watch
a brightly spotted snake slide off
into the farther, deeper darkness
amid a squall of squawks.
Emerging empty handed, terrified,
it wasn't Grandma's love I earned that day.
I have always since encountered similar brilliant colored
dangers whenever I have thought to grab,
for myself or others, unclaimed treasures
in strange places, in warmer or in cooler weathers.