Fear not the fierce wind, o gentle heart
Though it may rattle the eaves
And give no ear to its whispers with nothing to impart
But shallow promises that hang, like dried, parched leaves
Listen to its mournful wails on the way to some distant shore
Leaving in its trail, the harsh rawness of a chill
And envy not; give pity instead and be sure to keep no scores
For the warmth of a gentle heart is by far, richer still
For who can fathom the baleful howls invading valleys below;
Billowing across the fragile earth and her boundless seas?
Is it in anguish that it protests; who can really know?
Or is it a mere expression of a mighty power that seethes?
Yet, judge not, o gentle heart, but like a blade of grass amidst a storm
Lay calmly into the wind; rely not upon your strength to stay strong
Trust in your fear
As it speaks with a voice
Or you'll be left in pieces
With no longer a choice
For your fear will take over
In vociferous chant
To pieces you will collapse
In meandering rant
So when ever this word
Called fear appears
Don't fall to pieces
Or your soul disappears
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
Sad Heart, now thou art wither’d from the Sun,
What man, or god, will near thee run?
Wrought in twist like branches in Tempests' gasp,
What Comfort, or Gauze, shall be near to grasp?
True ones begotten are the ones now Rotten
And the ones now Rotten will never be forgotten
They are merely sad remains of assiduous Tears
That have been meddl’d with and tatter’d Raw throughout the years
And thou, cruel Mind, that sat’st still thru toiling trail of Night;
Must dream your broken Dreams; thou’rt a sanely flight!
Can thou extinguish passions of Fire, Disease, or Rain?
—tho thy distinguish’d influence trains to abstain
Thy Remnants brought to debris in thy Empty street,
Devour’d by Vultures, their bestow’d beaks entreat
Merely are they cleaning an inexhaustible Mess
Alas! Leaving thy rudiments of Identity to redress....
Fifteen tiny swallows
Fifteen tiny swallows
All perched upon a fence
Oh what handsome fellows
But here, let me commence
To speak of all their beauty
These tiny little birds
All black and cream with a reddish throat
Oh how my heart they stirred
A lady walking with her dog
Disturbed these little guys
So from the fence these birds take wing
And head towards the skies
It seems that they are dancing
In the way they fly around
They always seem to fly in circles
And nearly touch the ground.
I walk around these wetlands
And wonder at it all
Everyday it’s something else
And it’s all so beautiful
Ducks and swallows, parrots too
And the beauty of the lake
I love to walk there most of all
At the coming of the daybreak.
16 August 2013 @ 1510hrs.
RISING FROM THE ASHES
The eyes of the dragon seen through the trees
Mesmerize minds and cause bodies to freeze.
Which way to go, which way to turn;
No time for questions when the trees burn.
Just jump in the cars and flee towards town
But the road is cut off as the wind swings around.
No way to go, no way to turn;
An acceptance of fate, as the trees burn.
The fence of the paddock does not impede
The scorched car that flattens it, picking up speed
Away from the flames, away they must turn
Desperate with fear, as the trees burn.
The breath of this beast lights fires with no flame
The heat of its breath burn all just the same.
It’s tail flames on, it’s head, see it turn
Back towards town, there are more things to burn.
With fire, smoke and tears these folk have learnt
To rise from the ashes; spirits singed; not burnt
A call for assistance, now the schools turn
To grey squares of ashes; and more townships burn.
The calls went out across this wide country
And the offers came from all and sundry.
What do you need? What can we bring you?
They were told, so they went; what else would they do?
Hand towels, toothbrushes, soap and shampoo
To clean away ashes; the soot, and tears too
Through fire and smoke, these folk have learnt
To rise from the ashes; spirits singed; not burnt
The towns’ people will labor as long as there’s need,
They’ll listen and learn and plant as they weed,
While their houses and schools, fire stations too,
Rise from the ashes, and stand good as new.
The February Dragon has left for a time,
But hope that heals the scars in the minds
Of the people there, is strong and alive,
They have rebuilt their towns, their dreams and their lives.
His knees trembled in the slippery cold
Beside the benches dressed with leaves
Mother was coming, yes so he's been told
To wait in an hour by the dripping trees.
Where the Bluejay sang his evening hymn
In the light red blowing of the weary breeze
So he waited hours till the skies turned dim
When the moon hanged idly upon the trees.
But not a sight of her in the blue distance
So he glided across the glass of the snow
To the narrow path of the park's entrance
Where the last velvet hues gently blows.
His heart alarmed the sad tune of despair
He was reminded of his lifelong infirmity
Strolling sadly by on the wheels of a chair
He feared bitter a death in this vast vanity.
He felt on his shoulders a warm embrace
Thawing his fears was her loving face.
a cold winter’s breath
freezing limbs in the bare woods ---
bone chilled finger points
NOTE: I really like this poem, one of my favorites! Submitted: 2/17/2012
CONTEST BY: Juxtaposition Haiku
SPONSOR : Charles Henderson
Entrant into PD's "Only #1 poems... For #1 contest winners only.." contest
My feet are cold; my tiredness lingers;
My back aches from stooping so low.
Dampened by the frigid water below,
I breathed warmth into my numbing fingers.
Again, I dipped my shovel into the coarse gravel
Of the stream dredging up with a gurgle
A mixture of pebbles and sand;
Into a bucket I poured it, firsthand.
In this wilderness I'm not alone, there's bear.
Mindful I am of the sounds around me;
A churning stream, rustling leaves, an elk groan,
Snapping twigs, anything that would put a scare
Or raise my hair. I looked around for a tree,
Somewhere to flee before darkness set in.
Not far from here, I spied a log cabin.
Into this stronghold I placed my supplies;
Nature's calm was just a disguise.
I latched its massive door; and bolted each shutter.
In its stone hearth, I started a fire;
Basking in its warmth worries melted like butter.
Outside, darkness enveloped the cabin;
Strong claws raked its walls peeling away its skin;
Relentless growling resonated through the dusty din.
Suddenly, I awoke huddled next to a glowing flashlight.
Shivering against the muddy walls of a beaver's lodge,
I could hear the bear feverishly ripping
Through the muddy grass, and the disjointed timbers
Above me. Deep beneath the surface darkness arrived
Just, as my flashlight flickered, then died.
Haiku one of my first poems on soup
venomous dangerous foe
hidden in garden
A Rattlesnake In Georgia
To the herb garden meandered
Some squash needed picking
Gloved hands and a six inch long blade
No thoughts of snake sticking
Rockie our Rat Terrier pet
Jumped 'pon retainer wall
Then back down as fast as lightning
The snake did forward crawl
Putting some herbs in the basket.
Out of corner of eye
Something in a flash moved
'Twas a snake going by
Looked like a rat snake mixed in straw
"Twas a Copperhead then
Sticking him with my blade so hard
He crawled off, coiled just when
I thought I had him conquered_ he
Rattled, raised up, fangs showed
Backing off out of reach, gave thought
When he dropped, my blade goad
He crawled off injured; Hope he died
I didn't want him to strike
At unprepared family member
Enemy still dislike
The form is similar to Quatrain but not exactly.
It is a form used by Emily Dickinson in many of her poems.
It is a type of Poulter's measure.
It is 8,6,8,6 with the six rhyming.
Verse is a stanza of a poem so these are stanzas or I can change it to Quatrain..