Some days the birds come out
They sing there beautiful song
They envelope my senses
I harbor their harmonious tunes
I long to hear them all my days
There are days when the sky is clear
The sky would be a cerulean blue
With white high cotton clouds
I lift my eyes toward the sun
And take in all of its golden rays
My pupils become very small
Just small specks in my eyes
Just then I see the tree-line
A magnificent sight to behold
Each tree within the calm cluster
Is filled with the beginning of life
Just as are some of the unknown flowers
That are alongside of the house
Those flowers that have been struggling
Struggling through these harsh days
The weather has been rough for all nature
The birds, the trees, and the flowers
All have had a hard time adjusting
To the tremendous swings of temperature
Cold to warm, warm to cold
And everything in between
My porch is a calming place
A place where I like to relax
Though today has been raining
Still it’s a calming rain, but very cold
I wish I could hear the birds
And see the clear day
With the sun’s warmth all over me
And I could see nature with its beauty
But now I see another part of nature
In its own beauty, the nurturing rain
Without this nothing would survive
So I still smile on days like this
The peaceful constant rain on the porch
I can only stand staying out so long
Because it’s too cold, it’s freezing out
But I still wanted to feel this part of nature
A real part of life, an influence to one’s soul
It never gets old coming out to my porch
I always bond with all of nature
No matter what that nature is that day
Warm and cloudy, hot and sticky
Cold and frigid, humid, stale, and calm
All of which are important in life
And I like to experience each one of them
Nature has its good days, and its bad
And I like to be in the middle of all of them
Now I will come in and will await
Await the time when I will come back out again
Tonight, tomorrow, or whatever time
I will venture out to my porch
And enjoy my time here, with nature
Written per the request by my friend Sara Kendrick
All I hear are sirens echoing off tall buildings; a drunk man ranting, a prostitute looking for her next trick, a drug addict looking for his next fix. Young teenage kids who seem to have just learned the art of curse. A young couple fist fighting in the streets---more sirens. A homeless man pan-handling, picking up cigarette butts and smoking a hole into his neck, gum pushed deeper into concrete marked blacker with every step. All I hear are sirens and I say a little prayer for the person in the back. Trains and boats chiming in the distance, a stray cat limping into an unknown existence...must be nice to have nine lives! Yet, all I hear are sirens in this concrete urban forest, where trees are replaced with buildings and cars are the only waves I hear, street lights in place of the stars, sirens in place of the wind.
I close my paper eyelids tight, i can hear in this concrete urban forest of man-nature, for a glimpse, a stolen second in time, the sound of Mother Nature...she still sings and she's crying. She's crying for the people in the back of all those sirens. She cries for her bush the drunk man urinated on; the puddle of blood collecting on her blades of grass that a young man drew from his womans lips. She cries for her branch the teenage kids snapped for fun. She's crying - Mother Nature - is crying, because man - nature takes her place. In this concrete urban forest...all I hear are sirens and I close my paper eyes; i try to reach out and steal the tear off of - Mother Nature's - face. All I hear are sirens and im saddened, man-nature takes her place.
Thoughts of " Autumn " and her " off Spring"
Seasons change as do people...
Her name is Autumn...
She quietly puts her mark the on Season ….
Yet no one sees her there..
She has a certain presence, still …
and her perfume fills the air..
Yet no one speaks to her…
Her colors are not light, but bright…
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight…
But even though , she’s more than that…
No one approaches, some don’t seem to care..
So she quietly leaves ...before all the trees are bare...
The wind laughs softly
The full moon with the stars
In the sky,
As I lie near the fountain
Gazing at the
Of the nature.
It's the charm of the moon
Opens so many thoughts
Looks like a beautiful
Dancing with the troop of
The professional stars.
Twisting carelessly with the
Elegance of a swan
Through the lilac beauty
Of the spring time.
The sky seems a bandanna.
A dewy freshness
Fills my heart and soul.
How beautiful is the night,
I captivated, enchanted.
ben reine ny hoie.
"ben reine ny hoie" means.....Queen of the night.
The language of the Isle of Man.
The moon and the moon poetry
in general seems to dispel the
human centredness that we all
Thank you for reading.
A flower breaks out afresh from its swollen,
green bud and then stretches outward into
the sun-drenched sky.
A thing of nature that's timeless
and perennial, it faithfully blooms and
adorns its surroundings like its predecessors.
Never alone, it is joined by its floral neighbors
of its own kind in fragrant numbers, suffusing
the atmosphere all around with a heavy, yet
sweet stench of lavender and honeysuckle.
The thick odor seduces and encourages the
flower-borne bees, hornets, and yellow-
jackets nearby into a steady rhythm and pulse
of continuous labor over the pollen-rich
blossoms and perfumed, colorfully-tinted
petals. From an adjacent pond the over-
abundant and unsubtle beauty of the
lily-of-the-valleys add their distinctiveness
to the already rich and lush floral landscape,
now teeming with the life and vigor of
spring in full bloom.
This is the tale of Sandy the snail...
Who always wore her hair in a ponytail...
She was different from others and I’m sure you’ll agree...
As her colors were bright neon fluorescent green you see...
She wasn’t content just moving slow...
She wanted to run like a Marathon Pro...
Up early each morning...
When the Sun arose...
She did pushups, pull ups and touched her toes...
Alas... it was then she realized this was futile...
As everyone knows...
If she had feet, she would be more mobile...
As I sit alone on this rocky shore. The mist rises around my feet and I long for much, much
more. Just to go out to sea and meet the horizon just you and me in our blazon. To feel the
salt water as we sail away to enjoy the beauty of this day in this very protected bay. To kiss
the rose of early bright. Maybe stay way into the night and see the moon and billions of
stars. Reach up and touch the loving God. The one who made you for me and made the sea
and misty shores that consumes all my lonely and tiresome chores.
I stepped out on my lawn tonight
To catch a breath or two
Of cool night air when with a blare
An Owl questioned "Who?".
"Well, it is I", was my reply
"And now, just who are you?"
Then in a short he did report
Again with that same "Who".
"You", I said, "Is who", I said
With some authority
"Now who are thee, up in that tree?"
And "Who" again said he.
"Oh! Now I see, when uttered thee
From high up in that tree
'Who' was thy introduction
And not a question be.
So, Who is you and I am me.
I'm glad we talked this out.
Come again my feathered friend
You're welcome here about."
Amidst of November…
But rain starts to fall everywhere
The wind blows so tender
And it really makes me feel shiver
Birds are flying here and there
Having no place to hide from the rain
And while I ‘am sitting near the windowpane
As I watch the drizzle and feels so vain
Thinking, how I love to see the sweet November rain…
The castle stood with majesty.
The child stood justly proud.
Both night and sea stood patiently,
In hand the castle's shroud.
My thinking now became serene,
Of things small and sublime.
How I saw all played in that scene
Of man, his deeds and time.
But here I raise a quandary.
I question thee a tad.
Are we the castle stately?
Or, are we the lad?
Are we the child? Are we the sand?
We're either, can't you see?
Both built and build to pass away
With time our ebbing sea.
The tide we face is Father Time.
Aren't we but molded clay?
Just like that castle so sublime
We are not here to stay.
Yet like that child in spring of life,
His days are numbered still.
Just like the grains of sand it took
To stir this old man's quill.
We’re so tired, of winter’s, snow and ice,
For too long, we have been, within our house, winter’s price.
Why won’t you come, to visit us, and sing?
Where we’ll be touched, by your sun, so heartily, beaming.
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our sweet Spring?
We need you, so very longingly!
We saw you peak out, for just one day.
Then you quickly, and suddenly, ran so very far away.
So we did a Rain Dance, and danced in the cold.
Without your shinning brightness, all we got, was cold snow!
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Why did you run, so very far, with your blessing!
We sought the Groundhog, that he ask you, to come back.
But he was burrowed, deep beneath, all the snow, and ice pack.
He wouldn’t open his door, as we knocked, true and hard.
He refused, to even come out, as he denied the pleas, of this bard!
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our precious, sweet Spring?
We beseech thee, to please come back, to me!
The trees want to bloom; their sprouts are ready, to collect.
Our hearts are there beside them, under this winter, and it’s effects.
We’ll sit here, dreaming of the beauty, only you can affect.
We’re hopeful, can’t wait, but now at March’s mercy, and redirect.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Our hearts and souls want to be warmed by thee!
What? Dragon and I see you! We rejoice my friend!
Our hearts, like the trees, are beginning, to warm again.
The snow is leaving; all is greening, before our eyes.
We beg you, to please stay here, solidly, close by our side.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
At last! It doesn’t matter! We have you back, and all that you bring!
Written for my good Friend Jack Ellison.
That basket, the one that sets here, on this table, this table where he leans, leaning heavily upon his elbow, khaki left leg cocked-up. Where is it, his self-sought? In that rack of pipes from which he gestures, gesticulates with the stems, smoke, hot air? In that Bentley, in the basement carved out under the deck cantilevered over the brook that once powered a factory and made ribbons, is in pieces, in pieces in precise order? In that life lived under shadows, in the long partnership not waiting for answers not found in his corner, his pipes, his pronouncements? Is that the arrogance of the commonplace, refuge of the soon forgotten, those natural processes?
I hesitate to carry on, carry on fearing what I might find in that brook, that basement, under the shadows.
Wrinkle, wrinkle on my face…
Couldn't you have found some other place ?
What made you furrow between my eyes ?
And all those creams, they are nothing but lies….
When I look in the mirror, all I can see…
Is a silver haired person staring back at me….
Then there are the lines , which run down the sides of my nose…
Running in circles, round my lips, down my neck and into my clothes….
Speaking of clothes , isn’t that where the wrinkles should be ?
Is nature playing a trick on me ?
Or is this a sign “ old “ is sneaking up on me ?
It seems only yesterday I was a young girl .. and had my whole life ahead of me…
So simple..so free……
Which don’t take me wrong I have enjoyed my life’s ride…
And there isn’t much in my life, I haven’t tried….
But it should would be nice if I could just see…
Myself with one less wrinkle…when I looked back at me…..
Storms above me, storms below,
Storms of violence, Storms of sadness,
Storms of anger
Storms of people laughing,
mocking my existence
Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights
of hope and friendship echoes
Through the storms
The storms surround me night and day
No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see
No mercy found, twix’t night and day
But for the brief repast
The gift night brings
To weather the storms
I travel unseen, unheard
Past those who give
the storm its powers
To the places in my dreams
Where night and day are side by side
And Wolves gather
below the moons
Midday and night, to sing
Their songs of peace
Of legends from long ago
Of loyalty to their pack
And the fight to survive.
To weather the storms
I look to the wolves
As a cub, to the mother
The strong live to be the hunters
Whilst the weak
become the prey
The storm takes all
Partial to none it hunts
One by one, boat by boat,
all fall to the storm
Human, Animal, Angel, Demon,
the storm resides in us all
waiting to take hold
to drag us to its depths
when hope is gone
until the Light is found
hope is gone
Days are lengthening with spring. Winter's thaw has awaken the earth. The rebirth cycle begins in my backyard. Bird feeders are full. Goldfinches adorned in their brighter yellow feathers of spring, happily feeding on seed. House wrens are making new nests and chirping their mating songs, creating a wonderful soundscape to my ears.
A gentle south breeze flows. With ice and snow melted, rivers flow. Transitioning winter to spring, and greening-up Mother's Earth. Buds are bursting forth on most of my trees with little green leaves. My purple crocus and blue hyacinth have started too bloom, much too early here in the north. What's in the air that makes me feel better? I like to think it's the sweet days of spring.
northern wind shivers
wrapping warmth with woolen shawl
early spring sleeps lite
A Haibun with a Haiku
For Debbie Guzzi's contest,"Spring Haibun"
Somebody’s Baby, lie still
Embalmed in pure white cotton,
Cocooned securely, like the babe in arms
within the shroud.
Seraphim cavort no more upon a form
once touched with shades of youthful innocence.
Somebody’s Baby, be sure.
Your time for dreams now spent,
No future beckons only time captured frame by frame,
Frozen in vulgar technicolor;
Close Up; Explicit, depicting genre yet unclassified;
The epic over exposed.
Somebody's Baby, be silent.
Grey and gnarled imposter in the cot
Metamorphosis contrives a landscape dry and gnarled.
No more seductress of tender ministry;
Solitary, silently; endures the travesty
Of human demise.
I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on
Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen
Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest
Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen
A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly
Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing
A place of tranquility and majestical splendor
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me
Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words
"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"
A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"
As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees
contest In The Woods
And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams
Poem about beautiful sunsets and the journey of life.
Spent all day walking on the beautiful powdery white beach. Picking
up oceans treasures, scallop shells calico in colors rich and diverse,
conch, coral, cockel, Sand dollar, sea biscuit, lightning welk, snell shells
of every kind. Ocean breakers emerald crashing and rumbling up onto
the porcelain beach. Wade out let it splash all over me so cooling and
refreshing along with ocean breeze. Splash on the face I lick it off,
exquisitely salty. sand Pipers skiddering along, Pelicans and sea gulls
in the indigo sky catching my eye. Such beautiful things my spirit uplifted.
Sun now kissing the ocean in an explosion of colors. I sit down
to take it all in. Orange, scarlet, green, violet, purple, amber,
gold, emerald, jasper, amathyst, amber, alibaster and every
hue inbetween. A glorious feastfor the eye and mind
to put at ease. Dark now as the golden moon
takes it's Majasties place. What a simply wonderful day.
Giving sigh it's over I could do this forever. Time to go back to my home
in Arkansas. We have beautiful sunsets there as well. Beautiful mountains,
streams, forests, springs, caves, clear lakes await for me to revisit.
The air is clean with a fragrant scent, purple, yellow, orange, lavender,
azure, indigo, cardinal, porcalin, pink and more colors than I can
describe wild flowers frow. Clear blue rivers rush with white roaring
rapids to float, forests of emerald abundant to explore. Mountains
treacherous to scale, Hot springs to sooth and heal both body and
spirit. Diamonds to find, red, champagne, blue, sparkling enchanting
exquisite. Crystals bound in the mines near the healing hot springs,
amythest, garnets, water crystals, rubies and jasper in georgeous
colors crafted into rings, bracelets, pendants, watch bands and so
many more elegant things. I may never get to return to the beloved
beaches again in my life, but I still have all these wonderous things
in My Natural Arkansas. However if I am fortunate enough to return to
the glorious oceans and beaches, I will once again enjoy the treasures,
pleasures, sunsets to behold so bold and vibrant, more wonderful
memories if it comes to pass. one never knows for certain what lays
ahead down lifes path so onward we go and enjoy each blessing
that the Lord has prepared to us to see. Hopefully we will learn on
this journey to love, care for and share with each other.
Eleven – “Novelism: The-Newness-of-the-Old”
(for: Deborah Guzzi, my poetess-commentator)
… & the argument continues
… That nothing new exists of itself in Nature is now a widely reputed view. Nothing is new
but for the very thought of its novelty! Yet, the Newness-of-the-Old, an idea which I call
Novelism, permeates the entire horizon of the anti-novel ferment of our Age of Fashion.
It is true that Nature is full of repetitions; Creative Repetitions, of course! If not
History would have died repeating the same tales. However, it isn’t true that Nature is so
reluctant in giving us new things. We would rather contend that through her seeming
change-less fixtures, Nature shows her constant dynamism. Yes, all these fixtures, the
endemic sufferings of her staticism, celebrate her novelty in endless forms.
O, think of them: of all the activities of the Mortal star, Man; of his crafts: those
apparent webs of his genial faculties that applaud him as the Genius of Creation – what is
so old & traditional but our ordinances of Sleep & Wake, Work & Feed, & other vigilant
demands of our cultures? & what isn’t tempered with our spirit of fashionism in such
Nature may, then, be afraid of innovation & be accused of abject conservatism, only by
those who are lazy to follow her rhythmic changes. Everywhere these rhythmic drums beat so
When we think of the joyous travails of the Sun; of the virginous reputation of the Moon;
of the crudity of the beast; of the swift & endless voyage of moving waters into Seas &
Oceans; of the swift slippery driving styles of the Fish; of the Sky laughing at the
endurant soils of our Earth; of the Seasons in their equilibrium songs; of the ever-happy
& singing Birds – what notes of dynamisms we hear! & in neglecting such notes, aren’t we
heading for a dance of the heroic pessimism?
While we consciously neglect the novelties in a society by demanding for a kind of
novelty, aren’t we adding to the Crises of Nature? – but, Nature’s personality can’t be
forced to possess unnatural garments that we extend! Then, let Ideas possess the Society,
not Individuals! Ideas lead to newness, although, ideas are created by men; men go out of
the Stage more swiftly than their ideas. If the Idea rules the Setting rather than the
Voice of Man, then Novelism, the-Newness-of-the-Old, would thrive; & thriving, she could
bear her drivers, the men of ideas, along the paths of Innovation!
(… & the argument continues)
Rays of sunshine dancing on my back
This flamenco goes on all afternoon
The ripples glisten with the light
Sitting here next to the lake
Everywhere, colours are out to play
The green in the grass
The blue in the sky
The pink in your lips
I offer you a strawberry
From the picnic that you brought
The sweet smell entwines with the flowers
That scatter where we are sat
Your head on my lap
I stroke your golden hair
Catching my pinkie on a bead of sweat
That trickles from your forehead
You laugh and go to take off your sunglasses
I stop you
Your eyes would make the whole day
Seem the night
So, if a matrix is a body substance, in which all cells are embedded?
Then can I not spiritually say that the body of Christ is also a matrix?
Well, is it safe to assume or safer to not assume the differences in such?
If I have a World Wide Web with many matrixes, there must be a main.
How does one achieve the main matrix without a conversion of all matrixes?
Each living breathing organism has a matrix, but what supplies this?
Seems how all bodies have cells embedded in a matrix,
Is it not safe to assume that the universe has a matrix?
If so, where is the main universal matrix?
There must be a connection of some sorts,
Nevertheless, what is it and where is it?
Moreover, why has this not been thought of?
If the body is the temple of the Lord,
Then He must have a main matrix.
Matrix is Latin for womb.
So in which womb is this matrix?
Only a female has a womb.
There must be one that is required by none.
Now let us get even more difficult here.
We have a World Wide Web with many matrixes.
What if the World Wide Web is an individual womb?
It obviously has good and evil in its growth.
Could there have been two that fused by one?
Could there have been a conversion of all matrixes.
Or is there only one main matrix being a female?
Let us get back to the body of Christ and His matrix.
Let us even go to your own bodies matrixes.
An enclosure within in which something originates or develops,
This is what lives and breathes inside of you every day, a matrix.
Do we not develop Christ within ourselves, and He our originator?
Is it not safe to assume that we are the body of Christ?
Moreover, that we are of a matrix that has a universal main matrix?
®Registered: Ann Rich 2006
Dusk by the curving river caught
me unguarded only this once:
Wrapped around my core and spiraled
Upwards as I glimpsed the entwined
webbed crosses sifting sinking sun
like twinkling dewy light breathing
an evening song.
And as coffee colored canoes passed, I thought
of a parade I watched when a child,
contrasted only by the drummers’ beat.
Streams of colors
blended with the descending dark,
and the vision on the river lingered.
Sitting there late last night!
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in,
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself.
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose,
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt.
I was a bird in flight!
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night,
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air,
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze,
Inside of myself,
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top,
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.
®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich
As we waited for Venus to
Cross the face of the Sun
People from all over the township
Came together like in the days
When nature was the focus
And center of every ones life
When the sun was the timekeeper
People rose in the morning light
And work under its light
And retired at night with the sun
As he went to bed
But not in these times of iPads, computers
And smart phones and other false mechanical
People have forgotten about nature and the sun
Except when on June 5th Venus Transits the sun
Like a solar eclipse every 113 years
People took a moment from their daily and
Time-controlled restraints and mundane realties
To remember that their ancestors watch previous
Venus Transits with wonder as early 16th and 19th century scientists
Measured its path to forecast the Earth’s distance
From the Sun
And to look to a future and wonder what will the
World be like during the next Venus Transit in 2117
When they themselves will no longer exist on the Earth plane
And they will be another memory
As we waited for Venus to
Cross the face of the Sun
We stood in-line at the college observatory
Like a family of humans who knew
One another for many years
Both young and old
Both strong and frail
Both doubters and believers
As the sun was about to set
Very low on the western horizon
The prospects of viewing The Venus Transit
Was very dim
But the hard core believers stayed behind
As the others left for home
Someone in the crowd shouted,
“I see a ball of light breaking through the cloud cover”
The expert astronomer said dryly,
“It’s a refraction of light, and not the sun”
The man then said, “ I know what the sun looks light, its hurting my eyes”.
The astronomer reluctantly adjusted the telescope
Excitement rushed through the crowd as others also said
It’s the sun
It’s the sun
One by one we gathered closer to the telescope
Like people do when a new baby is born
We each took our turn and looked through the refracted lens
At The Venus Transit
In marvel and wonderment
There she was rewarding us for our devotion
Venus like the beautiful Goddess of Love that she is
Emerging not from water
But from the heart of the behemoth Sun
The Sun that has lit our path for millions of years
And Venus herself studied and adored by the Mayans
And Venus nestling in the strong-arms of the Sun
Nearer to his heart
She like a black dot or black Goddess on his surface
In marvel and wonderment
In marvel and wonderment
Silent moments together that Creates passionate desire.
Feeling the closeness of nature that bloomed on face of the one we admire,
creating warmth that ignites into a burning fire, giving feelings that takes us
to the seven heavens or even higher...
Gazing in nature marvel as our eyes met each other so profound that
we immediately drowned into each other's gaze. Holding each other there,
and no use for words to say, as we exchange a visible frisson in lingering glance.
Bodies so close while we shared a romantic dance, a sensation like a hypnotic trance,
Then our heart takes over and emotions conquered the rest searching for comfort,
I rest my head upon his chest. Feeling the pounding of his heart that beats only love for me
Accepting the gift of love that overflows the hearts. Awaken flame
which makes no other pleasure feels the same. A complete satisfaction of wholeness
That goes beyond physical attraction to a deeper commitment.
Many wonders yet to
suppose I would have
this awesome treat.
My basket still half
let me taste all of
the valleys and the
There is awe in
There are many
secrets in nature
I came here eager to
before my life is
When the universe
puts on its three
Technicolor in acts
of nature ..
Give me the front
I do not want to be
lax in my
knowledge of this
If I was sent to
earth to live
I must become at one
I do myself an
if I miss this
I want to count the
know the secret
lives of plants
I want to know the
before I am
Because as I live
WONDERS NEVER CEASE!
Radiant beams of Aubade,
Basking brilliant aura,
Sun is in the mood......
Ramifying fragrance of florets
And aroma of plants,
Wind is in the mood.....
Nurturing spirit into seedlings,
Blooming plants and all mortals
Water is in the mood........
Blessing us with soulmates, pals
And little ones,
Toning the ambience and climate,
The creator is in the mood......
Bestow upon us thy commendation
Oh lord !
Glorify us with divine crotchet !!
Written on 17/5/13
Contrast - on nature #3
Sponsor- PD A
The most beautiful place
Above the Bavarian resort town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen,
There winds a country road which leads to the Partnach gorge.
Hikers are passed by less hearty tourists transported in hay wagons.
On the left side of the road, a river can be spotted through the lindens.
The river water looks like it was drawn with aquamarine pastels,
Having been super-oxygenated from the gorge’s rapids and cascades.
Playful locals built miniature dwellings and piers along the banks.
Loggers used to hike up the dangerous gorge to unblock log jams,
So safer paths were tunneled in and along the walls of the gorge.
So many sight-seers used to sneak up the loggers trails for the views,
That logging ceased and the gorge became a tourist destination.
At the mouth of the gorge, a guest house sells carbonated buttermilk,
Weiswurst, and other Bavarian specialties to fortify or refresh.
During the holiday season, pilgrims carefully hike the trails
Carrying torches which reflect from the icicles and frozen walls.
Waterfalls, narrows, bridges, and a logger chapel
All add to the charm of Partnach Gorge.
This cold is touching me and I'm liking it
It hugs me real tight and I'm loving it
Now it's biting me real hard
From my foot up to my face
I wanted to let go but it won't
Though it realy hurts, I won't mind