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
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...
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.
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.
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…
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...
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.