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Prose Poetry Nature Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Nature

These Prose Poetry Nature poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Nature. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Nature poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

On My Porch

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
Russell Sivey Written per the request by my friend Sara Kendrick


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Her Name was Autumn

 
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...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Urban Forest

  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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ben reine ny hoie

Supermoon picture: Manila, Philippines, on March 19, 2011 (biggest full moon of the year) The wind laughs softly The full moon with the stars In the sky, As I lie near the fountain Gazing at the Exquisite beauty Of the nature. It's the charm of the moon Opens so many thoughts And dreams. The moon Looks like a beautiful Ballerina 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. Oh! Gealach, ben reine ny hoie. _________________________ "Gealach" means......Brightness, "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 suffer from. Thank you for reading. Chitta.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

'A thing of nature'

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.


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mist Rising

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who

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."


Details | Prose Poetry | |

November Rain

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…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Tale of Sandy the Snail

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...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles II

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hunting for Spring

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To weather the storm

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 darkness rules until the Light is found hope is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somebody's Baby

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In The Woods

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


written 09/07/2013

contest  In The Woods


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Still

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
Rise


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wrinkles

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…..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunsets and Journeys

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Spring

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"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forum with My Heart: The Jungle's Lonely Voice

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
cultural voices?
	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
loudly!
	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)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Main Matrix

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Bird in Flight

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,
Feeling 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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

dusky skies blend the colors

 
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.		 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lingering Glance

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. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rich Life

 


Many wonders yet to
behold 
amazement doth
increase 
suppose I would have
died 
before witnessing
this awesome treat.

My basket still half
filled 
let me taste all of
life 
the valleys and the
hills 
There is awe in
every performance..

There are many
secrets in nature
too 
I came here eager to
know all 
before my life is
through 
When the universe
puts on its three 
Dimensional,
Meteorological show

Technicolor in acts
of nature ..
Give me the front
row. 
I do not want to be
lax in my 
knowledge of this
world,be it
serenity,chaos or
peace 
If I was sent to
earth to live
I must become at one
with it.

I do myself an
injustice 
if I miss this
marvelous feast 
I want to count the
stars
know the secret
lives of plants 
I want to know the
wonders
before I am
deceased. 
Because as I live
and breath
WONDERS NEVER CEASE!






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Venus Transiting Goddess of My Heart

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
Timekeepers

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

Hallelujah
Hallelujah 
Hallelujah  




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Glistening Silver

Glistening Silver

Glistening silver on water’s edge like thousands of diamonds for my hair - 
Snow covered mountains hide summer flowers of purple, pink and gold
while black bear and deer search for left over apples from October’s harvest.
Ellijay is crisp and cleaned to perfection by nature’s wind and cold - 
The cows hide inside the old, red barn up the hill.
Hickory trees barren of fruit, yet a lone woodpecker flits back and forth looking -
searching for substance from the thick bark only it can penetrate. 
My prayer for snow covered mountains has been answered.
Seventeen years of Florida sun has scorched my throat and mind.
I wanted to see New York snow in North West Georgia -
One full Sunday of snow falling for my eyes to fill
 in the glorious beauty of winter’s wonder.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BITING COLD

(Winter Song)

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 

Cry? Never! 

(c) 2012


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The First Fable of CharlaX

 The First Fable of CharlaX 
The First Fable of CharlaX 
 
A Falcon Cry 
 
 
The Falcon Cries: 
 He spreads his wings in vain attempts to dry 
He tells me once in a whistle WHY? 
Why cannot we fly? When will the rain let up and let me in the air? 
When will the water stop to drop on feathers so wet there? 
The Falcon Cries: 
A mournful sound so loud in quiet of early morn 
His claws dug deeper in the branch to keep from being torn 
Away from perching in the storm 
His sharpened beak at work to smooth his feathers 
He was using extra care no longer talking just to me his only whistle 
Told me many things 

The Falcon Cries: 
We disagreed with all the rain both the Falcon and the eye. 
Why can't we fly? 
Eye could clasp the bird to bosom and dry his feathers there 
A bird so wild and wonderful so hurt 
With all my tears for the Falcon Cry. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A.A. Milne's Intuition and the Magic in Nothing-Else-To-Do.

“This is where we are,” I said, as I aimlessly threw pebbles to my left...
and my hand ripped grass, the destruction of Spring and the creation of happiness as we
gathered ourselves in the midst of nothing-to-do, my nails recovered dirt as my palms
discovered life and he

took.my.hand.

carelessly, without thought, as if it was the only thing to do...


I checked my knees for bruises and found the fading black and blue of Pennsylvania, the
pattern resembled the horizon we gazed at beyond the cliffs where my feet felt slightly
unsure and my fear of heights dared me to step one inch closer to the edge, I had watched
him and found his fearlessness to be divine as he went two inches and ignored the rocks I
had payed close attention to race to the bottom of nowhere as if to find the somewhere
that existed...

beneath us...

I gazed up into sunshine and followed the trail of Saturday clouds, dreams scattering
themselves, their shapes secrets that hid in the middle pages of picture books, and I
imagined us as my tongue spoke the wisdom of A.A. Milne and thought about the
intuitiveness of childhood, I smiled, and inched closer to his side...

“Here we are,” he sighed, slipping his hand underneath the back pocket of my favorite
tattered blue jeans, and as his fingers fumbled with the frays in my fabric, he kissed me,
once, on the lips, a Saturday quiet where only we existed in the time it took breath to
meld and touch, and settle weeks beneath skin in the slight chill of April, and I nodded
as the sky watched us and thought..

we'd make a beautiful picture book, we'd settle in the middle of a page whispering secrets
that could create the smile that spoke of youth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the mood


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mountain

Size was reassured in your presence, the size of all.
Remnants of a colder time lay across your face, 
an endless, deep, calm blue behind.

In your shadow I was exposed as dust, your own form a speck on the world. 
I give you my thoughts, my awestruck mind for a moment.

A moment to recall, the sight of a beautiful mountain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Short Time On The Porch

As the crickets sing flooding, saturating my being__enveloped I am in sound and moist 
air..In the sky ballet figure dances dressed in very tight white leotard bounding across 
the stage, leaping into mid-air with a whole troop dressed in pink pastel costumes on 
back of the stage..The music crescendos swellinng to the final jump then the sun's tip 
comes up over the horizon..Life moves on and the day's work begins..Grateful I am for the 
few minutes on the porch..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Affair Begins

As the continuous rain trickles from the roof and the gentle breeze stirs the
wind chimes to play tunes, a bird warbles chere, chere, to a lady friend
who answers cheer.The rain is cold and uninviting to humans but birds must
ignore such a small inconvenience to love affairs and courtship. Their chirps to each
other get closer. One has moved into the Holly Bush about ten feet closer
to the one bird in the Pear Tree.  The gentle breeze blows cold mist from the rain upon the old lady in the rocker outon the porch. She shivers and writes a few more words in her notebook before retreating into the warm, dry and comfortable home. She thanks God for a few minutes to enjoy the creation and the creator..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In my summer meadow

In my summer meadow

Lavender colored milkweeds, growing between dark  purple butterfly peas, are 
perfuming the warm air. 
The color combination is especially pleasing to me; I love purple.
Perfectly round globes of milkweed are a magnet for bees, butterflies and a variety 
of other insects. I see lightening bugs among them. 
The buzzing of bumblebees, wasps and honeybees is accompanied by the chirping 
of crickets and the happy twittering of the meadow birds. 
Yellow Sweet Clover lends it's perfume to the summer symphony of soothing scents.
Tall spikes of blooming Johnson grass sways dreamily in the bright sunlight.
Right in the middle of a soft pink wild rose bush, a bright red butterfly weed is the 
center of activity for many species of colorful butterflies. A brilliant blue"Two-barred 
Flasher”  flaps it's wings as fast as a hummingbird, while the orange-brown Buckeye 
rests peacefully.
Next to the roses, a blackberry bush is promising juicy, dark berries soon, while the 
Mulberry trees are already providing a welcome sweet snack for birds, deer and 
bunnies. 
A patch of wide- open orange daylillies is a cheerful spot over at the edge of the 
trees and an emerald- green hummingbird enjoys their offerings.
There is so much life and beauty in a small patch of meadow! 
I love it!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Reflection of Sunsets that Ignored the Destination of Us

It seemed to me, when the sun set and his eyes mirrored clouds with raindrops that had yet
to fall, it seemed to me...

we'd been ignoring the weeks it took to get this far.


I'd spoken often, on Wednesdays, when I sat alone and conversation happened to be the only
thing that kept my hair from tearing herself out, of ice cream Sundays and possibilities
of his hand touching the little milky white part of my right thigh in a brushing that made
me shudder....

made me realize...

how much I needed him.


It was the tiny moments I sketched and photographed that held me, his eyes when he loved
me, and the sweat that settled herself on the nape of my neck when he kissed me,
tightening curls and muscles that hid themselves from the hours I'd pretended to be
nothing....

but a woman.


I glanced to my left as I awaited his voice, as I searched somewhere for the echo of
nights past and the graze of sleeping when his legs brushed up against the outside of my
ankles, I waited as I stared at the walls that appeared behind me when he found nothing
else to do but smile, and I had blushed, schoolgirl red with the imagination that I was
still there for hearts beat faster in those days...

in the days that lived inside the weeks...

we may have ignored...

as we walked farther, he and I, towards places I couldn't see and destinations I had never
heard of, but...

you see...

his fingers, his hand...


brushed up against my thigh, as I shuddered and needed him...

as he kissed me

and my eyes mirrored sunsets and storm clouds that held raindrops that had yet

to

fall.








Details | Prose Poetry | |

trees of green

trees of green

the trees so lush and green
such beauty all around
you can’t help but notice
the flowers blooming
all along the way
a lone red bird perched
high upon a limb
calls out can you
hear me can you hear me
as the sun goes down
another day has
come and gone
and you wait anticipating
the sunrise of tomorrow

	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Master Carpenters tree

The impressive mighty trees
Are birthed from such small seed
Drawing resilience from the sun
And earth’s fertile garden bed

Trees wooden trunk has shaped 
And sustained for centuries many in varied ways 
Some over and upon oceans wide
Where waves stroke shapely hulls 
And lull to sleep the hapless venturer 
Trusting in woods durable strength and buoyancy

And from such crafted boughs 
And whispered sounds 
Her meekness and strength is seen and heard 
Like the creaks of grandma’s rocking chair
Where the hapless wanderer was first rocked to sleep

Trees have cradled and rocked in their arms 
High and low of this world
The greatest of these was in a lowly manger 
In an animals crib 
But for this one tree its destiny was marked 
Chosen before time

For on this tree’s wooden shoulders 
It bore God’s greatest gift–
A Holy Child born - Like it- 
For one purpose only – 
To become accursed - on its wooden cross 
To bear the sins of All 
The Holy Son then rose - triumphantly from earth’s fertile soil

Into His Father’s arms


© Brenda V Northeast 11th   March   2012
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Samurai

The Samurai warrior stands unassuming, quiet, and fits in to the background on any occasion,
Each month is a month of new life, gales rush and sound over the tops of trees, he listens,
His life is one of wisdom and military education, he judges nobody but he protects innocence,
He respects all the seasons, the beauty of nature in all of its forms, a profound philosophy.

The rich cultivation of his disciplined spirit is a lifetime lesson, it has taught respect.
He watches as flowers show through the earth and wonders at their delicacy, a poetic beauty,
A true warrior treasures personal enlightenment, it is honed and is polished with refinement,
Enlightenment, watching pink cherry blossom in leafless trees, as nature provides everything.

Rich cultivation of the mind is expressed by his meticulous writings with skills of an artist,
His spring is spiritual, thick blossoms are pure a true joy, a China rose unfolds a red petal,
He lives an unwritten code of Bushido his values will never be comprised he is a man of honor,
And the true warrior holds loyalty and courage above all, he is veracious and has compassion.

Times in deadly combat does not take away compassion for the weak, the needy or the children,
A man of tempered steel, a man who would happily die for his cause, has a gentle simple life,
In a wood on a kind day, meditating on a warm rich river bank, the trickling water is peace,
The Samurai has respect for life, humility is the sign of power, a power through submission,

These hard won gifts, balance the Samurai warrior, he has a passion for philosophy, integrity,
As words can hurt others he carefully chooses what to say, when to say, each word is guarded,
To these men of few words, each word is a powerful statement and they do not abuse this power,
It's difficult to get them to talk, they will ask questions and they listen, then they advise.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Many Miles Away

Many Miles Away

The rumbling thunder said
the rain was many miles away.
The dry fields ached for the
slightest hint of moisture.
Everything that could be done,
had been done, the plowing,
the planting, the weeding,
the irrigation.  Then the rain
had stopped.  The irrigation
ditches dried and cracked,
leaving those dependent upon
them to bake in the unforgiving sun.
Hot, dry wind blew sandy soil
across the exposed roots of
a failing crop, dust limited the
visibility to one’s own situation.
The questions came, as they
always did, echoing from many
miles away, through many
generations, passing through
today.  The whys and why nots.
The curses followed, of the land,
the heat, the drought, the
failing crop.  The prayers came,
passing over dried lips, uttered
by swollen tongues, mumbled in
failing hope.  And still the thunder
rumbled, the water laden clouds
roiled and taunted, the warm
moist wind blew across the
fields, a promise too
many miles away.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sacred Mother Earth- Colors Of Nature

Oh Great Woman of all Nature
  Mother of our Divinely blessed, sacred Earth
Your beauty has kissed my lips
  with the splendor of your clear, sapphire skies
 

The golden, moon bathed Sands
  that are gently caressed
 by your crystal blue clear flowing rivers
Your gentle rain that ascends from the Heavens above
  to delicately soothe and blend
with tears that flow from the broken hearted
 

Your moist, emerald green hills 
 filled with enchanting, lovely flowers 
of every elegant shade and hue
I have beheld the splendid beauty…
 of your green weeping willow's gracious bows and limbs
of iridescent greens and golds
that whisper gently in your swaying, languid winds
 

I have witnessed golden eagles fly so gracious and free
  in your pictorial, periwinkle blue skies
I've feasted my eyes on the sublime splendor
  of your enchanting, golden harvest moon
as its elegant beauty paints a rose, gold, splendid image 
  so deep within my mind
 

All your violet-blue endless horizons
  Your smoky, gray mountains so grand
in the rose blue cool light of dawn
  Your chattering bird songs in skies of azure blue
The fragrant scent of amber gold pinecones
   in the sparkle of the crystal clear early morning dew
 

I pay Ode’ to you Great Mother Nature
  for every golden ray of sun that warmed my skin
that hangs brilliant and dazzling...
   in your glorious skies of cerulean blue


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Golden Sun Of Spring

As spring's golden sun rises awakening the fog.  Its light reveals fog's gray clinging tenacles all about. A Dove coos softly singing in spaces opened up when the roosters quieten their chorus..The tree's dark silhouettes stand still for no breeze rustles the air this morn. Those Blackbirds are back their voices fill the Oaks with lively music.  Then they go down upon the good earth to feed upon the rich food available.  I don't even see anything there but they seem to find plenty everyday.  It seems they are here to stay this year.  They usually come for awhile then leave until about the same time the next year. I wonder if they are going to pair off and stay around.  Only God knows if they will stay or leave.  He has provided for the troup to have sufficient food everyday.  All they have to do is come and feed.  We His creation only have to come into His Presence each day for a short time, open our hearts and minds to hear His Voice.  He is there waiting won't you come and feed upon His Word(The Bible) and then wait to hear His Voice for it is pleasant to the ears..  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Filigree

The gray haze of autumnal fog drenches the leave-strewn grass. Trance-like, lain within the wet air, like babies breath, the leaves fall. A soft, damp, blanket of gold, filigree, edges the green cloak of the Mother, Her garb lays adorned with a pointed patterns of earthly stars. Warmed so, by the abundance of her children; caressed by the love of the Father, beloved, the Mother yawns.... stirring the leaves, yet again, the leaves arise.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Thunder Rolls

The thunder rolls now, a spring rain pours from low solid gray clouds
which wrap around in all directions, and fog banks between trees of the forest.
Tender new life formed of different shades of green decorates the woods and 
homeplaces. As the rain drip-drops from the eaves, a bird's throaty varied call 
floats across the damp soggy air. 

to the north floats a call that nearly matches.. love on the wing wind blows rain rain pours buckets poet exits porch
Three forms: Prose Poetry Haiku Brevette Just for fun...Telling about the wonderful world of nature...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sea

The Sea
there are many oceans on the earth
where is the sea
I think today we will study the China Sea
not sure where is that place
are you sure
is it an Ocean
have you ever heard of the Chinese Ocean
I have heard of the China Sea
didnt they make movies
i can look at a mapp would that be cheating
China is a country over seas
HA HA
overseas not over oceans
that almost proves it to me now
The Great Sea of China
or wait
the Great Wall of China
it is beside the ocean shore
nO it is beside the Sea Shore
that sounds correct
my China Lady lies over the Ocean
MY CHina LAdy lies over the Sea ???????
China has no ocean it has a Sea
Taiwan in the ocean or sea
China must be near the Taiwan Sea
strike this out
???????///////
Taiwan in the Sea of China
wow this must be it
I did all this without looking at a map
believe it love
The Sea — at China Sea


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Poet

A bright morning sun reflected off the everlasting hills and over blushing flowers,
Then onto whispering trees heavy with fruit, over purling steams and dimpled lakes,
A poet, dipping his pen into the ink that writes of pure images in the urn of truth,
Writing besotted letters, of imperishable brightness, weighing immortality of nature.

Having the wisdom of nature suited to the right regulation and adjustment to changes,
That exists in man to understand the beauties of nature not just on a summer morning,
Nights are spent in the midnight oil chasing words to express the beauty we all see,
Words to highlight understanding to enhance desires and refinements to see as the poet.

Revelations not beyond reach to bring beautiful scenes into homes, the true philosophy,
When philosophy acknowledges the unlimited range of its sphere bringing light to all,
Whose posy has charmed the fancy and whose works have enriched the world of letters,
Many poets whose eloquence has astonished even only a few, the researches are rewarded.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Whimsical Thoughts

The winding lane twists and turns
as it meanders up hill and down dale
stretching far ahead, a silvery thread
glistening and glinting, beckoning me on

Peaceful countryside noises abound in the air
cooing of woodpigeons, rapid tapping of woodpecker
raucous cries of rooks nesting in the trees nearby 
low mooing of cows and bleats from the young lambs

As I journey onwards beneath the vibrant blues skies
I come to a brow and there stretched out before me
a landscape so picture perfect it moves me to tears
verdant hues of green from the meadows, scent filled air

This is where I want to be and to grow gracefully old
to put down my roots and settle in this peaceful vale
to wake each day to the glories of nature each different
something new to catch my eye and fill me with delight

A place to rest with natures bounteous treasures spread
to revive a weary soul, to heal the ravishes of every day life


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brown Spider

The very large spider sits silent patient in the center of its web not knowing
that solid gray clouds slowly float from the south.  Moisture laden clouds ready
to drop much needed water upon this dry section of earth.  The brown spider's web
is strung between the Holly Tree and the corner eight by eight post and brace.  It is placed where a blowing rain will saturate it.  The spider is unaware of the
eerie stillness in the air.  A quietness even respected by all nature's creatures. 
There are no birds chirping, no roosters crow, no buzzards soar, even the
noisy crows hush their cawing, and the coyotes' pups are silent.  Then the sound of large waterdroplets just a few which bring down some oak leaves and 
acorns with a banging upon the roof.  A strange feeling of solitude that rarely
happens.  The quiet equals the quiet before a snowstorm appears.
Will the spider have a protected place during the flooding rain blown by the wind?
Only time will tell if he is prepared to weather the storm and only time 
will tell the intensity of the impending rain after a long drought.. 
Only time will tell, only time will tell...  

Oh!! The spider and web disappeared..I will keep watch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who am I

WHO AM I?

A match ignites a light into my life
My long sleep is troubled.
Where is my breakfast?
I am hungry!
As I stretch my limbs,
I notice that a spread is set out for me.
I am ravenous.
I timidly start to taste whatever is close to me.
It is an exhilarating sensation,
My hunger grows as I savour food.
I am losing my manners and like a wild beast I devour what I can reach.
I don’t like the way I am and I desperately try to control myself.
I am in my element with the awareness of heat and wind in my hair.
Oh! Please God please make me stop!
The Devil has taken my being and I have lost control.
I am falling.
I am so dizzy spiralling down and down and down this endless shaft.
I want to stop but I cannot.
I need nourishment.
Now that I have had a taste of the uncontrolled sweetness of intercourse with nature I want more.
My senses are at their peak.
Like a crazed lunatic I need more and more.
I want to ravage and take as spoils all the virgin maidens.
I want their young bodies to satiate my need to keep my fire burning.
Like a thunder clap I suddenly realise that mankind is my enemy. 
This is very strange because while I was asleep I had so many amorous and soothing dreams of our mutual feelings.
Man and I have respected each other for centuries.
NOW HE WANTS TO STOP ME ENJOYING MY VORACIOUS APPETITE!
We are at war!
But I am so huge that I sneer at his efforts to starve me.
I have my friend the weather on my side
She gives me all her support with dry heatwaves and wind.
I will go on forever and ever eating the delicious Pines, Eucalypti and all the nice vegetation that man has nurtured.
I savour the taste of his homes and the beasts he ingests,
What I relish most of all is when I carnivorously eat his flesh.
I am the fire that rules over this sunburnt country
And I am here to stay.
Man will have to wait until I have had my fill.
Then and only then I will go to sleep again!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Complexities of Life

Why is it that we do that which we don’t want to do
And we don’t do that which we want to?
This is the question that troubled the Apostle Paul 
A man of God, who still struggled with those inner tendencies.
It’s a question that troubles me, too,
The good that we should do, seems so hard to do
The evil, so easy…because it is in our nature to err
I find it mind boggling that the very fibers of my being
Seem to be drawn to the forbidden…
Is it because it is sweeter? Easier? More fulfilling? Simply…human nature drawing me?

Ah, but there is a transcendent joy 
From doing what is unnatural to us:
To love the unlovable
To uplift the fallen
To be faithful to the faithless
To return blessings for curses
To forgive instead of get even
To love instead of to lust

Are we justified in doing what comes naturally because after all…we were born this way?
We are just following our natural inclinations?
Then, I ask…what makes us different from the animals that follow their basic instincts?
Is there a difference? At times there doesn't seem to be. Delayed gratification seems unheard of. We want to relish this moment...there here and now...whatever the cost. We put our morality on a shelf and give in to the basic instincts to posses...to be possessed...to satisfy. Is there a difference?

Yes, there is…for we have been given the power to reason and to choose the high road.
It isn’t by accident….we were created with that power. We need to put it to good use, and we will have divine help to do that, if we so choose. It isn’t easy….but then again, sacrifice never was. It has a price. Ask Jesus….it cost Him his life.

Eileen Manassian Ghali


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A small boat

Drift a small boat with two paddles
In the sky above 
Swiftly passes by the lake surface 
A frightened swan 

Clear blue sky painted with 
The green mountains
All the beautiful scene is 
Taken by the still water

Waveless lake shapes like a mirror  
With countable fish swimming 
In clear water

On the sandbank by the river 
White birds take a leisurely perch thereon 
Look like you 
Look like me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Day and a Night in June

Rolling pastures of green meadows rise to greet the horizon meeting a deep blue sky, 
Beautiful old Perennial Clovers fill the glades and valleys with sweetness and beauty, 
Yellow Goat’s Beard, Dog Daisies with Chervil, shelter under hedgerows and Oak trees, 
A Yellow Rattle and the Lotus meet the Quake-grass and have done since I was a boy. 

As I get older and become friends of Fescues, the Rough Cocks foot is still my dream, 
And warm days of June are brilliant and beautiful the nights very calm soft and warm,
Where moonbeams and the evening stars twinkle in soft silver the background a blue hue,
Trees silhouetted against the starry night sky like a painting on canvas immortalized.
 
What could match the clear beauty of a June sky as bird’s soar across turquoise day, 
Wild oats and Darnell's by waysides, Red Pensile panicles in the light winds that blow, 
Each a friend with the Fox tail and Timothy they all sway in the same breeze dancing,
Wrapped in light air-grass and the Purple Burnett all are loved in a summer’s meadow.
 
The corn grows tall in the golden sea it has waves when the wind strokes the stems,
Walk in a dreamland of wonder over fields and along the footpaths since time began,
The rye as tall as your head and the wheat beginnings to shoot away from the husks,
Then the wild flowers among these crops are a beauty on a wonderful sun shiny day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXTitles11

 
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE OWL

THE OWL

Seeing far and wide
Patiently waiting 
He plans

The movement of his head
Is measured and silent 
As always he is in stealth mode
Listening in stereo for that 
Whispering rustle
That gives the vole away 

Perched like a ghost 
On a moonlit night 
He hoots
Announcing to the night
That he is on sentry duties

Target is found

He lifts and floats downwards
Silently
Deadly
Alighting on an unwary vole


Details | Prose Poetry | |

wake-up call

a whisper in my slumbered state 
as I drift off listening
to the beautiful sound of the falling rain
my soul’s journey through the night
among the ancient ruins 
of a place unknown
green fields surrounding
so very peaceful
a familiar feeling inside
i know this place
from a lifetime before my time
the air so fresh
the colours of nature so deep
then i saw you
our eyes met
in a wink we were at each other’s side
running in the green fields
happy laughter
this place, where my heart resides
now laying on the luscious grass
still holding hands
the haunting violin playing
and a woman’s voice calling
awakened 
from a beautiful dream

27:02:13


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autum's Farewell

Autumn’s Farewell

A chill wind rustles through tree branches
Shaking the last of the dying, shriveled leaves,
Softly floating to the ground,
Contributing to the symphony of 
Autumn’s farewell when walked upon..
Squirrels dart about foraging for fallen nuts. 

Summer’s bright afternoon sun
Gives way to Autumn’s brooding light         
Fading earlier each day in anticipation
Of season’s end and of the chill and 
Darkness ahead, with the last leaf
Falling helplessly and inexorably
To the ground.

Spring and Summer’s delight
Fade into memory… as if a fairy tale…
To conjure up when in the midst 
Of the clutch of Winter’s icy spell,
 Watching our hopes and dreams  
 Lying crumpled and faded 
 Under Winters first snowfall.

Oh beautiful Autumn, I feel your pain
Your once glorious mantle of gold…
Your majestic leaves a virtual 
Kaleidoscope of breathtaking hues,
Banished from our sight forever.
But like our youth…the memory
Will live in our hearts forever!
 
Copyright©2011 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)

For Carol Brown's contest - Leaves, Leaves, Leaves.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

March Winds

Spring is on the distant horizon, another month has gone, now just a memory
Seasons flow seamlessly, path's of time seem faster, now in my golden years
The month of March is vigorous and piping, the month of new life in nature,
The coldness of our winter very gently fades, birds sing high in the trees,
But beware of gales as they rush through our woods, over meadows and glades.

The wild wrath of winter eases, March winds are fast, chasing the cold away,
Branches bend and groan, dead wood falls, ruining thatches and old buildings,
The wind bites but wild flowers spring from black soil in meadows and glades,
Measure the difference of the solemn fitfulness's of autumn, and March winds
As People gingerly look out on mild days time to begin work in their gardens.

The last days of February sees the frost less severe, the slushy snow melting,
All in keeping with ancient character the month is wet from thaw and dampness,
A time for floods as snows melt, rain and sleet pours, this is our wet season,
There is movement in the woods, leas and the forests nature starts to wake up,
Now as sap is stirring in trees, buds begin to show green on bushes and boughs.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DANCE OF SOULS

Salty air breathed from crystalline peaks
I breathe in And catch a glimpse 
of the dancing, bowed bodies.

They perform a graceful ballet;
like arrows shot from an archer’s bow;
they leap, breach and roll.

Their eyes have seen ages of brine and shifting sands.
I wonder if they really are the “Watchers”; 
like the “Dogon” stories portray them.
Did they once have legs instead of fins 
and can we really be their children?

Perhaps that is why they are so quick to help us;
Why a child who can not speak can suddenly come to life?
He won’t be silenced again, 
after all, he swam with the dolphins.  
Could it be the magic of the dance that heals?

Odd, that they are always there when needed
And can transform a stagnating life 
into a miraculous moment of rebirth!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Confetti of Flesh

 
Would I rather go too slow,

Damp breath feeding the soil, 

worms to grow, an

old mans toil.

 

For me the answer is clear;

Though not today and I hope not here – 

To explode with love and feelings gold – 

Not too young and not too old

Wise enough to see my growth

But not old enough to have outgrown 

My sprit, 

Fun,

this place called home

That’s how to die

 

A confetti of flesh ruptures the Sky.

Feeding the air, water and earth.

Why you ask do I care how I die –

My love, that is the whole reason -

We’re here

to ask why.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pale Red Sun

The pale red sun rises on the eastern horizon casting light upon a low crescent
moon and morning star.  A Whip-Poor-Will with a sore throat sings his love song to
his mate or maybe to the master artist who paints the constantly changing canopy.
The once smokey gray horizonal clouds have turned a shade of cerise.  So much
sound reverberates this still morning.  The roosters echo in the hollow, doves coo
upon the hill, mockingbirds sing their varied tunes back and forth through the 
oaks while all the neighboring folk lie in bed.


indigo buntings in flight... share piece of bread
Blessings sometimes come in strange places. The Indigo Buntings are a rare sight their beauty shone forth in which there came delight. Thank you Lord for this beautiful sight. Finis'


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Six People

The poet leaves his winter study and roams around mountains and deep woods,
The painter sold his pictures and is off to sketch on heath and highlands,
The child runs through sun kissed meadows and across dusty golden commons,
The lovers walk down country lanes and wander about each other, on mead's,
The man of the road smiles as he knows the night will not be bitterly cold,
The nightingale sings a haunting melody bringing tears to the lovers eyes,
The trees swaying in a breeze an oak drops acorns, the child collects them,
The mountains capped with snow unleashes a stream of fine words from the poet,
The heath and highlands glow with beautiful greenery and the painter paints,
The birds swoop from bough to bough the poet sees and he writes some prose,
The man of the road listens to bird song his eyes mist bringing sad memories
The evening sun falls behind the horizon a beautiful sunset the lovers kiss,
The poet sees the sunset and writes about dark golden evenings and warm nights,
The painter mixes yellow and black and that captures this wonderful picture,
The boy leaves the woods to go home as it is nearly time for his evening meal,
The man of the road lays down deep in the woods his overcoat is his blanket,
The lovers walk arm in arm as the day darkens they make their way home slowly,
The painter cleans his brushes and carefully lays down his canvas in the dark,
The poet is happy he has written beautiful words he lays in his bed reflecting,
The boy is fast asleep dreaming of the fantastic day he enjoyed in the woods,
The six unconnected people that were unknowingly were connected sleep soundly.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fading of Salvador Dali When Wednesday Rose Too Late.

I regarded us on Tuesday, after finding Monet in the closet, and thought our lives
resembled institutions, I thought I'd tack that painting right above the fireplace, I
imagined we'd laugh...


He took ten minutes to figure it out, he took fifteen to tell me, he took three minutes
more to kiss my lips and I told him he was seven minutes late, so he glanced to the clock
that raced tomorrow above my head and told me that late was better than never as he
grabbed tomorrow right out of my hair...

This tangled me, you see, and I gasped for air as my thighs fell apart, it seemed to be
distinctly him as he swirled into me, and I lost the definition of myself shortly after
Wednesday rose, and we smeared Van Gogh all over the walls as my screams became edible and
he licked his lips as I sighed his name, he removed the fabric that kept me warm, he wrote
forever with his tongue and I thought, better forever than gone, right before I dissolved
into nowhere....


I think my hand prints were distorted and I searched his chest for some resemblance of
sanity, but I only found myself in the swirls of moonlight that ventured in through the
window we tried to block...

he had told me of blankets years ago and I wished they would cover me when December came,
but I haven't seen December yet though I've watched snow fall and settle on his eyelashes,
I've studied the melting of time when he blinks...

“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world,” I informed him, minutes after the night
solidified herself and I realized we were tired.

“No, I don't,” he replied, in a tone that sunk beneath Tuesday, and offered me the calm of
Monet...

“You do,” he whispered, and I could hear that smile and the echoes of his eyes closing, I
could hear myself enter his dreams as I watched my hair flow abstractly through the weeks
he remembered, and sometime before I fell asleep, thinking about St. Petersburg when the
visions that dance underneath my eyelids resemble the imagination of Salvador Dali, he
told me he loved me...

right on time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Three Strings Of A Web

The big brown spider has three strings of his web strung. He rest 'pon the eve
waiting in the cold crisp autumn air.  He is draw up in a tight ball anticipating the sun 
to rise above the horizon.  A gentle airy breeze zips by cooling the spider to the core
as acorns bounce from tree to roof to ground. Trapped by circumstances of nature
he can not rebuild his web today.  Will he go without food with no trap to
catch insects?Web completely gone after heavy wind of the night and early morn.
The wind comesfrom the east with a chill like artic's breath. The brown spider is
drawn up in a ball attached to the ceiling beam of the porch. Will he be able to rebuild?..That will be a story for another day..  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn

Crispy brown leaves fall softly unto the ground
The squirrels scurry around, finding nuts for the cold oncoming season
Yes, it is times for days for become shorter, and nights longer
The cold winds seem to be playing with the newly fallen leaves
Gunshots can be heard for it is hunting season
A deer falls to the ground with it's sad brown eyes
Now- it is time for leaf piles, made neatly with leaf blowers,
and ruined again from children
It's a celebration season with food to go around,
and candy with costumes-
A lovely season, it is Mother Nature's pride
It is time for picnics in the park
The best games in the World Series
It is time for going for a walk in the woods
People go for a jog to see more of this lovely season
And some just stare out their window in awe
This season has a  feeling unlike winter or summer
This is the best season of all
Autumn

Written by my daughter Elora Green, age 9. 
2002


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Madman's Lullaby

After the sun bleeds colors
Into the sky the white stars 
Are scattered like diamonds thrown 
Across the violet black night

And at the edge of dawn
A thread of light expanding 
And spilling like smooth thick cream
I am the moth drawn to light


Hovering and circling
Until the glow disappears 
And even the quick flutter
Of my wings cannot lift me

From soulless obscurity 

 














Details | Prose Poetry | |

Break the Clouds

Thrust up from the firmament and break the clouds.

Wring from the world the Water of Life in its crystalline perpetuity as raiment.

Bend the wind around your back and send to me the most undeniable of siren songs.

Send your mirage of eternity to these eye-blink lives longing for forever and I will bear my bones with feather-light heart to the sight of your object eye.

For only there can I see how tiny and fleeting are all my fears.
And all my triumphs.

Show me the illusion and may I know it for Smoke before the mirror.

The dreams of the Mountain haunt the step of every day.

Memories of freedom to those in chains.

What are they worth?

Nothing at all.
And Life itself.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Miracles

The rising sun cast red and purple 'pon the cloudy sky. A sign of colder, stormy days ahead. The Japanese Magnolia's buds are swollen white ready to explode into lavender pink blosssoms of spring. Is this tree confused? If so, then the Star Magnolia is more confused for its silvery white buds are dazzling to gaze upon. It seems that tiny tips of its blossoms are exposed as are tips of spring green leaves just waiting a warm day to spring forth for mine pleasure. The daffodils dark green leaves are shooting forth from the cold wet earth while the danger of cold still lurks around the corner. Open mine eyes Lord, let me see all the beauty that surrounds me. Beauty that you prepared for mine eyes to behold. How you made each flower unique but in a way that I see beauty and not disordered random design. Thank you God for each miracle. Amen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Searching

I walked through cities passing factories, in thick smog, dim lights searching,
Over fields of sweet young green corn with a sharp slap from coldest east wind,
Through fickleness of uncertainty of climates looking high and low not finding,
Blaming seasons for standing up to their ancient character but feeling let down.

Asking men of science, literature, and enterprises many questions for my search,
Walking through heavy snows and shivering winds blowing icy sleet on black days,
Talking to country people interrogating all that I meet asking the same of each,
Nobody can explain or answer my question satisfactorily even as I shout in rage.

Cold as these winds are I bluster onwards there must be an answer come what will,
Over freezing meadows so cold the grass cracks with every footstep I have to know,
Standing on top of the highest hills for hours looking far into the distant lands,
Running alongside rushing rivers following the cold bright sunlight to places new.

My hand shielding my eyes and tears from blinding brightness ran down my cheeks,
A sparkle in the far off distance, so many miles away on a flat horizon was hope,
I ran with the winds through leafless forests, gnarled knotted branches creaking,
There I found my peace, natures garden, standing under pear blossom white as snow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Rainy Day

Heavy winds roared and ripped around the thatch on the roof, leaving gaps,
Some glass in the windows began to rattle and shake, the storm has arrived,
Doors rattled loud it was like a madman at the door using logs to break in.
Leaves danced around the garden and some papers flew into the troubled air,

The day was as dark, lightning as bright as any flashlight, set the scene,
Grey clouds touched the ground air heavy with torrential showers of rain,
Everything outside was soaking wet, ruined or needed allot of attention,
Clothes flying off washing lines like kites or rag dolls swirling up high.

Lightning flashed again and the field and woods could be seen as a snapshot,
Farm animals are scared and dogs barking at the thunder and the falling rain,
And birds flying off for shelter near by waiting for a break to catch worms,
The storm lashed, water flowing down sides of roads and flooding drain holes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FOXTAIL TRAILS

BY LYDIA BRESCIA JULY 2011


FOXTAIL TRAILS

THE GENTLE WIND TOUCHES FOXTAILS OUTLINING THIS COUNTRY ROAD.
THEY GLISTEN WITH SUNLIGHT POINTING OUT A DIRECTION YET UNTRIED.

LIFE BECKONS LIKE THAT, TO THE UNBEATEN PATH, TO SEE IF WE GET BY
GENTLE URGES ARE TAPPING US, TO SEE IF WE CAN DROP OUR WORRIES AND FLY
.
FOXTAILS HAVE A BAD REP. THEY COME IN SOFT N GREEN, GLIMMERING IN THE SUN
AND BURN, PRICKLY IN THEIR OLD AGE. 

NEXT THING YOU KNOW AN UNSUSPECTING ANIMAL HAPPILY GOES BY AND FOXTAIL JUMPS AND HITCHES A RIDE!  THE ANIMAL STOPS AND THUMPS UPON ITS’ RUMP 
TO SCRATCH THAT FOXTAIL AWAY…WHEREUPON THAT FOXTAIL BURROWS IN THE GROUND TO SLEEP AND DREAM OF ITS’ ONE WONDERFUL RIDE!.  

IN THE SPRING A SOFT GENTLE RAIN AWAKENS FOXTAIL   FROM  ITS’ DREAM,  IT GROWS AND GROWS AND POINTS  IT’S TOES AND STICKS ITS’ HEAD IN THE WIND !

BY LYDIA BRESCIA JULY 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wooden Beast

A wooden beast does not bleed
Yet the flesh attached streams.

If the sun disappeared
The beast would surely float

On the blue green waves rushing 
Towards you and me, frothing

Picking up seashells, tossing
Into the air, and way out

To where edge of grey sky
Cloaks the world forever


Details | Prose Poetry | |

wind dance


I thought I saw the wind blow, saw it stop, turn and look back on its work. It let out a sigh of relief on a job well done. I thought I saw it smile with immense satisfaction at the destruction in its wake after a whirlwind. I thought I heard its laugh its joy when it was in a good mood after kissing the hot parched people and plants through a cool breeze.  It groaned unsatisfied when it whistled and none came out to welcome the approaching rain storm. Yes the wind speaks, laughs cry’s yet above all you feel its loneliness in its silence and solitude as it roams to and fro upon the earth with no resting place. Does it not weary of its constant roaming? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Alone

When skies are bluer than ever before
and clouds disappear from sight
I am alive
When thunderstorms flash white
and the rains come
I am alone
When daffodils burst forth from the snow
and crocus peep through
I am alive
When winter cold and trees barren
and leaves lie on frozen floor
I am alone
I want to face life's storms
with friends who hold my hand
and family who clearly states,
"You are not alone"
Then, I will live.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Time

Cold commercial relics of industrial production;
As if production could harness the complex origin of pre-classic contemporaries.
Master’s of earthly arts and masonry,
Their blood and fears culminating in celestial creations of historic proportions;
Over vastly constricting landscapes.

I send phalanges of lost connection,
Deep past the ordinary boundaries of normal paths.
The sandy soil nourishes my calloused souls.
At night it soothes and refreshes the canyons between cracked and missing digits.

Frogs echo through the expansive night sky.
Resonating between the stars, and returning in an extremely complex yet simple pattern, 
their message is sent.
Louder with each chirp and bellow, subtle patterns illuminate the differences in each response.

The spring has come.  
Time to refresh the foot’s connection with continual movement.
Let your bellow dig deep to the soil of space’s horizons,
And return rooted in the rhythm of earth’s timing.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cloudburst

 In the black dirt where the worms flirt
 Trees root in the dark earth
 Fruit falls like a dead limb
 Rain pours like a soft hymn

 Boys whine, girls glow
 Ice forms as the wind blows
 The corn tilts, the hills moan
 The sky hides as the rocks groan

 Reeds sway, dogs bay
 A hungry beast enchants its prey
 The fog blurs, the grass stirs
 And through the mist the moon returns

 And where a tired body bends
 To taste a running stream
 A flood of pounding hailstones rends
 What rain and wind sweep clean

 Written by © Raven Drake


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PARTS OF YOU

UNINTEGRATED YOU

Hello parts of you,
I can see you’re 
Standing, wondering and
Pondering the use of limbs 
That would caress and 
Enclose or
Push away
And urge the many
To the fray
Where horses
Fire manes and 
Whips 
Lost in canyons
Of misty delusions
Turn in the dark and 
Huddle together,
Waiting for a 
Rider whose 
Mind is set on
A path definitive.
Yet the froth on
The coats of 
Tiresome colts 
Say something else,
And look 
To golden afternoon light,
Stop for a moment, 
Breath all steamy and rising,
Before gambolling away 
Into the early night,
Spirits unbridled and 
Tempers alight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Under the Moon and Stars

Camping in a beautiful green glade on a warm June night the darkness was total,
Every place and scene on this still and thoughtful night unlocked it's essence,
Every spot has its own sentiment and each one with a rich and peculiar perfume,
The leafy scent of trees the smell of forest turf an earthy odor  deep and rich.

Caught on a light breeze was the fragrant breath of sweetbrier natures perfume,
We had the delicious effusion from a clover or bean-field a lingering fragrance, 
At our canvas tent we had the warm rich smell of peat on a red glowing wood fire,
A smell that tells you that it is the end of the day so just rest, talk and enjoy,

We could hear crickets that singing in the hedge surrounding the dark leafy glade,
A night thrush in an old elm that over canopies our tent, silhouetted by the moon,
There is a balmy softness in the air and the other trees stand in shadowy masses,
These shadowy masses seem to listen to the still and musing black skies above them.

Near is a soft gloom beneath umbrageous hedges, how soft, beautiful is a June night,
What can equal this pleasant feeling in this dark camp the smell of burning meths's,
The moon beams down like a celestial creature the evening stars burns with radiance,
As I lay in my sleeping bag and shut my weary old eyes this moment will last forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love

He looked at her like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time and instinctively he knew that he loved her far more than anything else on this earth and far beyond anything in the sky. He never knew that beauty captivated the body in order to obtain permission to flicker its light unto the soul. He said unto himself: "When the feeling for beauty happens to be associated with the sight of some human being, the transference of love is made possible" and he smiled.

"It is all the beauty of the world" he exclaimed, "it is universal beauty, for which we all long". As he glanced at her ever long and bade her a smile like no other, she took his hand and filled the spaces between her fingers with his, and they both smiled when she realised that their hands were perfectly matched and divinely foretold in the stars. At that moment he knew that the heart and the seed remind us that the art of falling leads to something astoundingly beautiful. To love for the sake of being loved is rather human, but to love for the sake of loving is something altogether rapturous.

He peered within this new sunset and he comprehended all the secrets of the universe in his new found love. He realised that romance is a thing of beauty and she is love's perfect accompaniment. He no longer needed to call unto the heavens for love when he realised that her heart shared precious parallels with the shimmer; mother nature’s dance with the stream. 

He looked into her eyes and saw all the universe's dreams sweetly glistening back at him and he said unto her: "As men, we are told that to make women fall in love with us we must make them laugh, but every time you laugh I fall in love with you all over again"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last of the Frost

On a cold April morning the fields and meadows twinkle and sparkle in a low morning sun,
As cold as the east winds are thick frost glitters from the frozen moisture on the grass,
A lilac stands bold and uncaring it's so fresh and green, thick and bushy very beautiful,
It's no longer clustered with mere buds but flushed with half unclosed snow white leaves,
I stand by this brave little flower the bunches of future blossoms are all there to see.

As the lilac shivers in these early spring mornings it waits patiently for some friends,
A little yellow rose peep out from hard frozen ground, then out she comes for a new year,
The bursting blossoms of an old pear tree gives a lavish promise of beautiful sweet fruit,
And the rose bushes, not only have new leaves but very long red shoots, this chilly April,
A syringa is fully dressed in its pale green leaves, amid them, the buds hang abundantly.

Once again the taccamahac is studded with yellow aromatic and sticky leaves out in the cold,
I walk along the plantations and in the fields, large gummy buds appear from chestnut trees,
They're swelling, bursting out impatiently brightening the wood side, in a bright sunlight,
As they look up towards the cold sun they find a little bit of heat in the suns golden rays,
Even hedges have patches of green spreading in a biting east wind that nips ears and noses.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daffodil

Early in the spring the variable winds and rains fall heavy on grass meadows,
Adding a spring in the turf, waking the mosses on stone walls and stone paths
Purple stems of woodspurge hang in the wet winds with its pale green flowers,
Ancient orchards left unattended have gnarled twisted trees with sour apples,
These grounds are bestrewed with the whitest of violets, a carpet of beauty.

But there are other flowers that have been out in colder, hard bitter weather
The humble daffodil has been plucked and strewed by children for generations,
A beautiful old English flower which belongs in village gardens and commons,
The old daffodil is one the hardiest flowers it grows anywhere and everywhere,
In box hedges, neglected arbours of alleys, hard rugged moorlands and glades.


Daffodils in desolation grow long after the planters hand has turned to dust,
Buried deep in disused graveyards, overgrown with nettles and thorny bushes
And dwellings around it have fallen to decay with passing of many hard years,
Even the other flowers that have grown nearby have been cleaned, swept away,
Outlasting memories that have perished along with families of old homesteads,


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wayside Walk

Ocean gales and tidal shift
Pounding 
Basalt and sandstone mountains
Boulders 
Rocks tumble into pebbles
Mighty trees 
Uproot and splinter in Neptune's fury
Under my feet,  
Crumbled remains of life 
Ground to dust by the unrelenting ocean
Walking barefoot on tiny shards of glass


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Beautiful Flower

If one could be a beautiful flower
How would they spend their day
Would they blossom in the adulation
That many others may send its way

Would its spirit nourish the hearts
Of those who are blessed to see
The color of its very lovely soul
And its wonderful endearing vibrancy

Or would it shun the light that comes
From the brilliance of a new Sun
Shying away from its special gift
To make a day better for someone

For though it may seem its true beauty
Quickly vanishes over a very short time
I find true value in its enchanting embrace
I'll forever admire in my heart and mind.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Petals

A handful of petals
Scattered through the air
Sent with a smile
Watched with a prayer
Each took a seperate path
Gathering it's own triumphs and trials
Many wilted,many died
Leaving dead a part of life not to be
Friendship so like the petals
So many start, so many there
So many letdowns, so many tears
I've wished upon so many petals
But more are buried beneath the dirt
Buried beneath the tears, buried beneath the hurt
Yet, one still gently drifts in the breeze
One beautiful, fair, graceful
Coming to rest, it begins to bloom
Filling the air with sweet, fragrant perfume
But to no surprise is this fragrance oh so sweet
For all of nature knows
There's nothing sweeter than a rose


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Close to nature

Close to nature 
Away from the screens. 
In a farm, 
He was wandering
Around greenery and water. 
Take ideas and concerns and suspicions 
Away from this scene
Then 
The beauty of nature 
Dwell quietly into oneself.
Refraction of sunlight early morn 
Creek on the current water 
Brooklet 
And the sound of birds 
The grass here and there 
Some of florid blossoms 
Swaying left and right
In a lightness 
Peace! 
Joy with calm 
Meditate on nature!  
The contemplation of nature always 
Grants & bliss the soul.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pathway

Tall thin pine trees swaying in the wind 
Sunlight breaking through the narrow gap 
Distant green-capped fields the morning find 
Discarded over there, a branch with sap

Yonder, redundant teacher prunes his tree
Still an intellectual without a class 
Had a dream of one day being free 
And now believes that life is crass

Lonely dog prowls around his den 
Tied to his post without a walk 
Why should God's creature be kept therein 
What would he say if he could talk

White butterflies have crowded round the bush 
What do they know that I do not 
The hedgerows coloured and full of lush 
Nature's stories we have all forgot

We all believe the pathway long 
And suddenly we glimpse the sight of age 
Why have we neglected nature's song 
From this day I will turn a new page

Reflect you well on life, on pain 
Started well with hope and joy 
Life is witness to wealth and gain 
But is a failure were dreams to die


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Springtime Interlude

Slowly I am drifting, fluttering across a lush and green meadow, 
seeking out the life giving nectar of your flower. 
Your ruby red pedals spread wide and inviting, 
anticipating my arrival. 

Gently I land upon your silken but firm pedal. 
I kiss you softly as I move slowly across your surface 
towards the soft and sensual spot 
that hides your precious gift. 

Caressing and probing with maddening desire 
I thrust inside you.
Overwhelmed with ecstasy and pleasure 
I drink the delectable essence of your being.
 
I drink your life giving juices 
until I am drunk with your intoxicating liquid 
and can no longer feel the wings upon my back. 
I pull away to recover my senses. 

Slowly I regain control 
and caress you softly with my pollen covered hands 
then bid you farewell. 
As I lift away with sadness in my heart 
I am comforted to know 
that I will find you again next spring.   


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Strenght

A warrior, a man of integrity and honour will bow to his enemies some see that as a weakness,
He has respect for all, as we live together, on this isolated planet far away from the stars,
His beliefs are not shared by all, some think their existence much more important than others,
What makes these men better men is it wealth or power, are they lost in righteous indignation.

The warrior asks for nothing he has simple joys and lives a life that does not effect others,
He has strength to show weakness that is real power, real courage, and bow down to ignorance,
His life is his own life and he scatters petals in the wind and enjoys them as they fly high,
They are so beautiful as they rain back to earth a pink snow storm on a brilliant spring day.

He is as tender as nature, nature can show kingcups as perfect blazing plots of living gold,
And listens to the cry of a woodpecker the harsh tunes of jay birds the dusky squawks of rooks,
Watching bees hovering into the bells of flowers, making sunshiny hums in springs happiness,
And he watches over the green fields men, women and children livening and working a landscape.

When he is called he has no fear and listens to the nightingales with their songs of sadness,
Through dark green grasses feeling the whip of the stems on his knees careful of wild flowers,
Shepherds lead their flocks to fallow fields to graze on sweeter grass they follow each other,
The warrior takes these memories with him to God knows where and as nature he can be a storm.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Addicted

My life has dumps and learning experience
and pain but 
I had grown to understand that 
                             this is not the end
I feel that I answer a question 
that's been bothing me for so
                                     long
now my life is smooth 
and almost all
right
now I have 
to heal this 
feeling that

spreads poison inside
bring back that power
 
and marvelous feelings 
that I once had for
                    me love stills a beautiful thing
its not hormlous its lovelous with addiction still
at harmful recovery 

body so a mude to the actions you
serve 

my thinking is you
and my body craved for
you my lips less tasteful
my heart is fighting every man that come close
 to the heart I shared with you
bring back you give me back what I need and thats 
you that keep my soul, world and life alive


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Garden Club Ruse part 1 of 2

For years no one ever had a clue...
Of the secret she hid..no one knew..
The child inside her never shed a tear...
Although she lived everyday with fear...
She grew up never knowing what love was...
Till that fateful day, when he met him on the bus..
He was tall and handsome and had a great smile...
Knew all the words making her feel worthwhile...
They fell in love and soon were married...
And that’s when things changed...the love got buried..
The days were long and the nights were lonely...
They seldom spoke, and if only...
She hadn’t seen that ad...this never would have happened..
Join the Garden Club today and...
 wipe all your cares away 
There’s more to this story..I must conceive...
So please follow this sequel and I believe....
You will stop and think of the words I wrote...
And perhaps even take your own personal note....
	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

moments for nature

 
Sunset skies drape silken ribbons of red yellow orange pink, bleeding  
Crayola colors swirling on the watery surface of Summer’s sweet dreaming.  
    
The soft velvet lips of the kissed red rose closes, bending before the night.  
Winds race billowy white bursts across the chilled blue of Fall and the birds take flight.  
    
Ice drips along the crooked edges of the stripped branches, stark against smudged grey,  
They are carved black silhouettes fingering the bone white of winter’s display.  
    
Earth oozes around the fertility of Spring, and the scented breezes  
Caress life as it uncoils and showers gardens that have been lovingly seeded   
    
Four seasons have passed and each one captured on an artist’s beloved canvas   
Visions to behold as if in a refracted otherworldly light stardust dances 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Man Went to Mow, Went to Mow a Meadow

Walking across dry green fields grass knee high so rich so very dark,
I lifted my scythe high and it swept over the meadow with sharp ease,
Cutting the perennial clover as it filled the air with a sweet scent,
A razor sharp scythe dropping the yellow goats beard and dog daisies.

The dreaded scythe chopped the chervil under hedges, trees and fences,
Next the yellow rattle, the lotus and beautiful quake-grass and poas,
The day moved on quickly so down went the fescues and rough cocksfoot,
In the rank grounds, the wild oats and darnels by the small waysides.

Nothing would be left as the red pensile panicles and covered foxtails,
The timothy fell with their spikes on the edge of shaded wood forests,
And the light air-grass and the purple burnet all through the meadows,
I took my shirt off the twig of a tree and me and the scythe went home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Man went to Mow went to Mow a Meadow

Walking across dry green fields grass knee high so rich so very dark,
I lifted my scythe high and it swept over the meadow with sharp ease,
Cutting the perennial clover as it filled the air with a sweet scent,
A razor sharp scythe dropping the yellow goats beard and dog daisies.

The dreaded scythe chopped the chervil under hedges, trees and fences,
Next the yellow rattle, the lotus and beautiful quake-grass and poas,
The day moved on quickly so down went the fescues and rough cocksfoot,
In the rank grounds, the wild oats and darnels by the small waysides.

Nothing would be left as the red pensile panicles and covered foxtails,
The timothy fell with their spikes on the edge of shaded wood forests,
And the light air-grass and the purple burnet all through the meadows,
I took my shirt off the twig of a tree and me and the scythe went home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Caution : NRA Possibility

Walking through the woods early in the day...

Haven’t seen a single soul passing my way...

All set to hunt as, I bought the latest gear....

On this the first hunting day of the year.....

It isn’t too cold but there’s a bit of snow...

So footprints will tell me where to go...

I can track by smell....

And I’ve been told pray tell....

That Man is getting smarter every single year..

Which means a lot... to my friends in here...

But now here’s the twist of this little ditty...

I’ve never lived or been to the city....

But trust me.. cause when I’m done..

And this is all in fun...by the end of Fall....

I’ll have a gorgeous blonde six footer ... a hanging on MY wall....
  
*** Just a thought...NRA = Natural Roaming Animal....
       or Nasty Reindeer Association.......hmmmm


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunshine By WLM November 25, 2008

Sunshine
11-25-08
William L. Moore

Outside the sun is grand
In which I love to stand
Soaking up all the rays
Hope it stays this way for days

The breeze is cool
Like a shining Jewel 
The noise is so quiet
You wish you could buy it 

How heavenly I feel
It tis the real deal
The beauty abounds
As I walk around

The planes fly high
In the deep blue sky
Marking their time
Just follow the line

The tall trees that show
Will continue to grow
And are the trees we love to see
Glory Be!  We will jump up with Glee!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Finding Innocence in the Laughter That Escapes Pillowcases.

Behind the sun, with a little bit of assuredness, I saw the shades of his smile
swing toward the moon...
and I cursed six p.m. In a voice that hid the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
when I wore my shoes underneath the shadows of stars and in the feel of his lips
when sixteen is innocent despite the cold exposure
of skin.


I wonder if he knows I whisper to him in his sleep, my promises slipping underneath the
blanket he holds tight around him,
and feathers escape pillowcases when I laugh,
they tickle toes and dissolve the taste of fear
as my tongue finds the outline of his lips after the sun falls down and his
smile
is apparent.


I tidy myself up on Mondays, and wreck the idea of perfection with my curls...
I wear jeans that smudge mountains across back pockets and imagine how the hem of my
burgandy dress would fall across chilled creek splashed rocks,
I wonder if I'd be able to stay pretty when my hands fall into mud and the wind attacks my
cheeks...
but he smiles, you see, when the sun falls...
he smiles when I change my clothes...
and he kisses me when my curls detest reality and Monday smirks at the idea of cleanliness
as my imagination drowns hems and rips fabric.


So I kick off my shoes with the idea that my toes can taste Tuesday and my feet can squash
the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
and revel in innocence as I discover
the cold exposure
of skin.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THAT OTHER CHURCH

People rushing ~ church on the corner
being on time ~ sits empty all week,
I walk there, around the building
new parking lot ~ I could roller skate!

My friend, she attends, I used to
remembering my legacy, as a kid
big Cathedral, choirs, altar boys
family reunions ~ stock principles!

It was strong, loud voices, even then
finding cars in parking lot,
the War (the big one) was ended
we forgot strife ~ remembered being together!

Years past ~ family almost gone
a survivor, Son who doesn't worship,
go to Church ~ big oil company employee
taking over U. S., ruining waters!
`
And I fight back, Nebraska midwest,
where once we fought & stood together
now land marks are at stake
not just church worship!

But it seems demeaning, churches full on Sunday,
Then fighting for land, water quality
why doesn't big Pharm and Ag pray with us,
we won the big one!

Why are we fighting them now,
equal rights for nature, God at rest,
maybe picture changes overnight,
Nostradamus gone mad from insight!

Are end times just a vision
land at stake ~ churches empty
and it's still a social issue,
politics and presidents ~ never good enough!

One man, putting his life at stake
used to advisors, good and bad,
is anyone's conscience driven back to God
Every day ~ every way!

Or is it ~ just that other church 
~ they're in the way!






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shall we e'er be one like the moon

My love I know not where you be
nor if you love me verily.
I only know you like me now
for the moment, this present time
till we part ways like loving clouds
that drift apart in the wide sky.
Shall we e'er be one like the moon,
our hearts firmly together, our boon?
I hope so, for you are my dreams.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons of no reasons

seasons have became with no reasons,
looking at the light of the sun in winter and rainy clouds in summer,
I start to ask myself why all this?
perfect silence I tune into as I start to realize seasons do not exist anymore,
the temperature of earth has changed into a really confused state,
natural life is dying infront of our eyes!,
we still don't even do anything about it!,
big pain I start to feel in my heart,
as I realize we are destroying the tree of life and the spark of natural goodness from our creator, God Itself.,

The colorful fruit starts to become the rotten fruit,
the green trees start to become the black trees,
every natural thing starts to turn into dust!.,

The color of our planet starts to change,
everything starts to fade as the procession of the spiritual revelation starts to get deeper.,

The human being starts to feel sorrowfulness down the pipe of its life!,
as it realizes that only trying to find meaning for it's life is causing others to suffer,
thus their is no meaning for it's existence,
thy to bond & share with others by experiencing oneness it would find meaning.,

Meaning of it's existence would be valid as it is being what it had to be and thats the guardian & true parent of it's species just by becoming selfless,
transcending to us all where we would be experiencing the wisdom of true love as one sequence elevating towards resurrecting the formulation of our divinity.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alabama Snow

The long never ending landscape of southern Alabama never runs cold. Today it decided to. The wind was at 
ease and all the snow flakes were about. The cold ground shuddered beneath me but I could tell it was a good 
kind of shiver. The snow fell down in a hurry yet it still took it's time swaying in the wind. All the snowflakes 
danceing around soon started a low tune far off on the wind. The band played a song that the world has been 
playing for centerys. One of love and peace. One that has no bounds or experation date. The song was cold 
enough to freeze the earth but here I stood warm as I basked in my happieness. The world seemed still as the 
orchestra played it's beautiful tune. The wind swirling and twirling as if it were a finely tuned violin. I couldn't 
bare to close my eyes for it was just to beautiful to look away from. As the wind picked up in it's gusts the 
snow felt ever so heavier and the skys begain to melt the love within the snow as all the snowflakes fell down 
as rain. "What a beautiful conversion" crossed my thaughts. The snowed over feild grew dreadfully quiet as the 
beautiful tune escaped into the wind. This was when I sudenly realized I was soaked and freezing. Almost killed 
me but I steped inside away from the Alabama snow. But I knew she'd come back for me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunshine By WLM November 25, 2008

Outside the sun is grand
In which I love to stand
Soaking up all the rays
Hope it stays this way for days

The breeze is cool
Like a shining Jewel 
The noise is so quiet
You wish you could buy it 

How heavenly I feel
It tis the real deal
The beauty abounds
As I walk around

The planes fly high
In the deep blue sky
Marking their time
Just follow the line

The tall trees that show
Will continue to grow
And are the trees we love to see
Glory Be!  We will jump up with Glee!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Day in the Country

Lost in a beautiful garden that stretched far into the perfect turquoise horizon,
Amazed at the smells, the beauty with the breeze singing through blossomy trees
The cherry blossom danced in a light wind lifted it off boughs swirling in the air,
Sun shining through budding branches, shadows of mighty oak trees black on green

A haunting tune from the star in the meadows a nightingale sang to his loved one,
His song filled the air over water mead's nearby, and floated through great woods,
A trickling stream flowed with golden water running and leaping to a noble river,
Last years fallen crisp brown red leaves floated off on a journey to a noble river.

Listening to a nightingales opera warming the hardest heart it floats in the wind,
Then when it does not seem possible to hear a better sound the bird changes pitch,
While it sings sweetly the rest of the grasslands are silent, proud and respectful,
As no other voice can match the wonderful tune that rings through heaths and dales.

In the distance there were some landmarks that were familiar so now I was not lost,
I spotted a butcher-bird, cockchafer in the warm woods as I stood on spongy turf,
Saxifrage in the meadow as I walked out from the wood into brilliant May sunshine,
Far in the distance a horn sounded to tell workers their work was done and go home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

3Fable5

 3Fable5 
3Fable5 
 
Winter Survival 
 
CharlaxFabels 
 
In the Winter of 83 they used to tell me stories the snow was over the telephone 
lines and they rode horses there and walked them OVER the lines see eh? Oh 
ewe beware the stories of men and read only the charlaxfabels over and over 
again. The worst one was back in 2005 the snow was four feet deep they took 
machetes and tore my roof off my survival tent. 
1 Peter 3:9 
 Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this 
you were called so that you may inherit a blessing. 
Eye moved my shelter somehow avoiding a fight and learned just to survive 
survival is eating food. Men eat and fight and eating becomes the more important 
of the two what kind of neighbor would eye be if eye had fought with thee and not 
learned the Golden Rule. Eye lived several different lifetimes sack lunches do not 
suffice to rule the hunger in one man. Once eye was worried for existence 
seeming Death was at my door. Women thought me evil not suited up just for 
they love. Fruit is not my forte orange apple even pomegranate found 
persimmons rot on vines in trees not meant to live. Eye ate so many meats they 
kicked me out of storeage land and chased me from the parking lot with nothing 
in my hand. Potatoes is a fruit and not a veggie in my world. Golden throbbing 
corn is afforded to the poor ed.note @39 cents a can at most retail outlets. 
Hominy both gold and white is my favorites. Eye just decided to detective the 
students many behavioral ways and iff eye had three classes in the afternoon 
even if they were staggered over SIX hours the eye would not be in the library 
more than thirty minutes at a time. Be that as it may or as it were the ending is 
the same eye am a student of life. Walk in an endless path with snow up to the 
waisted place then dry the socks in bags and tie them to the feet and hope the 
dry will stay to un rot the flesh and hope the shoes will work and not develop 
sticheing of the holes in the side of doors and tankards full of glass. Coyboy is 
the last to understand a memory taken in the hand. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hot Summer

Over writing, reading is a joy
I saw a mirage that I thought
Was a water!  Summer time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AT THE DAWN OF SUN SET

                                              Golden glow glazing 
                                             in scattering dark fogs
                                            shimmering sea dances 
                                   along with the sweet sounds of tide
                             huge elephants hill standing silently near by
                                         sandy sea shore welcomes 
                                 the emerald moon and twinkling stars 
                                            at the dawn of sun set


Details | Prose Poetry | |

May

May is like a good friend when she turns up we are glad and we have good times,
She is dressed in so many colors as if she has swallowed the arc of a rainbow,
She is like a photo album with colorful flowers, rich green grass and blue sky,
Magnificent pictures the earth is her garden, her trees snow white in blossom,
Her artwork is deep and profound while her canvases are painted for all to see.

She has many bottles of perfume all taken from carpets and myriads of flowers,
She throws her perfume high into the air and it is caught by warm soft breezes,
Essences ride across the land on a spring morning the start of a beautiful day,
And her sun shines, watery in a turquoise cloudless sky, her smile is dazzling,
A dazzling smile, the most beautiful ever seen, we just stand and stare in awe,


Her eyes radiate sunbeams she looks onto hidden valley's and gives bright light,
Looks into dark corners she delivers the brightest sunshine of fluorescent gold,
The gold is so rich, flowers lean towards that golden beacon, their petals open,
Her radiance makes patterns on soft forest floors and springs sparkle and ripple,
Dormant winter creatures awake from long slumbers, they nod to the forest queen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Listen to Nature at Night

How delightful is the softest sound of a clear and starry summer's night,
You may hear a moth bashing up against a cottage window pane near a lamp,
If you listen really hard you can hear him amongst the many garden leaves,
A boom as the soaring cockchafer passes your ear, into the flowery lime.

The smallest runnel murmurs aloud as do the far rivers over the green downs,
The frogs deep in the marshes sound like they are turning a thousand wheels,
And the dorhawk, the cuckoo and the nightingale sing from meadows far away,
Quails pipe from the ripe green corn, curlews from the far away moorlands.

The sound of a little owl, hooting, he is small, smaller than the blackbird,
He hunts for food in the twilight of the evening, mewing shrilly like a cat,
The little owl lands in a back lawn, and his head swivels like a corn wheel,
It's a fierce little bird and will rid a garden of mice, rats and small birds.

The flowers are in the fields, scabious, companula, glomerata and some thrift,
The flowers in our gardens are borage, phlox, day-lily, gladiolas and many more,
Grasses that make mowing grass beautiful are perennial clover and goats beard,
Filling the air with sweetness that will make you heady and happy, great days.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Styles Old Smiles

One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.

In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.

As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.

He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.

In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.

He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"The Snakes"

The Snakes are moving to Washington,
where they'll buy real estate and visit
the Smithsonian,
They'll set up a residence next to the President,
trying very hard to be his best friend,
Mrs. Snake will befriend the children and the First Lady,
but their motives will be quite shady,

The Snakes are getting ready to make their move,
with their spyware and smoothe grooves,
part of their plan is to win over Capitol Hill
so they can make their "Big Kill",

The Snakes are coming!
slithering slowly,
when their cover gets exposed,
things are going to get ugly!

They will sneak in the nooks and crannies,
They may even try to upset Granny,
but they are coming in disguise,
while their daggers are traveling behind in the skies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Final Fire In the Hall of The Mountain King

Sweet were the days though too few in number
When dread was lain over all tomorrows
By those whom upon the Rod of Asclepius swore
Sending him to seek solace
And pass by unseen
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

A blue star burned cold upon his brow
In the darkness to proclaim his coming
To this place he claimed
As the home of his heart
To play his part in this most sacred scene
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Alone he arrived 
To no greeting or welcome
But gladness filled him all-the-same
No company would be kept
For this final thing
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

There were no songs in the Hall
No one to sing
Of loves lost or left behind
Succored and scoured
By compulsive dream
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

No proof against arms was his armor
Though many times it had saved him
Against ravage and rage of weather
Their service no longer in need
He laid them before him in offering
To the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Although weakened, quickly he kindled 
The first glowing embers
Coached them and coaxed them
So fragile and nascent 
Till they brought into being
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

His presence in this hostile home
Alone would suffice
No grief-stricken children
Or wailing of women
No beeps or buzzes of cold machines
Only the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

He dreamt of the First Dawn of his absence
And was surprised it weighed nothing
Against the many that he was graced to see
Contentedly he caressed them
Comfortable in his memory
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King.

His star dimmed slowly before the First Dawn
With dignity dwindled the last flickering flames 
As cold grew the King 
On his throne of Stone
Set free near the ashes 
Of The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Then Alpenglow burst the first rays of day
Round the only monument 
To a life lived like lightning burst forth from the storm
So proud stood the peak 
Glad alone to have seen
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Butterfly

One of the Gods great creation I've seen On the flowers, rifting across the sky. She glides, she dives Fluttering along the sky. She flutters and flies, dances And glides and again dives. Her wings are most beautiful, Graceful, varied and enchanting. Colored wings that catch the eye Shine just like sunlight rays. Eyes sparkle as the stars Kisses the petals of flowers. Flirting outrageously with Each and every flower, The delicacy of her wings Can defeat a beautiful teen girl. She, Thou beauteous thing, Gambol over the flowers To sip the nectar. I've seen the Gods great creation.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Woods

The Woods
11-29-08
By
William L. Moore
For
William McCracken Milroy

In the woods the trees so tall
Mourning birds begin to call
Waiting for the break of day
Scattering seed where it may lay

From the little wooden basket
Which resembles a tiny casket
As far as it may be seen
The willowy grass so green

The leafy branches may break or bend
But in the time it takes to mend
Grow roots so straight and  true
Forever catching all the dew

So straight, so true, so strong
At which they do belong
Keeps us all on our toes
So we should always know

The trees so full of Dove
Cooing of their love
Always will return to dust
This great earth belongs to us

After the end
We will begin again

Uncle Bill
This was written
When I thought
Of the Farm west of 
Okmulgee, Oklahoma


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Big Foot

The great Oregon forest is Big Foot territory, the Sashquash. His image may be seen 
or imagined through the tall timbers. My friend and I strayed from the foot path at 
midday while exploring. We were joking with each other about being attacked by Big 
Foot. The verdant forest was cool with the smell of pine, quite divine. The meditative 
influence of the forest soon relaxed us into silence. Trees seemed to communicate 
their thoughts as we mentally conversed. Suddenly we heard a guttural sound before 
we saw him through the pines. A hairy body, maybe seven to eight feet tall, stopped 
his search for food. He looked up as he heard us gasp and we began to run for our 
lives. He began to chase after us as our feet flew and fear gripped our hearts. 
Looking behind us while still running, there was no longer any sign of him. We ran for 
half a mile until we felt safe enough to slow our pace. Hugging each other in great 
relief of our escape, we were still trembling. All that was left was to tell our 
incredible story that no one believed.


for Act 1, Scene 1 contest by
A Rambling Poet

A true account


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tsunami

the sea with one sweep of its tides 	
rises towards the sky 	
a great shifting of the sand as it slides 	
away from where the sleeping lie 	
	
the thickening seam of the edge of the earth 	
widens, like spilled blue black ink spreads 	
darkens the dawn as some begin to stir 	
their dreams fading and loosening like the skin a snake sheds 	
	
they rise to nourish the land 	
they give to a beggar's hand 	
yet the morning is black, no view of the sun 	
waves rush forward, asking of anyone 	
who might dare who might dare 
	
on the surface of the waters 	
a silver sliver of light, 	
although a bloodless slaughter 	
turned day into night	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovely Birds Life

Birds are happy pleased I swear
They are satisfied 
Homes in the trees
Early in the morn, hungry they go
At sunset, full they come
Every day is a festival
They talk birdsong
Daytime among verdure and flowers
Raindrops their showers
Sleeping on time
Healthy they are
No impression nor vigil
Marriage in a minute
No money
No mine nor yours
Just fly to get things
All things are free
The land is wide
The sky is wider
Wake up and fly! 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I know why you weep

willow, willow, 
why do you weep?
peering out of the fog,
swaying in the breeze.
mysterious in your beauty,
delicate arms brush the ground,
making ripples in the standing water,
the puddles down below.
sun filters through the branches,
light and soft,
dappling the grass below.
your a peaceful soul,
shy and whimsical,
waiting for acceptance.

willow, willow,
I know why you weep...
in the shadows in the fog,
alone you stand. 
through the fog your somber form is feared.
'stay away from the willow'
they whisper.
'with its arms so low,
ready to reach out and grab.'
you just wish to be seen,
how i can see you.
so still you wait,
with your misunderstood soul,
for the day you no longer weep.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Land of The Living

Face the west. 
Face the stone and turn your back on your chains.

A wraith you arrived, but now life overflows with every ragged breath.

Let your heart brim with resolve, your eyes with the mountain and wake from the dream.

Your legs be your escape, fill them with your ambition. 
Bend the world on it’s side with your will and ascend Jacob’s Ladder.

Gently kindle the cold flame of fear to lend your hand a mighty aspect, and squeeze life itself from the ancient stone.

A hold secure -- your anchor to the living, relinquished reluctantly for another a little further up.

Ascend till the mountain speaks: "No higher can I bear you mortal." "Take your prize and share this lonely view with me awhile."

Pride swells as the turn of your head commands reality's scope.

This is your Triumph. 
The summit -- your chariot. 
The wind -- your anthem. 
The mountain -- your charioteer, whispers: "Memento Mori."

A few moments of freedom and then like the doppleganger of all western heroes, face the east, turn your back to the setting sun and descend.

The journey is only half finished. Bear out your exhausted dounemount to it's conclusion and reluctantly leave the land of the living.

Home is a place you can only visit between your slumbers.
God preserve me in my sleep that I might wake once more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Has Spring Sprung

Can't seem to get off to sleep tonight, thoughts buzzing around my old head,
It's dark and quiet, the cat has gone out and the street lights have gone out too,
The odd car passes by maybe coming home from friends or a night on the town,
Could be on the way back from a restaurant a Chinese, or picking up family?

Looking at the calender I see we are getting into mid March and days are longer,
Could it be that the winter has lost its sharp teeth and the might of frosts gone,
A thousand welcomes to Spring but it cannot bring back youth or thicken my hair,
Or enable us to offer the first gathered violets to dear souls in their heavens.

The fowled of the farm yard lay, the pheasants crow in the copse the ring dove coos,
The linnet and the gold finch sing while man looks to fences and drains and water levels,
Next is ploughing and sowing, pruning and planting and talking of good years gone,
Spring stirs all with her mighty influence from the depths of the soil and heart.

So spring is with us and she will throw off one dark and gloomy coat after another,
And spring will chase away winter with his hardly wrinkled face and keen eye for beauty,
It is march rough yet pleasant, vigorous and strong with hope and strength and lovely voice,
His gales will come rushing and sounding over forest and lea and shake nature wide awake.

The tacamahac shows off its long furry green catkins, the mezereon its clustered blossoms,
Then the splendid red China rose unfolds itself to the fresh air, and green pastures return,
Coltsfoot and cardamine embellish old fallows and the star of Bethlehem gleams in the woods,
Crocus spreads around like a purple flood over the old established meadows, spring is sprung.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Natures Treasures

Day lilies, dancing in a summer breeze;
orange stars against a backdrop of holly and roses; 
such pleasures cloak my garden.

Nature’s treasures are year round pleasures; 
bobbing around to wave, hello.

Springtime tulips dance with irises and poppies, 
while roses take up the slack
with hyacinths and summer straw flowers.

White yucca blooms, clad in lily-bandannas, 
stand tall beside a garden gate; 
sentries on duty.

Such treasures; colorful pleasures; 
make the heart, join in the dance.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bluebells Singing and Ringing

The chestnuts are in full flower while the sycamores are humming with bees,
Meadow grass is knee deep and full of flowers the dog rose climbs up a post,
And the cowslips sway gently like the sea in a corner of a lime green meadow,
Cowslips retire at the end of May their day is now over we say a sad goodbye.

Blackberry bushes burst into glowing white flowers protected by sharp thorns,
Grass grows higher around the hedges of the glade than any working corn field,
Sitting on a bank by a river gushing, bubbling and boiling from earlier rains,
And in the grey shrubbery a squirrel plays in the grass and two swallows sing.

Bird nests are found high in the trees and deep bushes guarded by jealous mums,
Lapsing waters and blossoms are perfect partners and sweet grasses delights all, 
The blossoms of the many apple trees change and blow away by a stiff May breeze,
Blossom floats on rushing water sailing away and swirling towards the rough sea.

The old quince is in full bloom with its pale flowers and bright yellow leaves,
The weather is warm not too hot just right for a long stroll with a midday sun,
Walk the river banks with its mustard tribes next to the mature giant colts-foot,
Wander over to a copse of trees hiding blue-bells that are singing and ringing.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fire

Fire burning bright how we take you for granted without a revelation of what you are.
Before the phrase was uttered you were there to start the beginning.
An ending to the previous flames of previous times.
Always sparking! With a passion of anger and love.
The warmth of over 10,000 years has been the same.

Some use you for love; while others use you for the cause of death.
Some deaths are noble; while others are works of those who claim nobility!
The Romans, Moors, Holy Romans and even the new world use you for wrongful reasons.
The dogmas want you to bleed with them and fight those they believe are wrong.
The real people whom are wrong are those who hinder the progress of truth with falsehoods of the past that they claim to be true.

A tribute to the dead you forth shine.
A tribute to the life of many you come as a welcome.
What would we be and where would we be without you?

Spirit of electromagnetic radiation 
What are you?
Where are you?
Are you just a combustion to us?

Regardless of your rest we still use you in a condenser. 
Always grateful and always bleak we are to you.
Coursing through our skin in the wind and snow.
Even coursing when we back off.
Except we take our extra skin off to bathe with you.

In the eyes of scholars and growing scholars the passion of you burns within them!
We hold you dear and try to uncover more of you.
The knowledge inside brings you back to the stars.
You are light and a reflection of a truth that we are constantly trying to discover.
We admire your power.
A truth you will always be.
Even in the end of the universe you will sleep; however, after a length of infinite to us you will explode into ignition.

We cry to you and ask for you to never go out?
The only hindrance to you dying in us is when we let others control us.
This is why so many have fallen.
They have lost the passion; they have loss you.
We are the children of you.
We are the children of fire.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prey for Me

I searched for you through the endless expanse of night’s long blackness, 
The shimmering light from a crescent moon offered little help in my quest for your elusive form. The pale light dimly lit inconspicuous objects and cast shadows of their beautiful contours upon the ground to thwart my pursuit at every turn. 

Radiant eyes peered at me from within the cover of darkness, 
And mysterious intonations and melodic resonance echoed into the night air, confusing my sense of direction until I was lost in a maze within your protective purlieu. 

Fighting my frustration and fear that I may never gaze upon your majestic beauty, nor hold your rapturous warm body against my cool skin, or savor the taste of you on my tongue, I gathered what was left of my strength and resolve, and continued my silent pursuit. 

Guided by my heart and uncontrollable emotions and hunger for you, I somehow broke free of the discountenance feints set upon me to mask your true course. The hunger within my heart and the vision of you brazed within my eyes, guided me toward your lingering essence and ultimately to where you now hide, deep within the confines of your sheltering den safely held tight within the cool moist earth. 

As my long sleek form slithers into your place of refuge I strike and sink my teeth deep into your neck and as my coils embrace your supple body, I am overcome with powerful emotions emanating from your very being, and at that moment I knew my hunt was not in vain. To taste your sweet flesh wound be unlike any that has ever been known between predator and prey.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SILENT CONVERSATION

Gazing over the plains nestled far below Inching our way over rock-strewn trails, The words resounding through our thoughts Keep silent...like ivy growing wild, reaching For moisture in several directions at once. The attention we give these mountains needs No conversation to make a point or hold The soul rapt with an abundance of peace. Air is as light as heaven when the nights Rehearse their lines in circles of tranquility. Silence fills the canyon walls...it is hope on a Short string tied to quiescent ambiance. Stillness settles Over us like shadows on the craggy back of Longs Peak. Watching the dawn clothe massive cairns with a purple Mountain majesty, our mute response serves only to affirm.... To speak would be a sacrilege. ****


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nature

Nature is full of colors, 
With beautiful flowers 
If you are in a forest or park 
It is nice, even in the dark 

Nature is full of happiness 
With so many shrubs 
Its mountains are very high 
They seem to touch the sky 

Nature has its deserts, 
And has its plains 
At times it is sunny 
Sometimes there are heavy rains 

Nature is so pretty 
With snow covered peaks 
When we destroy nature, remember, 
We need "Nature" for our "Future".


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Trip through Winter

Even in our winter season the soul of the coming year bursts through hard thick frost,
Even in high piles of purest white snow, buds grow for our future of the next summer,
Blow flowers stir and seeds my mind with flowers of the rarest beauty of our nature,
It is a miracle of this world a characteristic of not understanding natures jigsaws.

Every leaf every little flower and grain will enrich the earth to sustain its many needs,
It would take too long to enumerate all the flowers, buds the insects in each new year,
A Christmas rose expands its white chalice undaunted by the sharpest of crystal frosts,
It blooms amid overwhelming wreaths of snow and the hardest ground but it never fails.

In the valleys of high mountains the ground is covered with these hardy beautiful flowers,
January has a dear old favorite and my old friend the snowdrop a delicate mighty force,
White aconites, the white leaved colts foot flower grow in the milder months of our winter,
In the woods and hedges insects begin to recommence active life under barks of old trees.

Every advancing day presents us with a fresh and cheering symptom of a clean new spring,
Hedge sparrows and the thrush begin to sing, wren pipes lay, we see a golden crested wren,
Blackbirds whistle and linnets gather and little lambs appear in cold snow covered fields,
The house sparrow, a bold courageous bird, renews his brisk chirping a challenge to cold.

So when we look through white frosted panes of spun glass and look across winter countryside,
When we moan we are bored but it is too cold to take a walk or play in the clear open air,
When we come home from working and complain that their feet are wet, cold and badly wrinkled,
Nature is busy getting her armies together to make meadows wonderful and glades beautiful.

There is no season without a witness of a higher greatness which I cannot understand,
In the cold iron depth of winter nurtures the whole vegetation of our future summer,
Like germs of faith and hope in the heart of man that cannot and must not ever fail,
Little buds grow on a bough, corn peeks from frozen earth, nature has moved a mountain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beauty Surrounds

Beauty Surrounds
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 27, 2011


See the wonders of the world
As they pass to us unfurled
Such an amazing light
Sun shining so bright
Flying on the wing
Hear the birds sing
The grass so green
Such a sight has you ever seen
The lilies in bloom
Orange hue in their flume
I see stars in my head
Of the roses so deeply red
The crate myrtles so pink 
They cause me to blink
Birds sitting in the trees
Catching the cool summer breeze
Dogs continually play
Let them stay and have their way
The fluffy clouds so high
Up, up high in the sky
The trees they sway
In the wind they play
The magnolia blooms
The beautiful pearly white flumes
The scent so pungent
So sweet to the smell
The bees they separate
Jump from flower to flower to pollinate
God’s wonderful earth
Created for our birth
We shall begin again
From now until the end



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr Spring has Arrived

Early in the year a young man walks with a stout Yew stick firmly on his shoulder,
Resting on damp grey stone looking all around watching the dicky birds and smiling,
Rising from the stone he drops a snowdrop and a forget-me-not onto the cold ground
He had not taken two steps and these flowers have taken root and they begin to grow.

Wet winter aged bushes turned towards this young man he stops and they begin to dry,
Hawthorns nod in thanks and they show him a blanket made of beautiful white blossom,
Colors begin to show in crags by rushing rivers it is time for the heather to wake up,
The young man slowly turned around gray damp plants stood upright their colors bright.

Rabbits darted from their warrens scurrying looking and finding the Dianthus allwoodii,
Cock Pheasants run in circles as baby pheasants grow the proper plumage with their mums,
Frogs hop and croak in the long grass looking for mosquitoes and midges for breakfast,
Caterpillars slither along looking for foliage, plant stems and any unsuspecting flowers.

Moles wander around leaving scars across the meadows looking for earthworms and insects,
Red Spiders living on lower leaves, a Rhododendron bug a pest making the leaves go brown,
The Creeping Thistle is a tall weed it grows very quickly and has beautiful yellow flowers,
The Colts foot is outstanding with its flowering bright yellow head emerging in Springtime.

As he made his way across orchards glades and tiny little brooks the land burst into glory
Grey washed away and bright colors took their place and all turned to a brilliant beauty,
New buds on green trees creating a huge canvas ready for painting an incredible masterpiece,
Water in the brooks bubbled with joy and the birds sang young Mr Spring had returned again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daisies and the Way to Undress Summer.

“Dress me in daises,” I said, as if flowers could cover my skin in respectable ways, and
he smiled as my shoe boxes of paint tipped over, as the floor became art and the way I
walked towards him smeared my heart at his feet.


We captured laughter this way, drawing insensibilities in between us, and there was an
element of beauty in the grin of a child when it appeared to dance across his grown up
cheeks, an attraction to Peter Pan, and blond hair in the summer, as I thought I could
capture July...


The month used to sit beside my bed, fluttering night lights to save me from dreams, stars
danced in mason jars and fairytales were whispered beyond moonlight as I wrote them in my
dreams, as I watched seasons disappear into morning light.


I arrested kisses with a word and slipped them in my pockets, he commented on the rips
that always decorated the hems of my blue jeans, I played with the brown flowered
patches at me knees, I looked at him and told him my secrets, I whispered content beneath
the spring as we watched summer rise, as the sky became a canvas and I wished my hands
were more capable...


“Show me the way beyond you,” he requested, as my glance became puzzled, “Show me who you
are.”


He handed me a daisy, he told me to undress, I studied the petals as they fell to my feet,
my toes became blanketed...

and I walked towards him...


the decoration of spring mapping out my heart, and he smiled with a mouth that grinned
when he spoke my name, when he laughed in the fashion of a child and held me under
moonlight when spring faded and summer came.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

come listen to the music

I hear the music of the heavenly angels 
Coming softly through the blue sky from above 
Blending with the music from on the mountain tops 
Bringing to all earth's people messages of love. 

The song birds are singing to the angels' music 
Telling us to hear the words of truth very clear, 
"All of earth's people are more alike than different 
And to help each other will leave no room for fear". 

Come listen to the music of quiet gentle breezes 
And music from wild flowers growing on the hill 
Whispering softly to awaken our spirits 
Saying, "Only listen and let your hearts be still


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Old Walking Stick

There are no months as beautiful as early summer months wild flowers make the headlines,
Leaning heavy on my old worn hazel wood stick walking to a wooded meadow out of breath,
Clusters of Primrose and large patches of Blue Bells chat with clumps of Spring Violets,
As I stand wheezing the wonderful smells the dampness of wood and flowers give me air.

Lesser Celandine flowers between March and May heart shaped leaves a glistening yellow,
Now feeling a little better my head lifts the top of some large trees seem so far away,
The Cuckoo flower has leaves deeply toothed with spear stems, shows off all its beauty.
The kindle under my gentle walking cracks loudly so the meadow and trees know I am here. 

There is a second spring in the forest wooded meadow Snowy Mespilas with white flowers,
It reminds me of winter snow I once enjoyed these days my legs are not what they were,
The tree of heaven spreads climbing sixty feet and the Alder with soft purple catkins,
Leaning on a tree happy to be here with warm sun finding its way through high branches.
 
Hedgerows dress in the same vernal-looking hue and a Chipmunk darts across a small field,
The Chipmunk runs up the side of a nearby tree if he new me well he would not run away,  
Thick scented heather lives on the moorlands side by side with an evergreen Bog Rosemary,
A furry little face high up on a branch is watching me in the same way I am watching him.

A Judas tree with round leaves clusters of magenta, pea like flowers greet me this day,
I wonder why it is called the Judas tree is it the one Judas hung from with silver coins, 
Cornelian Cherry flowers at the end of winter, followed by richest bright orange fruits,
A Japanese Quince shows splashes of color they are so white, or salmon or very very pink.

Weigela a beautiful shrub will bell like flowers and a deep red rose brighten the woods,
Times getting on now and I am tired but standing in this beautiful meadow I feel so alive,
Doesn't matter how old or how well a person maybe that same natural beauty is seen by all,
So leaning heavily on my companion the hazel stick I walk back to my home it's a great day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Watching The River Run

I keep watching the river run 
Always twisting 
Always turning 

It’s there I sit 
Beneath your eyes 
And mull over dreams of paradise 

With you 

Someplace where the sky is white and blue 

Yet I’m thinking much too much 
And I hate walking alone 

It’s not often that I ponder such 
But when I wander 
Thoughts come rushing in 

Willy-nilly 

I don’t have a special place 
Where all these thoughts begin 

From the left 
And from the right 
Without warning 
They attack me when I wake 

Early in the morning 
I wish I knew what I had done 

So I’ll sit here 
With you standing there beside me 

Beneath your eyes 
Beneath the skies 
Where clouds and birds and angels fly 

And listen to the waters running free 
As you watch me 

Watching the river run


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shifting Sands

Shifting sands, ever changing
with the always steady beating
of the planets heartbeat.
Patterns dynamic in their structure
always different, never the same again
carried on the wings of the wind
and its passing whim.
Hills and valleys dot the landscape
flat lands going nowhere lead ever onward.
Tiny grains of sand alone
are naught but infinitesimal specks
but together they can be mighty indeed.
Life abounds in this ever changing universe
with times passing it continues to fight
in order to survive its sandy domain.
To exist at it is/was destined too
is the only truth it knows.
Grains of sand mark the passing of time
minutes, hours, moving ever onward
with the shifting of sand, never to be retrieved.
Where it begins no one seems to know
its ending a mystery as well
is the end the beginning, or is the beginning the end?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Restoration, A Myth

One day at noon, a shadow fell to the earth and announced that he was God's 
chronicler and that he had to report important events to The Master.  

All day he followed people around until by dark he was feeling faint.  

What if instead of me following everyone around, people could just decide what 
was important and make their own reports to God?

He made a petition to see the King of the Universes and humbly told Him the 
plan.

Our Creator God knew all but He listened politely to the shadow.  

I gave you the assignment to see how you would carry it out.  You were diligent to 
the point of exhaustion and then you got creative and started thinking of 
delegating and sharing the workload and making people responsible for their 
own memories.  Good Job!  

You have earned your Brain.

The shadow was ecstatic, a large light bulb was given to him and he shadowed 
everyone who came into his presence.  Soon he was tired again.  He decided to 
rest and let the light bulb be bright at certain times and other times to rest.  This 
was a sign that he had mastered the concept of being restored and revived.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE NATURE

                Cloud gathering in the sky
		Blown by wind it darts so high
		Layer by layer it darts so high
		What a fun to air ride.

 			The sky is stamped deep black
			The sun is held under its trap.
			No light comes, the earth is dark.
			We seldom find a singing lark.

		It rains, it flashes and it thunders
		It rolls over the sky, how?  One   wonders.
		Some wait for the downpour to stop		
                Some get wet, some to safety hop.

                        Some like the rain, some fear it most 
			For many it is joy, for some it is not.
			Yet it drenches the parched earth
			It is elixir for all providing mirth.
		
		Cloud now does not cover the sky
		The rainy season has gone by		
		And winter casts it spell on all
		We find   nights long and days small.

                                                                                             By Jay-en


Details | Prose Poetry | |

purity

the infatuation of my menstruation as you sit
and pout like this isn't living because yes
this is not your treasure for you irritate
the thought of innocent blood stained tears
are passed through my souls heart monthly
i weep through christ an yet you are envious
of my female purpose as god glides through me
as i'm not your wife for these are the times of
peace a sign that only mary could cease to
behold thy beauty covered in such reddness
for i shall not be vain as it rains and pours 
the sadness from a fruitful trees that brings
life right on thy tables where you sit and
stare and wonder if i shall break in all this
bloodied gift for can i be fooled back after
the purification of thy body one in you for
will you hold my hand as i grieve the dead
babies blood shed of my blood or shall 
you run out for more napkins as my grief 
to much for you to bare as i bleed 
the blood of christ's care


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr Spring has Arrived

Early in the year a young man walks with a stout Yew stick firmly on his shoulder,
Resting on damp grey stone looking all around watching the dicky birds and smiling,
Rising from the stone he drops a snowdrop and a forget-me-not onto the cold ground
He had not taken two steps and these flowers have taken root and they begin to grow.

Wet winter aged bushes turned towards this young man he stops and they begin to dry,
Hawthorns nod in thanks and they show him a blanket made of beautiful white blossom,
Colors begin to show in crags by rushing rivers it is time for the heather to wake up,
The young man slowly turned around gray damp plants stood upright their colors bright.

Rabbits darted from their warrens scurrying looking and finding the Dianthus allwoodii,
Cock Pheasants run in circles as baby pheasants grow the proper plumage with their mums,
Frogs hop and croak in the long grass looking for mosquitoes and midges for breakfast,
Caterpillars slither along looking for foliage, plant stems and any unsuspecting flowers.

Moles wander around leaving scars across the meadows looking for earthworms and insects,
Red Spiders living on lower leaves, a Rhododendron bug a pest making the leaves go brown,
The Creeping Thistle is a tall weed it grows very quickly and has beautiful yellow flowers,
The Colts foot is outstanding with its flowering bright yellow head emerging in Springtime.

As he made his way across orchards glades and tiny little brooks the land burst into glory
Grey washed away and bright colors took their place and all turned to a brilliant beauty,
New buds on green trees creating a huge canvas ready for painting an incredible masterpiece,
Water in the brooks bubbled with joy and the birds sang young Mr Spring had returned again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A February Day

On a cold and frosty morning I gazed across fair fields, woods and copses,
I heard a wood-lark sing a sweet song, so sweet, hairs on my neck raised,
Did I hear it earlier in the month, I thought my ears were playing tricks,
Standing in my back garden a thrush joined in with his song, a magical day.

Peering around there were tomtits hanging on the eaves of the thatched barn,
Rooks began to revisit their special trees and arrange their future nests,
A harsh loud voice, the missel-thrush rang from hedges and boughs of trees,
The missel-thrush became quiet, the hedge sparrow renewed its chirping note.

Turkey-cocks now strut their stuff they gobble and partridges begin to pair,
House-pigeons have had their young and field, crickets open their old holes,
Gnats begin to play about the insects, swarm, under weak watery sun hedges,
The stone-curlew clamors and by ponds, in wet water mead's the frogs croak.

Ravens lay their eggs and in a far off wood a green woodpecker sings loudly,
An elder treed discloses its flower buds and the catkins of the hazel grow,
Young leaves are budding on the gooseberries and currants begin to take shape,
And late February is a time where life is regenerated for another four seasons.

Winter in spite of occasional frost and frowns is now leaving for pastures new,
The voice of the turtle and the singing-bird is heard once more in our lands,
Frost and icicles hanging from high old oak trees begin to drip on hard ground,
A fox can be seen way off in a fallow field looking for nest-eggs for breakfast.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

I am not related to tomorrows,
Severed from them
I am  related  to my yesterdays
The suffered realites
Do not trust the future.
Passing through the endless period of grimness, 
I have owned them. Absence of miseries
Is not the culmination of the anguish.
Painful past, More known, more intimate is acceptable 
I am afraid of the future, 
The unknown tomorrow.













Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lovey Day

The primroses still continue their welcome bloom on the commons on a May day,
With scattered oaks and rich thickets the birds chirping the days are longer,
Hundreds of nightingales singing together, sad songs from an enchanted forest,
A cuckoo is heard from deep in the fairy forest and the rich grasses knee deep.

Mornings now are not so dark, the pools and streams flow white with ranunculus,
Foxglove leaves are springing up, firm and green in the woods and on many banks,
Soon it will be time to dig and hoe, the red and black spotted butterfly flies,
Time to wander over ancient commons, the ichneumon flies are out busy and alert.

It's so nice to see the spring again in gardens the common current is so lovely,
Hedges luxuriantly green, the perfume of hawthorn, everything is just beautiful,
The woods to which the young people used to go out before day break, a-maying,
The sky with dark whitish clouds scudding their way to the sea, maybe some rain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful

The summer’s day
Was hotter than most
Clouds lingering overhead
With a soft squishiness to the ground
As I walked lazily 
Down the old mountain trail

Off to the side
Almost hidden by some brambles
Lay an old rusted bike frame
Probably left behind
By a child
Or someone 
Who decided not to carry it home

Rusted and bent
It just laid there
Totally out of place
While somewhere in the center
Of this rusty old carcus
Was a bright yellow daffodil

I stood for a while
Staring and the remains
Wondering where it might have been
Before its skeleton
Found its way here
And what joy it might have brought
To some young child
Before it died  
On the side of the road

After a few minutes had passed 
I suddenly realized
That this lonely flower rising up
Out of the old rusted frame
Had completely changed
The sadness of this discarded toy

It stood out
Like a cool glass of water
In a land of dry sand
Making it appear
Almost… Beautiful 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Burned Out Sun

A race towards the sun
To become number one
Less congested
Can finally breath
Maybe teaching others of its kind
To be kind
Let your hollow heart keep the animals safe and warm
While intimidating predators 
To block out the fun
Takes years of practice 
To perfect patience 
But whats the perfect tree?
Should it be cloned?
Breaking mother natures habit
Why judge
Just take in its fine qualities
That deep down we envy
Almost as green as ivy
That's trying for the race as well
Unfortunately always a few steps behind
But when the moon switches places 
The trees go back to a humble state
No time to shoot for stars
Need to rest up for the big race...of tomorrow... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Icicles and Hard Frost

One dark and very cold night I decided to stretch my legs and go for a walk,
Stars were so very clear, if I stood on a ladder I, could touch the Dog Star,
Jack Frost is busy frost on frost sparkled and twinkled in silver moonlight,
The river and local brooks stood in silence only waterfalls trickled slowly.

A frozen mist floated down and rested over the top of any frozen water way,
Becoming denser, pressing nearer the icy surfaces I could smell sharp cold,
Standing on the bank in a frozen setting was a big old oak's moonlit shadow,
The tips of my ears tingled and my breath was rime, it was so very beautiful.

Layers of water slowly flowed over the ice, that water turned to ice in minutes,
Plates of ice covered with a frost clogging the runs and eddies everything still,
Icicles hung down from branches and the arches of a small bridge solid and strong,
In the morning ice would be levered up and broken, left to sail into the distance


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winters Magic Wand

What dreams of beauty or wildest imagination could ever match these wonderful ageless scenes,
Of a fairy tale forest glittering and sparkling in an evergreen mead showing off its silvery pines,
A blue diamond frost bathed in the whitest moonlight, backed by a trillion bright twinkling stars.
The foliage of the trees touched by winter’s magic wand, from an ice queen on a cold January night,

As a boy I saw these nights in the clear sky and it looked like a dome with blue lighted candles,
Reflecting off a frosted carpet that glinted and dazzled sometimes catching a roe deer’s wide eyes
In those long gone days I felt no cold watching a fairy tale wonder of a cold clear, sharp night,
But these moments have misted in my older years, my wiser years, but never completely forgotten.

Speeding to old age wisdom is my gift I was uncluttered and so very much wiser back in those days,
I sometimes try to think hard about my boyhood memory but it needs a clear mind for clear sight,
Taking me back to the meadows in time staring in wonder at those silvery sparkly evergreen trees,
Again I think as a young boy who does not feel the cold, smelling scents from frozen pine needles.

My future is written and I understand why the memory of this night must be so very vivid today,
Because I know when those final moment arrive my eyes gently cloud, and close for the last time,
I will dream a twilight dream between both of my worlds' then soar back upon the winds of time,
To stand again in evergreen woods reliving my moonlit scenes, again still not feeling the cold.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Hard Winter

On a cold frosty December morning snow has already visited the land so bare so dreary,
With its mighty sword it has cut down dahlias and made us look after any tender plants,
In the north sky the aurora borealis, flashed, a winter tale says it is a sign of cold,
So once more we prepare for hoary frost and snows, a sharp slap from an evil east wind.

Those who wrap up in warm cloaks, coats, and fine furs they will bare the bitter chill,
For those fortunate people, a fire blazes in their homes, a table well spread are glad,
But put you hand on your heart and tell, how many will miss these things in the winter,
The many with the huge burden of suffering and freezing how they must yearn for spring.

For those who can we must lend a hand to lighten distress that will certainly prevail,
We must brace up our hearts, forget our own troubles to assist others when called upon,
We must rouse all the slumbering humanity in our nature and collect warm coats not warn,
How much better will they be on the backs and beds of our suffering in the cold winter.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shadow

Walking with me, it moves along,
Contorting with me, to me it belong.
It’s tied to me as a chain,
I know it’s with me, it would never wane.

There lies poise between it and me,
Grasping me, never allows to flee.
Together we go, without any tiff,
Casting my image, it stays stiff.

It survives in bright, perishes when it’s dark,
It does exist on a spark.
Following always, it never goes astray,
Stuck with me, can’t think of betray, it always stay.

Gives me sense to be stronger, as I walk,
I halt on the way, admire it, if it could talk.
God knows, why it is made so conventional,
Unceasingly it swings parallel.

At a certain time, everything departs, saying farewell,
Except for my shadow, the one will always dwell.
It certainly is the symbol of faith and duty,
It is the only companion, who has eternity.

A dark image staying in me,
Forever as one could see.
As long as I will be,
I desire to see, no ‘you’ and ‘me’, but a ‘we’.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

going green

GOING GREEN

The colour that evokes so much reverence today 
Is the standard for those whose actions
Out value their words 

To be conscious of the harm of surviving
Is to some an aware and care philosophy
The new black is thus green
A fashionable craze where 
All may not be as it first seems

There is so much one has to do 
It may sometimes appear that it is 
A policy advantageous to only a few 
A right pain for most 
A baton to beat those who do not yet conform
A way to meddle in man’s right to use
Earth’s resources as he pleases

Organic is best they trumpet quite loudly
Yet the building blocks of this claim 
Are on occasion easily slain
Only thing it is sure of doing 
Is sending your money down the drain

Being ecologically conscience is 
Maybe just a con the middling classes blindly envelop
Them who supposedly keep this world upright
And who think they must lead the fight 
To prevent man’s earthly scar inducing blight 

Not everyone wishes to live clean
Consumption to them will 
Always be king
Irrespective of the effects on the 
Planets too sensitive skin 

The universally accepted damage to 
Our earthly continuity is not enough 
For us to change 
At a time when profits from all of Gaia’s resources is king 

An expensive hobby is this earth hugging fantasy
To care is to spend wildly
And to think up no street cred policy
That is loudly praised
By the prohibition society

Isn’t doing as you please
Part of our innate liberty?

Is economic gain the only aim of those who 
Sell us a wish for earthly longevity?

Must advisors cost so much
And harass us so incessantly?

Policies abound that do mean well
Aims are lofty yet have little inbuilt longevity
The man who uses too much is now the modern leper 
A demon created by activist who 
Are often immune to the effects 
Of their own need to live
Their zealous witch hunts 
A right sin 

Air miles do tell a long story
The disadvantages most often quoted 
With no space for the economic and social advantages
That trade does bring
Selfishness is ecology’s new skin

Co2 emissions and greenhouse gasses 
Do heat up the debate 
Mangled by special interest 
And lobbyists’ obsession for contortuous spin 
Should we always have to appear to care 
About our future when now is best 
And tomorrow may never get the chance 
To lighten our despair? 

No one man
Nor an individual policy 
Can save a planet almost on its knees 
Be conscious of your actions and its varied effects
Do live and be as good or green as you see best 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking in the Hills

At noon we sat down under a large old oak tree on a wild hillside with masses of rocks,
The day was very warm and I took off my knapsack and rested by the foot of an old tree,
Below was a spread of orchards, next to meadows, and the glades sat with watery mead's,
Above, a beech forest that stretched, many miles the greenery touching the white clouds,
White clouds in a beautiful blue sky, shapes constantly changing shape, in a light cool wind.

Looking around there was much to see, there were lapwings and golden plovers in the trees,
Down below in a meadow a carter was leading a pair of horses off to plough a grassy field,
Then a fox crept from a hedge into a ploughed field and dropped right down into a furrow,
On a flooded mead a Great Crested Grebe dived under the water looking for some fresh fish,
And the water looked like sheets of polished glass and the sun reflected great rods of beams.

The track we walked soon vanished and then lofty pillars of beach-boles with thick canopies,
The earth was brown, withered leaves scattered amoung small pieces of rock green with wet moss,
Here and there were shallow bogs with the 'touch-me-not' plant with bright yellow flowers,
A plant whose name gives significant caution, as where it grows, there is treacherous footing,
Legend says mountain climbers make their peace with God if they meet some in a rocky crag. 

Half an hour's progress and we were going in the right direction the scene was impressive,
As we wandered through woods with no out let visible the shade was heavy, deep and silent,
Then through a gap in far off trees was an opening and buttercups formed a carpet of gold,
On a bough was a Goldcrest the smallest British bird, he hopped from twig to twig for insects,
Their tiny nests made from mosses and spiders webs, slung underneath the branch of a tree. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Interlude

Blue-gray foggy mist hanging over the lake like an ethereal blanket obscuring 
the surface of the water and making the scene look like an artist's water color
or perhaps pastels, the chalk blended lightly with a finger tip, the far shore 
barely visible from where I sit, ancient trees rising like giants, silent sentinels, 
defiant, too early for the usual chatter of the birds, they still sleep, 
undisturbed, only one awake is me and the occasional turtle coming up to 
breathe, gently disturbing the placid lake surface as evidenced by a single ring, 
its purpose to slowly expand and dissipate noiselessly, as the orange sun has 
begun to peek over the horizon and that magical time is gone, those few 
moments between the darkness of night and the harsh light of dawn, that gray 
soft interlude before reality intrudes, when it seems the whole world 
sleeps...and the stillness and the silence is overwhelming.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in the Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closes my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise was from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath an oak tree listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain wets meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It travels underground meeting the other raindrops to flow as spring water.

Clear springs are feeding the runners, swelling brooks making its way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glade flowers and trees, far away faint rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflects from the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree, glistened.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paired, With Reservations

Paired, With Reservations

The soft curve of her spirit- 
Her true shape only emergent after countless
Half-glances in the half-light of morning’s edge.
What line is drawn by the knife-edge of the sun’s first rays?
Who is slain in that prime, resplendent arrival?
Regardless it is a shiny death: an incidental manslaughter
Making new cuts and reshaping the structure of our shared constitution: 
Reforming the meaning of our togetherness.
Her form, her movement, creates contrast.
Motion is wonder’s conciliator, unearthing profundities and
Burying banalities under underfoot miles and myriad beads of perspiration;
Forging ahead together through the nascent day.  To what end?
Running lines: some arbitrary and intangible, others geometrically
Pronounced in yellow and white, dotted and solid, faded and new.
Drawing new lines: making demarcations- parameters implicitly set- 
So close yet never intersecting:  paired, with reservations. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hope Has Gone

Follow a long path and it will get rougher as you go, don't let that stop you,
Daffodils will be thick and yellow on both sides, let golden colours guide you,
The daffodils will disappear at the woods, a green wall of spring will appear ,
Here the path is just footprints in lush grass, the smell of spring, heady.

There will be acres, and acres of thick bluebells, the scene will lift you heart,
Bluebells and the trees will darken your way, follow the yellow rods of sunlight,
Sit awhile, cast your eyes upon this place of classical beauty, a sight to behold,
The perfume of leaf mold, competes with the different scents of woodland flowers.

Be on your way after a good rest, by now you should hear the sound of running water,
A background noise, an orchestra to join the bird song high up in the branches,
Camped by the side a tiny brook, a man called Hope will shake your hand, warmly.
With clear bright blue eyes, and white hair, a dazzling smile to make you welcome.

His name is Hope the Hermit, he will invite you to sit and enjoy a cup of leaf tea,
Stories make your heart sing but, there is a sad side, Hope hides away from people,
I sat with Hope for what seemed like hours listening to stories of his wonderful life,
He had knowledge about every subject we talked about, his words, like beautiful poetry.

The sun went down behind the tops of trees so it was time to head for home before dark,
I followed the path back to my village my thoughts and body full of gladness and joy,
Going to bed that night I could not sleep, Hopes words opened my eyes to a new world,
Tomorrow I will go and visit my new friend, we will talk about things and enjoy the day,

Hope's world is a caring lovely world, a world where you can see beauty in everything,
I had to wait for the sun to rise, to go back to see my good friend deep in the woods,
I walked the same footpath, the daffodils were gone, no carpets of bluebells in the wood,
There was no camp beside a brook, no golden shafts of light, just a wood, Hope had gone.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Clapper of the Bird Boy

The laugh like cry of the April woodpecker happy in the early spring,
And the dry harsh note of the Jay, awaken the forests and everything,
The dusky wings of rook’s glance in the sun, they are so timid and coy,
Chased off from sown fields and hedges by the clapper of the bird boy.

Bees soon will be seen again diving for nectar in the bells of flowers,
Making a sunshiny hum of renewed happiness so contented for hours,
Men, women and children on the landscape working hard with spring,
Ploughing, harrowing, picking up stones listening to nightingales sing.

Others rolling, bush-harrowing or cleaning the drilled wheat for bread,
Breaking the caked crust on the surface with light harrows the clay red,
Shepherds, shifting hurdles giving the flock pastures the greenest of all,
People working in gardens hoeing, sweeping leaves from last year’s fall.

Peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies amid flowers they don’t have a care,
Settling on warm grounds or hovering high above in the still country air,
Such is April with variable wind and rain with a touch of very early frost,
Nightingales around calthas or kingcups near river places they love most.

A coltsfoot shows it’s yellow flowers on cold bare lands without any leaf,
Violets both blue and white are found as sweet as ever on their own heath,
A cardamine stretches up from the margin of a moist green little hollows,
Again the clapper of the bird boy can be heard chasing off hungry swallows.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gone are the Gardens

After many years a man returned home to put to rest some very dark demons,
He left as a boy with hatred in his heart and an anger to match that hatred,
A wretched upbringing the spite from his family who hated him was so harsh,
What could a young boy have done to cause this bitterness the answer nothing.

One day very early the door closed behind him the young lad had made a decision,
He decided to leave that awful place and to make his way into the big wide world,
With experiences of his existence he understood nothing could be as bad as now,
With that thought he would not miss nor be missed, off went a lonely little boy.

Making his way it was hard but and he knew that there could be no turning back,
His father a vicious drunk would come home and blame him for his wretched poverty, 
His mother hated the boy she blamed him because he was the cause of this anguish,
His brother wanted him gone as he got scared he would receive the same treatment. 
 
As a man his mind now strong living so long with a monkey on his back he returns,
Walking the streets in town the place has changed a grey place of grim despair,
People he knows walk the same streets they have lines etched deep in their faces,
Etched lines are a calender of life's events of misery hard work and hard times.

Their clothes are clean but shabby why dress up when there is nobody to impress,
Shoulders rounded and heads down their lives are wasted they are nothing people,
Hard men from his youth are beaten and pathetic living on stories of yesterday, 
Years of drunken weekends and family abuse have clouded and poisoned simple minds  

How many years have these so called men drunkenly beat wives and their children,
Count the bruises made by the connubial fist through many many years of misery,
Remember the drops of blood that have flowed since the words 'I do' were said,
How many tears have been collected as trophies since a wedding day so long ago.

When these people were young and full of hope their life was rosy and scented,
There were stores of honey in their minds and a thousand acres of wild flowers,
As lovers they walked hand in hand along paths bright with a finesse of nature,
Look at them now how things have changed their garden is overgrown with weeds.

Once in a fountain of youth happy children chased after each other playing games,
The dancing spray fell on their flushed cheeks as it gushed in the warm sunshine,
It cast its silvery beads all around but now nobody listens to its rippling tunes,
And people have fallen away and crumbled beneath the tooth and finger of neglect.

Now all the flowers are drooping and faded no footprints walk the old path of youth,
They live in a freezing emotional wilderness growing tired of each other love gone,
Their houses are now gloomy and very unhappy it is hard to pretend this is not so,
No signs of any happiness no 'smile and be merry' as they have now stopped trying.

I am glad I returned to my roots where happiness was just a dream hate was reality,
Now I can close the heavy book I am satisfied that my leaving was the right decision,
The people I saw were ruined wasted people whose lives went where the rut took them,
I left and went back to my own life and like a ghost I faded from my own past forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

At One with Nature

Wandering with friends through romantic and enchanting scenery the sun shines down on us,
The day is cool and clear each step on spongy mossy ground makes us feel as light as the air,
Finding our way along banks of a winding stream with each turn a fresh scene of loveliness,
This beautiful walk gladdens the eyes and charms the heart as nature is shows us her pictures.

While looking at these beautiful canvases of nature it is very hard to choose which is the best,
And looking at the glowing landscape a friend points towards a display of even more beauty,
In this scene there is nothing to say but just look at what is around us each turn makes us glow,
We feel the happiness of nature unfolding her gifts and you just know she has a winsome smile.

And as we walk further along a summer glade we nestle deeper into the bosom of mother earth,
Mountains and cowslips and the good old daisies join the purple heather laid out like a carpet.
The feeling is that nature is not exhausted yet she has many more treasures waiting to unfold,
As the dancing stream bubbles along and winds round an impending rock a surprise awaits us.

There is a scene so grand and wondrous that makes us silent and we are chained together in awe,
It seems up to this time a handmaid have been leading us through the porch and into the hallway,
Now we have arrived we have entered the chamber itself and stood face to face with our host,
Once more nature has opened her house to all her guests and hung forth her richest draperies.

The scenery before us now makes goose bumps rise on our arms and raises hair on our necks.
The sun shines brightly on the waters and the brown watered stream turns into a river of gold,
The land stretched out before us a radiant green that met the turquoise sky on the far horizon,
The caressing breezes carry delicious smells and scents it’s a new spring everything is awake. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Rainy Day

Heavy winds roared and ripped around the thatch on the roof, leaving gaps,
Some glass in the windows began to rattle and shake, the storm has arrived,
Doors rattled loud it was like a madman at the door using logs to break in.
Leaves danced around the garden and some papers flew into the troubled air,

The day was as dark, lightning as bright as any flashlight, set the scene,
Grey clouds touched the ground air heavy with torrential showers of rain,
Everything outside was soaking wet, ruined or needed allot of attention,
Clothes flying off washing lines like kites or rag dolls swirling up high.

Lightning flashed again and the field and woods could be seen as a snapshot,
Farm animals are scared and dogs barking at the thunder and the falling rain,
And birds flying off for shelter near by waiting for a break to catch worms,
The storm lashed, water flowing down sides of roads and flooding drain holes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jesuits Ate My Basketball

The north wind blows cold, and the snows fold over like blankets in the closet.  Spirals
spin in acrimonious dances, prancing madly at unheard music.  The tune is soon gone and,
as the sun rises, it trips, breaking dawn.  Sweeping pieces of the fractured day, this
display of frozen water glistens brightly, and dims nightly.  The wrong song is sung,
again, but rightly.  In the East I wonder what magic holds sway, what words they say to
welcome strangers into their folded blankets.  

Time is chemistry and physics, spanning consciousness, but slips away like fishes. 
Delicious moments linger in memory, gone but not forgotten, the sweetness tastes a little
rotten, I'm afraid.  Tears do not forestall the thunder that always comes behind the
light.  I do not fight to see, or hear, or know, but slowly come to understand that which
is no more.  This floor supports my tired feet, becomes a bed for back and head, and now I
must depart.

I'm dead, I think, but still I write, this word, and this one will not stop.  The cold,
again, is coming now; it burns my bones to ash, until no trace remains.  Will she see my
face in snow drifts, bed sheets, and shoe laces?  I long for lingering embraces but arms
slip through me, ghostly, and listen to my beating heart.

Will this missive find kind eyes to see its meaning, to see its lies, to see its preening
self-adulation?  Will it speak to a soul that listens?  I hope so.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Earth

The Earth
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 26, 2011

Sitting in the breeze
Wind whispering through the trees
Sun shining bright in the sky
Accept it, do not wonder why
The world is a wonderous place
And covers an awesome space
Accept it as it is
As surely it will be, it tis
For all life abounds
It is always with us around
Accept it
Do not reject it
For from his birth
Our God created this earth


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain begins again

Rain Begins Again
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 28, 2011

Dizzy Lizzy sitting in the rain
Waiting for it to sustain
Hear the thunder rolling
The giant in the sky is bowling
The rain is so cool
As the mourning jewel
The birds in the trees
Feeling the cool breeze
The rain gives new birth from the heart
It quenches the earth from its start
The rain feels so fine
It makes my head feel so sublime
The earth needs the rain
So all life can sustain
The feelings that we share
Surely, do we dare?
Revel in the glory
Of the never-ending story
With the land and it’s age
From this to another stage
The flowers so much in bloom
With such a beautiful flume
Surrounding our earth
From the beginning of it’s birth
Will be the rest for me
For all time and my destiny


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only When the Cuckoo Sings

The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.

The taccamahac a name to deal with, blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth."

The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Poet

A bright morning sun reflected off the everlasting hills and over blushing flowers,
Then onto whispering trees heavy with fruit, over purling steams and dimpled lakes,
A poet, dipping his pen into the ink that writes of pure images in the urn of truth,
Writing besotted letters, of imperishable brightness, weighing immortality of nature.

Having the wisdom of nature suited to the right regulation and adjustment to changes,
That exists in man to understand the beauties of nature not just on a summer morning,
Nights are spent in the midnight oil chasing words to express the beauty we all see,
Words to highlight understanding to enhance desires and refinements to see as the poet.

Revelations not beyond reach to bring beautiful scenes into homes the true philosophy,
When philosophy acknowledges the unlimited range of its sphere bringing light to all,
Whose posy has charmed the fancy and whose works have enriched the world of letters,
Many poets whose eloquence has astonished even only a few, the researches are reward.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

English Garden

I have found the treasure
that lies at the Rainbow's end;
surrounded by Sweet William, for-get-me knots,
and crimson shades of velvet rose.

Near the cottage of old where I was young,
the quaint charm of the English garden.
Where time has not weathered with due harm,
swirls of hued asters still in the brisk fresh air.

Moments spent dancing with cupid in midst
of a sunny afternoon.
Seconds where dreams danced on the moon,
sweet perfume floats by to wisp away my breath.
Up ahead mine eyes view the grassy slopes
where a thousand of narcissus bloom.

I watch them sway the day away tossing 
their sweet perfume to the winds.
Wicker seats and ivory benches upon I sit and muse.
The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden,
a rose plot, fringed pool and serenity.

Burn the sage, the leaves of rose and wintergreen
Light the candles in the middle of the afternoon.
From within my center core I breathe for more of this
paradise near heavens view.

Sweet surrender to growing things, cupids chimes in
melody rings, for here is a heavenly peace that mirrors
my thirsty soul.


My x4 Great Grandmother was from England a Duchess but she chose to marry my X4 Great
Grandfather and lost her inheritance and rights for neglecting the wishes of the family in
England. He was a Captain of the sea and brought many to the American shores of Mass. In
reading and studying, I found she loved to write of the sea and those things she cherished
from England and growing up, from memoires, she has touched my muse and from time to time,
I let her speak of such cherished beautiful things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Land of Graves

Land of Graves

A land of graves makes for quiet neighbors.  
He who blessed or cursed extant thereupon remains 
Shall suffer little disturbance at the will of his resting countrymen.  
The deep silence of an irrevocable sleep pervades his surrounds.  
His own sleep mimics that of his departed brethren 
But that kin to living rest is a far colder, everlasting condition.  
Lest it be by the appearance of some revenant, 
His nights will be those of uninterrupted stillness.  
The surface of this vast earthen sarcophagus is adorned with faltering monuments- 
The souls of their corresponding constituency have long-since dispersed in nihilum- 
Leaving playing children and Springtime Sunday-afternoon-passersby 
To speculate on their origins and exits, lives and times.  
But make no mistake this is not a wholly moribund environment.  
There is life in this soil yet.  There is an irrepressible profusion reclaiming 
This tomb from its own looming finality.  The tomb is rendered womb by its power.  
The tomb-womb is green.  It is a garden, a park, a yard and an arboretum.  
It is a charnel conservatory of the deceased, yes, but this sepulchered meadow 
Exists as much if not more for those with air in their lungs and blood 
In their veins as it does for those buried beneath its grassy lawns.  
Though in little more than a generation even the freshest entries into its 
Assembly will receive only sparing or incidental visitation.  
The ancestry hobbyist and the armchair genealogist will pay their homage.  
The digger of graves and the mower of lawns will be more frequent still.  
Is maintenance in the face of inevitability an exercise in courage or folly?  
Perhaps it is just necessary for life to go on. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the waves

the waves

the waves captivate me
with their dance along the shore 
they dance a dance that 
mesmerizes all who come their way
step in the cool clear water
let it wash away everything
the waves come and evermore

		


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Little Hamlet called Butter Worth

Walk along a steep cliff top over glades over Yew trees and brambles to Butter-Worth Head,
Walk through a wood and stand by a warm bank of the clearest spring a mezereon will blossom,
The old tacamahac shows off his long pale green catkins and a China rose gently unfolds,
Green plants bursting the mold with wild flowers will nod to us just as do old friends.

Walking over a Colts foot and a cardamine into a moist meadow a star of Bethlehem gleams,
Many of the wild flowers sway in a soft breeze not understanding how beautiful they are,
My old Friend the daisy waves from far below us they are small but nobody would miss them,
Over another meadow the crocus spreads like a flood of purple the greenest of grass nods.

Violets peek out of hedges many banks and have done through many many of a child's memories,
Remembering the shrieks of children's delight when they are seen for the very first time,
A flash of many years rush through my mind and back to long warm days and long good friends,
Some spots we have seen in our long gone times have delighted us and those who are long gone.

A million greetings to spring her pale arms full of flowers the flowers seen on spring days,
She has also the flower of our youth and although we are children deep down gone are those days,
Gone are the first gathered violets to say good by to the dear little souls who are in heaven,
The bees buzz around these violets and rabbits hop around forgetting fears across the fields. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

They Care!

A noise is heard, I go out to investigate, 
it is back where the cows are, moon covered by heavy clouds, 
shines through slightly, spooky and cold this night, 
growling now louder, have to get to the cows. 
Ok made it, they are ok ,babies too, so cute they are.
Looking around now growling again, 
louder more angry sounding,
 flashlight getting dim, shines in deep woods, 
only two eyes reflected, growls getting closer. 
What could it be didn’t know coyotes growled, 
deep voice? Bear! 
didn’t know there were bear around here, oh how I hope not. 
Cows must sense extreme danger,
I have my pistol to protect them, (why didn’t I bring my rifle), 
they surround me, not letting me through, 
could not get a clear shot, please move. 
So strange I never knew.
 Heart beating faster and faster, 
stop thinking, concentrate,
please go away I don’t mean you harm. 
Hours pass, growls further away now.
 Time to relax. 
They protected me, 
they care!

EXHALE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Song Of Frozen Birds

It was an unexpected chill 
As the icy north wind 
Pierced like a shooting needle 
Through the morning sun 
So cold 
That you could almost see it 
Tumble down the mountainside 

It was a morning of frozen birds 
Falling like rain from the sky 
Off the boughs of trees 
Dripping down 
And splashing like colored drops 
On the rock hard ground 

As I walked the wintry woods 
I pictured the ice-cold wind as a brush 
Painting the woods with drops of color 
Bird colors of blues, greens and reds 
That seemed to come alive 
And sing


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stop it

war is a constant
has been, all ways will be
power dictates the winner
who finished last
who's next in line
who controls you
it is the victor
he who writes the past

war is an epidemic 
created by humanity
destroyer of families
how ironic
how war ties us together
how demonic, are its ways
war manipulates the pawns
this is how division equals multiplication

war is a weed
population control
the slaughter of good and evil
needs no rain
needs no sun
a means to harvest
the "lesser" men
war dies only to rise again

stop the wars 
your not gods
stop the wars
before we lose what matters most
the possibility and beauty of unity 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Natural Processes

		
	
			
	
	
	Natural Processes
	
	
	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.
	
	
	
	
	
	

	
	
	
	
	
	

	
	
	
	
	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DISCOVERING

	Kitten-play is sweet;
	a precious jewel of a moment renewed 
	by each new discovery.

	A butterfly-chase ending in a bumblebee moment
	of enlightenment and sometimes
	a succeeding “ouch”!
	The butterfly is a more hospitable playmate.

	Graceful leap into a patch of soft delicate wormwood;
	A tree-leap, a prick on the nose from a rosebush;
	it’s about as friendly as the bumblebee!

	A jet-sprint to the patio results in a
	back and forth stretched-roll on the warm concrete.
	The pose that says, “I like this place; can I stay?”

	Perhaps on another adventurous day
	kitten will discover,
	the catnip bush at the far end of the yard.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Snowfall

In a small hamlet people were outside their dwellings staring up at a heavy black sky,
Wind lashed the trees and front doors a big storm was about to happen and very soon,
Small ice flakes whipped up in the wind stinging eyes I had a big dewdrop on my nose,
After some time the blackened sky opened the winds raged and the snow began falling.

Like a roaring bear gusts of winds blew the nearby sea sending salty spray to join snow,
The wind sweeping across the land fiercely blowing gales loosening objects in its path,
An old man curled up against his fire heavy snow swept under his door and over his eaves,
As snow started to fall harder the flakes were huge swirling in blustery bitter cold winds.

That night was so cold every one went to collect logs for a fire smoke rose from chimneys,
Figures seen in silhouette behind lighted icy windows, doors were bolted the eaves blocked,
Friends gathered in each others houses sipping wine their singing muffled by high winds,
The worst storm that many could recall elders told stories of bigger storms tongue in cheek.

All night long snow fell in the morning villagers went outside to see the damage caused,
The sun shone with such brightness the blue sky and the carpets of snow hurt their eyes,
Icy snow was very deep and big white chunks of frozen snow stuck to bottoms of shoes,
A tall tree stood in the middle of the hamlet heavy lines of snow bent its tough boughs.

Stories circulating round firesides of travelers lost in great drifts on wild moorlands,
Wanderers that had perished, frozen in the deep snow all lost in the snow laden woods,
In the morning the snows stopped bringing sunny clear skies that shone like lapis lazuli,
The wind whistled blowing top snow into a fine spray leaving a surface frosty and hard.

There was a wonderful feeling walking along hedge-tops and across deep white valleys,
All now filled and level, the frozen mass crunching under heavy steps in snow boots,
Finding only the rivers showing themselves by their wintry hues amid trees and rocks,
Visitors from the north the red wings, thrushes and field-fares flew back to their homes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Scythe's Ring Across the Fields

Sitting watching a June summer king establish his reign over hazy hills and dusty dales,
I could just hear a sharpened scythe's ring across green fields cutting away at the corn,
With the hustle and bustle of the annual hay-harvesters bringing home a brand new season,
Happy sunburned workers work the open fields gazing skywards smiling at the noonday sun.

Hay hangs out to dry in the trees of the narrow footpath's and down haw thorny little lanes,
Everything now prepared and Mr.Summer rolls up his sleeves working to help with harvesting, 
Each person delighting in deep cool grass in the shaded part an abstract of lovely flowers,
Then paddle in a cool stream washing the chaff dust from feet thus ending a hard days work.

The shadows of leaves dance along the streams a silhouette waltzes upon the silvery water,
Lovely azure crowfoot salutes from a bank to a forget-me-not an old friend from last year,
A purple compfrey dips its leaves to sweeten the water joined by a warm and gentle breeze,
The birds sing from the trees and in the hedgerows while the nightingale tweets a sad tune.

On trees chestnuts begin to grow and acorns young and green sitting in their little cups,
The nuts from the hazel and the apples on trees in orchards promise a ripe autumn harvest,
Gooseberries for pies, currants and strawberries ripen growing in the hedges of old lanes,
June has taken his fair turn making spring shoots grow strong, ready for the later fruits.

The cuckoo departs and glow worms emerge on a summer's night and glows a tiny little glow,
Along heath and over the meadows across landscaped fields dotted with pretty wild flowers, 
The June summer heat gives strength to nature making grass lime green next to red poppies,
As the summer harvest quietens the work nearly done people rest and reflect on golden mead's.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Friends Never Forgotten

The pheasants on the hills were lying in the warm heather within view,
Insects were on the wing or to be found on young foliage in the grass,
The wood-argus's, the peacock and other butterflies enjoyed an evening,
May-flies were about and stone flies stood in boles of trees head down.

Bracken clocks swarmed on the fern and young oak leaves by warm winds,
There was an unknown dragon-fly darting from place to place in a tree,
Air was delicious after two days as rain had soaked into peat and turf,
There was a light breeze just strong enough to blow hair into your face.

The pine woods pouring pine perfume heated by a warm sun in a blue sky,
The forest turf and its many leaves breathing a unique, pleasant smell,
Young oak leaves now very tender sheltering some buds for small acorns,
Hawthorn blossom blew everywhere over land like a snow storm in summer.

The brooms were glorious, it was a day that took me back to my boyhood,
Good old days with youthful friends who's faces will never be forgotten,
After many years on this earth with all its pomp's and vanities reborn,
Give me intelligent and loving people who have affection and integrity.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovers Of a Hundred Decades Ago

They had dreamed. They had gone so far with their dreams. Yet, so deprived they 
lived.
Like them, I have become a denizen of the desert, ever since I laid my eyes on 
you.
Like them, lovers of a hundred decades ago, I was destined to wake up everyday 
in a new shelter, a new tent.
What would my shelter be anyway, that ceases lamentation.
So far from here I have gone. An inhabitant of the moon perhaps have I become, 
ever since your love was seared in me; ever since I started missing you like 
the desert misses the rain, I have been unutterably agonized.
Now, it has been a month, an eternity shall I say.
Now, to believe that you’ll be back, it would take me as many trials as there are 
miles between the moon and us. “Us”.  What a soothing word. As soothing as it 
is for you to realize that a series of flaws have been nothing but a lame 
nightmare, and as queenly as stereotype works.
Like the sand under the misty skies that I have seen from my window, scattered 
grains either cemented or carried away, is my salvation.
Waiting to be held closely, with cuddles and a sweet lullaby, the immutable child 
amid my exhaustions cries in grief…
…and when it rained, I had to believe…at least to recall the hope that I had lost.
Yes, today it rained, amidst the scalding and the warmth, it came; I believe it did, 
yet I still don’t know whether it was sent to heal the pain, or cut the line and cease 
the chain.

Jessica J. Hanna
November 2006


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Partnach Gorge the most beautiful place


Partnachklamme
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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Winters Tale

In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.

With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.

It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

February

As one waits for the morning and looks for the first flush in the east,
February strains its eyes and ears for the earliest signs of spring,
The signs could be a slight increase of some birds in their passing,
From mere call-notes to twittering and an occasional song and a flower.

February comes in as a month of thaw from a cold winter to wet and dreary,
It is a month of anticipation, and the birds from the continent regard it so,
Expressing their feeling as a carnival by all sorts of merriment's and gaiety's,
It is also the month of the snowdrop, and sap stirring in trees, buds swelling.

Snow birds begin to sing and dance and a song sparrow joins in from a high branch,
As it sings, a beautiful bird, its bright ruddy breast appears, the first robin,
February, just now and again, delivers a faint undercurrent of bubbling life,
Like a mountainous country, before the sunrise, peak after peak, a rosy light.

Delusive days, a whiff of spring today gets buried under a foot of snow tomorrow,
Magical sounds of the early song sparrow, strikes the first blow, of winter fetters,
Flocks of ceder-birds, called cherry birds, and wax wings dressed in their Sunday best,
Wax wing, is named, because on its feathers and tail bits resembling red sealing wax.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wrong Side of Nature

The leaves have abandoned the trees
Are they cold?
Leopard with out its spots
Does it still feel superior?
Fog that consumed a landscape
Were the clouds feeling lonely?
The snow flake that has a twin
Betrayment of winter 
Birds that are tired of making the effort to fly
Perhaps there's more action on the ground
Flowers that are losing their petals faster than they can be replaced
Does anyone sympathize when the sea cries?
Has the sun been on antidepressants since the beginning of time?
Do plants ever wonder what food tastes like?
All that effort and not even a bite?
Natural disasters are Mother Natures rebellious clean up crew
Their the mafia of the nature world
Saying 'don't screw with us'
Only difference being, one has mere strands of hair
While others have a luxurious coat
No wonder why we steal from them


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) Tides Revel in Their Rise ~ (~) ~ (Part #2 of 3) ~ (~) ~

Seeing this now, I still, being blinded by them I find I am still frightfully often fighting Him and this, and these facts. And knowing myself and knowing no other viable future, without Him. His love, exults for me, all of us I believe, a true, permanent and abundant freedom and universal peace, and liberty. And remaining honorable, adhering to this principal, I believe it awaits openly, rising up each moment to greet Him ... . Is always hopeful and willingly revels in His patient coaxing of all of us to try and be as open in all we do as well individually. Wanting ... just like Him, in all honesty ... only the best for another and ourselves. Believing, along with me as I am realizing now myself, that His grace, always provides for everyone the same opportunity. And as it moves freely, it sets aside the veritable ... and inevitable, and so I feel grace abides in the overt nature of love. Finding its refuge in the eminent fortune, of even more beautiful things to come. Because I am finding that to love, is to be free. Yes to love completely is to cherish the innocence within ... and abounding, through embracing God, myself, another, the veritable nature of this His world fully, at its and-mine all of ours our most vulnerable. And so I know that through my schooling, and Him. Like me ... now, I believe having no other choice tides are surrendered themselves, to the greater gravity of the Sun. And so still I know as well rising up honoring him us all of this world, to them scrubbing the shorelines, blessing the life therein, through this process they are graciously cleans themselves. As in turn they are washed out to Sea, again blessing all the life within as they again are brought to rise back up through Him to greet them behind the combined pull and timely rotation of it and the Earth on the enchanting nature of the Moon. All for perfect reason. So knowing true love I feel is to accept its hand, and dance felicitously mid the tenderness of its reflection. Because what is more important to have? "Feeling-safe" ... knowing a "Perfect" conditional faith and love, mercy ... ? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR2JeqxQDY&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Steals the Sun

Autumn steals the summer months so now in loneliness I shut my doors and grieve,
Rain cleans the dust from a warm summer and as some flowers droop they say goodbye,
With the rain refreshing all, the smell and the perfumed dying plants turn into just sticks,
The air has rested for weeks now awakes and shake trees and my heavy wooden doors.

The shadows grow longer, but the day grows shorter, with a coolness of moisture,
Veils of clouds rush so much faster the showers are short bursts with sharp hail,
Along the sky are trailed clouds, with their gossamer drapery amid intense azure,
The sun rises once more so brilliant for these days, the calmest most impressive beauty.

Time passes, I close and lock my windows and pull back on the great oak shutters,
Then come the rains, long and deluging amid late summer frosts, that damages corn,
And when steady gushing rains, flood the meadows and fill the mead's, all is lost,
Late autumn steals the bright suns, in loneliness I shut out all light and grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Diwali Tree

Magnificent lights adorn the biggest Christmas Tree in the world,

It glows with Indian colours and flair,

Passers-by stop and stare,

Surrounded by ritzy shops and blocks of ice,

Skaters showing their expert talents with all their
might,

A Diwali Tree sure to ascertain International revelrie,

brightens up New York City,

It brings glee to all around,

Its exuberance overflows and astounds,

A beautiful tree that will bring moments of the Holidays
to everyone that sees it,

Whether rich, poor, happy or sad, such a spectacular sight
makes everything seem alright.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lilies

       Let my hand tremble in the light. Am I whole, shaking in this warmth that shadows
out of the darkness? 
     Have I looked upon the shadows and longed for its silenced cold? Have I left the
garden of life’s valleys, to enter the world of thickened air and false horizons? 

           Where have all my lovely lilies gone, if not scattered through the darkness by
the wind? 

The petals that carried my dreams and hopes, have they been swallowed by the fitful
wisher? No; I have moved my eyes, and let them fall to the grounds of the shadows in the
alley, always within my reach, but my stilled hand will never grasp them in the cold. Let
them root in the shadows of my mind’s alley – sinking into the cracks of the stones I have
placed, to grow like weeds among the walls of my reality.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mountains and Cowslips

Wandering with friends through romantic and enchanting scenery the sun shines down on us,
The day is cool and clear each step on spongy mossy ground makes us feel as light as the air,
Finding our way along banks of a winding stream with each turn a fresh scene of loveliness,
This beautiful walk gladdens the eyes and charms the heart as nature is shows us her pictures.

While looking at these beautiful canvases of nature it is very hard to choose which is the best,
And looking at the glowing landscape a friend points towards a display of even more beauty,
In this scene there is nothing to say but just look at what is around us each turn makes us glow,
We feel the happiness of nature unfolding her gifts and you just know she has a winsome smile.

And as we walk further along a summer glade we nestle deeper into the bosom of mother earth,
Mountains and cowslips and the good old daisies join the purple heather laid out like a carpet.
The feeling is that nature is not exhausted yet she has many more treasures waiting to unfold,
As the dancing stream bubbles along and winds round an impending rock a surprise awaits us.

There is a scene so grand and wondrous that makes us silent and we are chained together in awe,
It seems up to this time a handmaid have been leading us through the porch and into the hallway,
Now we have arrived we have entered the chamber itself and stood face to face with our host,
Once more nature has opened her house to all her guests and hung forth her richest draperies.

The scenery before us now makes goose bumps rise on our arms and raises hair on our necks.
The sun shines brightly on the waters and the brown watered stream turns into a river of gold,
The land stretched out before us a radiant green that met the turquoise sky on the far horizon,
The caressing breezes carry delicious smells and scents it's a new spring everything is awake.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE HACK

Out of the yard,daughter Bev and me,on a hot summer day of Eighty-three.Hastoe 
to Cadsden,there and back,eight hours in the saddle..for our first all-day 
hack.Onto the canter path,down to Paines End,through Fox Lane our route did 
wend.Into a copse ,missing branches low,keeping the pace to an even flow.Up to 
Dunsmore,past the Black Horse,via Little Hampden we followed the course.Past 
Chequers and into Pondswood,down the hill to reach the pub.
Tethered the horses to the garden trees,ordered a ploughmans,with pickle and 
cheese.Feet up awhile for a long rest,enjoying a pint of the landlord's best.
Into the saddle,no time to laze,off at a canter in the heat haze.Back in Hastoe as 
the clock struck four,to stack the tack on the stable door.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bear and Salmon

A bear furtively steps on the stones in the swift river. 
Her cubs eagerly wait on the stone clad shores.
A prominent welt lies beneath mother bear’s coat of warmth.
The river has both sides lined with palisades of fir trees. 
Mother bear stands silently as a school of salmon swim into her presence.
Misted waters rise to greet a vibrant sky in jubilation.

As the salmon fight to traverse ferocious rapids,
mother bear listens intently and watches with bated breath in continuous silence.

Her cumbersome claw hovers like a weightless mosquito, dancing hitherto
for that oh so perfect catch.
The blue and gray titanium spray of the rapids avoids her touch.
And so, the salmon’s day has come to an end.
Mother bear and her cubs have sustenance for the moment.

I am just helping out a new soup member with her writing.  I have taken her submission and converted it into prose form.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Trill of a Robin

It is a beautiful summer day I was wakened by a robin that lives in my hedge,
He lives in my old hedge row happily singing a loud trill, his summer song,
I sat in my garden wearing an old dressing gown sipping a mug of white coffee,
Looking my way his round eyes scold me this is far too late to get out of bed.

I could hear the voice of a stream flowing along in one of the lower meadows,
It was warm, the morning sun shone on my face I closed my eyes to enjoy the glow,
I nearly went back to sleep I opened my eyes and was told off again by the Robin,
In early July nature stands strong full grown it's a perfect summer all is well,

On a day such as this men and woman and troops of children walk the rivers margin,
Refreshing long strolls through the glens and valleys on rolling beautiful hills,
As the day gets warmer songs of the birds become faint the nightingale is hushed,
The cuckoo has departed and the blackbird and the thrush rarely sing me a welcome.

A red rose fades on a wayside the corn has begun to go pale it means a good harvest,
There are still thousands of pretty beautiful flowers stretching into the distance,
The grass is full of green patches the leaves on the trees go darker as they mature,
Elder-flowers and corn poppy's sit in ancient hedgerows, sandy old heaths blow dust.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DUCKLING

A
New duckling
One day hatched
Abruptly cracked, newly detached
To the lake-edge dispatched 

To 
Mother’s feather
There, all together
Enjoy spring’s mild weather
Searching bugs in the heather

When
Brothers, sisters
Come chasing misters
Plus cats with whiskers
Make us scatter like twisters









Details | Prose Poetry | |

"Sweet Oracabessa"

Come with me and sail the Seven Seas,
on "Sweet Oracabessa" with ease,
The wind will be roaring and the sails 
will sway,
Nevermind, it will be a "Boat Lovers' Holiday",
The waves may crash and we'll end up on 
foreign shores,
Hopefully, there will be people who will
open their doors,

"Sweet Oracabessa" will glide smoothly
on the pristine ocean,
People will gawk and create a commotion,
Finally, after a long day at sea,
We will have earned a toast to bravery.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn in the Fields

As the year begins to draw darker at night the great long and sultry heats are past,
Rain has fallen and refreshed the air and repaired the parched earth of the summer,
Shadows of the year begin to fall there is a dark gloom it is pleasant and soothing,
The glare of past days hang in the air and in mornings a dew it is once more autumn.

There is a veil of clouds that are drawn away by the hands of the high soaring winds,
Clouds in their airy lengths and gossamer drapery amid an intense azure of immensity,
The sun comes up once more to brilliant days the calmest and most impressive beauty,
A watery sun with watery heat it shines down on autumn fields and bathes all in gold.

On every side there is real happiness as the stores of the year have all been gathered,
Trees begin to change their color indicative of ripeness in the orchards and gardens,
Hedges filled with an abundance of crops, blackberries remind us of Babes in the Wood,
Hedgerows brightened with scarlet berries, woody nightshade and all is truly beautiful.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in a Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closed my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise is from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath the oak listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain will wet meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It will travel underground meeting other raindrops and flow as spring water.

Clear springs feeding the runners, swelling brooks make their way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glades flowers and trees and far away is a rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflect off the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree glistens. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunny Day

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 

Everywhere 

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 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ ((Skipping Rocks)) ~

~ ((~ As I Ponder ~)) ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ When before I was brought to know such a day as this ... yes-once it weighed heavily on me the thought; will it ever-come ... yes and my pain, will it never-end? ~ ~ While in the instance of my depression I was unable to see the love of God well within the waters, kind reflection; but now; now through Him I have come to behold and live to tell of the treasure therein contained and abounding. Within this joyous and ever humbling-divine day for me of revelation, and so now; now-my- joy-has-been-sustained. For when I am to ponder the simple nature of His love in all of its purity, and patient delights; visions of these they skip across my mind from time to time. As my eager-hand ... the open-gesture, it moves to lay ahold of the promise of another. ~ ~ As this intention that I've picked up I carry now and cast-briskly ... into the darkness of the moist liquids, to land. As the-ripples gentle gliding they come to move in freedom across the vivid reflection, of this glassy-sheen, while slowly they are brought to roll along evenly with me-and-onward to-lay in peace-beside the stillness; of the open-shores. As-swiftly my- thoughts of God-and-life they move and-dance, upon the-humble shallows deeper and-ever deeper into the heart, of the waters ... and so my heart here stands-in view of-this-and feeling fonder. ~ ~ For-the tender ... thoughtful-kisses I give each place here in my heart that abide-amid the presence of Gods' perfect love, and-supreme-goodness; given-now- for the many blessings that I see. Amid the glory of-His many-other-wonders; I give my-heart again this-day; more- time ... for the nature of their-open-beauty; to-ponder. ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blacktorn Winters

Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.

The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.

Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fields Forever

Until the end, I fight 
I fight until the light is no more 
and the perilous night does begin 
& when my day is gone & future masked 
I climb my mountain with head hanging low 
Low for now, I killed and desecrated all held sacred 
Slain the last foe & as the day breaks again 
I gaze at fields of red fury 
Fury misunderstood all dead to understand 
Mountains ahead and behind, in this valley of 
Presence. Engulfed by injustice and punished 
In personal strife, I cry, 
not out but in I cry to hear 
inside, inside where I've tried to hide 
and defend on this field of red 
with no more to hide & more to 
hide from. I perch on this mountain I've made 
& expose myself to all, with none to tell 
I'm free, lost to live, lost to die 
Never to love, never to fly. Only wallow for 
It turns to night and shadows comfort me my friends 
Till the end 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kaleidoscope

As I close my eyes
   I remember all of the colors in my mind.
That have intricately intermingled,
   Into the only one of a kind,
Swirling around out of control
   Like a masterpiece made in  heaven.

I can see all the colors of my world in front of me
   Spinning around like a watercolor dancing on ice,
Similar to colors in a rainbow that I have seen
   No just once, or twice, but more than thrice,
Just so brilliant and beautiful....
   Magenta, fuchsia, tangerine, yellow,
Jade, cobalt, and violet.
   Magnified with such intensity
Has influenced such strong feelings
   That hasmesmerized not just me,
But an entire community.

That is the kaleidoscope of my world
   Which is also fascinated by others,
But it means so much more to me;
   It is similar to the path of my life.
Because wherever I go
   And whomever I meet
Becomes a part of whom I am.

No two people can see the same rainbow.
   Not many can honestly say
That they have seen mine.
   But I will always see
The colors of my kaleidoscope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 10

I wrote the Invisible man poems many years ago. These poems, and I have not submitted them all, was for a little girl who died in a road accident. They are a tribute to her memory. It was a dark and very sad time and I miss her so much. The Invisible Man poems are supposed to to show the the darkness of my world, the way I felt. They are very precious to me. Thank you for reading.

After a long time the Invisible man drops off into a light sleep. He dreams of his school friends, good days days that you will never forget and beautiful days that will make you cry.

My beautiful friend on this day,
Rise up and dress and come away,
We will walk in wild woods and upon plains,
To stare into pools where water rains.
We will walk under a roof of green leaves,
Under the spruce and garland weaves,
Leaning against the trunk of a tree,
Me holding you, you holding me.
Bluebells ringing as we walk by,
Holding hands the sun in his sky,
Bright with buttercups on this day,
Staring into eyes nothing to say.
Happy to be anywhere with you,
I hoped that is the same for you too,
Feeling high walking by your side,
Floating, smiling, eyes open wide.
So on we walk so happy together,
Not really caring about the weather,
It does not matter to me what we do,
It never does when I am with you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wind

She was the wind
That took my feet 
From beneath me
And had me falling
Like a leaf 
In the cold days
Of autumn

She was the wind
That swept 
All the sorrowful thoughts
That had gathered
And hidden long in my mind
Far, far away
To a place
That nobody knows

She was the wind
That danced around my heart
Making it beat
With a quickness
I had long forgotten
Raising me up
To meet her motions
With those of my own

And yes
She was the wind
That cooled the heat
Of my tired and wet body
After the deed was done
Allowing me to redeem myself
So that in time
I might
Feel the wind again


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blossom of a pear tree

The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes buds red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.

The taccamahac a name to deal with blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth." 

The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer has Gone Away

Winter steals its unwanted self upon us and the sultry heat of forgotten summer is past,
Torrents of rain painful hail have battered away our fond warm memories of a summer day,
The pasture now cloying feted mud which were hard ridges that hurt unsuspecting ankles,
Now the cattle in the fields breath out great plumes of steam they stand in deep puddles.

The sweet air that was filled with scented wild flowers from the richest meadows has gone,
The rich green seas of swaying grass and mighty oaks that groaned in breezes is now bare,
Leafy masses and the refreshing voices of our summer birds both have been silenced or gone,
As the shadows grow longer earlier in the day and warm nights are just gloom the magic gone.

There is no warm glare when the sun does shine it is low it hurts your eyes we look away,
Cool moisture of the summer months were welcomed now the foggy damp is wet, uncomfortable,
The beauty of a sunny day stimulated every sense in our bodies now it stimulates the cold,
Vials of clouds scudding across blue skies stroked by nature now falls as rain sleet or snow.

Clouds like airy lengths of gossamer drapery amid the azure of the lofty immensity of the sun,
Are now black and shaped like a blacksmiths anvil flash with lightening with heavy wet winds,
Gone is the sunrise of brilliant days of the calmest and the most impressive beauty has died,
And the children of men scattered over our nation are not on fields nor hills they sit indoors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr August

Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,

His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.

He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.

His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.

Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.

Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Snowdrop in March

As March sets in people are eager to work in their rural gardens and fields,
The earth turns up fresh and mellow and there is beauty in its very blackness,
Flowers are fast springing in the boarders, delicate and beautifully poetic,
Familiar friends the alpine violet, the dog tooth violet, daffodils and squills.

The little snowdrop peaks out of the soil to see how many of his friends wait,
The snowdrop sees the Almond trees blossom beautiful while others are leafless,
Bends his little white head to the tacamahac, smiling he waves at the catkins,
He casts his eyes at the mezereon with clustered blooms, a China rose unfolds.

The trees in the woods feel the warmer weather and wild wood flowers sprout up,
The snowdrop nods to his friends the Coltsfoot and cardamine in older fallows,
And in this magical setting the star of Bethlehem beams across the grey trees,
A kingcup waves to the celandine showing off their fine deep and golden lustre.

Then who does the snowdrop see, can it be his friend the daisy growing on turf,
The crocus spreads like a purple flood that has beautified meadows for all time
But for today the violets, white or purple takes its lodgings under our hedges,
They move along the moist banks which is well remembered from a sweet childhood.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beneath the Barley

Come quick, come quiet, come yet my dear. To the place and days where all you fear, 
will be waiting for you on the moss of the old bark.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Spring Cleaning

Spring enters like
a welcome maid in a dirty
room, cleaning all of Winters mess
and correcting Fall for putting him up to it,
spreading her beauty and love, leaving her
fresh scents & perfect memories


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Colors

Greens of my mid-western childhood, call me like a magnet.
Blue green of sagebrush country fills my vision of senior years
Full of my life's wisdom's.
Bold Northeast fall colors bring memories on grapevines
over the gentle maw of my childhood ravine.
Now I gaze at mountains near and rich tapestry of 
woven western fall.
No pink, light polluted sky for me
I see a early evening velvet indigo sky
and twinkling Milky Way to guide
my pensive pen on its merry way
Great Azure sky roofs over the valley
and storms lightening far to see
over saddle back ridge, Not...just for me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blackthorn Winter

Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.

The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.

Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Green and pure

Mankind seeks dominion, and takes it all by brute force..
we took the trees, to have roads, companies and buildings all in a rush...
we mined for gold , not caring the cost..

looking back we realize we should have taken another course..
for every tree cut, another should have been planted of course! 
we didn't do that, and so the forests got sparse,the soil got coarse.. 
beautiful cities emerged, wow! who would have thought?!
 with them however, man got spoilt, 
we stopped walking, and in came the cars,those were classy, but they came with emissions and noise.

Hahaha, the ozone layer gets burned..
even light bulbs emit spurts,
 now the sun shines ,not to warm, but to scorch..
The  rains come to nourish our crops and then take our houses with flood..
Enough !

Now we must retrace our  steps, and chart a new course..
we must plant a tree for everyone we cut..
 no more indiscriminate burning let each waste/refuse be properly disbursed..
we must opt for alternative energy resource..
let us keep mother-earth as much as we can,Green , rich and  Pure.







Details | Prose Poetry | |

August and The Foxglove

August is mature with shining brown hair the colour of a ripe cornfield
Greying at the temples and his fringe he has clear eyes of deepest blue,
Deep smiling lines of crow’s feet on the sides of his rugged brown face,
He looks all around a strong tall a man one who was born to be a leader.

His serene presence of wisdom and age make him delightful company,
He smiles broadly when crops and orchards are ripe ready for his birds,
Feels the soil with callused hands as clouds wisp across a turquoise sky,
Walks through forests, woods and copses he breaths in air fit for a king.

He watches the cattle on the rich grass a gentle lowing from the beasts,
Staring at rich green grasses that have grown boldly on heath and field,
Rinsing rough hands in a cool spring flowing through the healthy trees,
Leaf mold has an earthy smell a good contrast to the woodland flowers.

On the moors and rich dusty commons heather covers a dry hard ground,
Scabiuses compete with blue chicory, hawkweeds and rich honeysuckle,
Perfume from his August splendour drift far away in warm gentle breezes,
Blue campanula is cascading down banks of thickets this the day of days.

Nuts hang in tall hedges by ancient woodlands green and sweet to taste,
Growing along old woodland lanes old path’s picked for Christmas Day,
He salutes the fading dog stars of the thousand year old thick hedgerows,
Walks towards a foxglove and kneels down, winks and blows her a kiss


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr August

Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,

His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.

He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.

His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.

Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.

Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nature freewrite

Walking through this forest unaccompanied by others, drinking the sweet nectar of nature's blissful pores, enjoying its sounds like a sweet saxophone playing the melodies only hearts could hear. from the beat of wings both bug-like and aviating to the rustling leaves in the upper levels of wooden skyscrapers. swatting away mosquitoes thinking of days when girls had cooties and surrounded me going, "i'm not touching you..", watching bees play tag with lilies and dandelions thinking of Saturday mornings with my younger sisters, playing hide and seek with Jaz and Skye. all the laughter and joy filled tears I could ever ask for, watching Venus flytraps play the roles of father and son, playing a game that resembles something like when dad and I would play basketball til the wee hours of the evening, rewarding my efforts with his acknowledgment and a playful rub on the head, tears falling to the ground. standing as a lion and its cubs uncloak themselves from the cover of bushes, the way the lioness cares for her young reminiscent to the way my mother held me on that fated day, never wanting to let go but knowing i'd grow into a child of prophecy and joined god in her rightful place. leaving me alone as i am now. and walking through the forest unaccompanied by others, thinking of this feeling and whispering to nature... I'm home..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Scorned

The old mother
She lays her head down and she sighs
Her eyes close
She’s growing tired
So tired

Still
There is within her
The strength of heart
To rise up and smash us
To crush us
To burn us
To rip and tear us apart
And drown us all
In her rage
Her tears

For we are all to blame
All of us
Not just one race
But all
For when we didn’t fight
Hard enough
When we didn’t fight at all
And when we didn’t listen
And when we
Didn’t heed her cries
As we raped her
We were killing her too

And maybe
Maybe
This mother
Won’t turn the other cheek
Maybe she’ll bash our skulls in
Maybe she’ll kill all of her children
Because we’re all ungrateful
And maybe
Maybe
Mother Earth will just
Die


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Crowned by meadowsweets

We're surrounded with myriad 
Of flowers, yet 
Playing little attention to them
Unless they're breathtakingly beautiful,
Innocence embrace them equally:
They're symbols of higher reality, 
Even the humble wildflowers 

Born in the midst of a long war
Meant to learn the art of survival,
My beloved city flattened to the ground:
Without visible streets
Stones upon stones
Wrapped in deafening silence,
Resembling to an endless cemetery 

Life in the woods remained 
Unconscious of man made devastation: 
Offering food for thoughts 
To unblemished minds, like
Braiding bracelets from snowdrop's hope
Rings from daisy's innocence and tiaras from
Meadowsweet's heavenly scent

Darkened by dirt, dressed in rags, but 
Crowned by nature's living beauty 
I was whole,
Under the rubble my mother waited
With open arms
Reassuring: I was
The most beautiful flower of her life



Contest by Anthony Slausen
22/11/14


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HALLOWS EVE TO CANDLEMAS

Hallow Eve to Candlemas,the sun now turning south,also;November 
sombre,December dark,January,February cold and stark.Catkins litter the forest 
floor,beeches shed their leaves galore.Gales melange the mix,as decay brings 
nature's bionomics.Hexagon pointed stars move and shift ,into a patterned 
powdered drifts.Rain filled days of slush and muck,webs on shards of gossamer 
stuck.Twilight months in winter shade until the snowdrops matamorphise in the 
glade.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Age Greets Winter

The year gets older storms streak the skies I am told age is a quality of the mind,
Do I sit indoors and watch the fog, the dirt, the rain and wind splash on my windows,
So I wonder around indoors in a depressing influence of a winter with its suffering,
Muttering to myself and to others that old age has made me leave my dreams behind me.

Standing by French windows, beaten by tempests, so I shuffle over to an evening fire,
The flowers have gone and longer grass stands among the thickets withered, bleached,
The fern red and shriveled amid the green gorse and broom, even my hope has gone cold,
Plants that waved white umbels to the summer breeze now a skeleton a trophy of death.

The brooks are brimful the rivers turbid covered with masses of foam hurrying along,
Words in my head whisper, if you no longer plan ahead, ambitions dead, you are old,
Our gardens, sad and damp and so desolate their floral splendors are naked and dead,
Decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure and all is gloom and all is silence.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Redest Popies

The corn now growing tall moving like an angry sea in a ferocious wind,
It rustles softly it is thrown back and forth by a warm billowing wind,
Rye is higher than my shoulders cerulean ears have long since been shot,
In the fields grow the reddest of red poppies they too sway in the wind.

Scarlet anagallis and the red of the cockle twinkling in the sharp sun,
With the rye cut the wild roses takes center stage and bows at the sun,
On sandy heaths the wind blows dust across the woods mead's and glades,
Thistle instead of wheat, cockles instead of barley in the sandy soil.

Black cloud as thunder rumbles it cracks loud across the darkened sky
Drenching rain pelts the ground and swells gentle rivers and streams,
The slow water now rushes picking leaves and wood on its furious way,
As the storm ends there is no smell like a soaked wood or wet field.

The black skies clear and a warm sun shines on the meadows and glades,
The thick dark green grass shimmers in the breeze in a warm bright sun,
Droplets sparkle like diamonds hanging from a copse of ancient lime trees,
The rain in the dark green grass is like a kaleidoscope of a tiny rainbow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MARSH

Cattails, sedges, papyrus,  sawgrass
Fish waterfowl soundless salamanders
In soft wet interface of water and earth
      Reclines the orbit of Marsh


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Storm in my Ming

Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rumbled, rain lashed and all was dark,
A terrible storm but the heat is not cooled and hot fetid air remained stale,
Thunder was my loss, and heat was my anger, of a very dear lifelong friend,
The rain was my tears falling from swollen eyes I stood alone in my darkness.

Heavy steel black clouds scudded across skies and viciously poured cold rain
Air became rancid and a new wave of anger etched into my dark heart and soul
A loss too hard to face as the thunder cracked my mind was in a place so dark,
By a quiet garden where bodies lay I cannot remember any happiness of my past.

No more happy greetings no more joy in thinking no more joy in anything at all,
A wasted friend in a wasted world a dark frightening place to live in all alone,
Trying to sleep through nights sliding hours the longest night hours ever known,
Thinking of meadows, beautiful boiling streams my darkest thoughts always return.

Walking together down long winding paths but now I cannot see any beauty anymore,
Those happy times we had no longer exists, as happiness is an emotion for fools,
There is a flaming coal inside my head it has scorched and burned sweet memories,
All that is left is hatred anger and revenge with wretched pictures from the past. 


 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Day in the Country

Lost in a beautiful garden that stretched far into the perfect turquoise horizon,
Amazed at the smells, the beauty with the breeze singing through blossomy trees
The cherry blossom danced in a light wind lifted it off boughs swirling in the air,
Sun shining through budding branches, shadows of mighty oak trees black on green

A haunting tune from the star in the meadows a nightingale sang to his loved one,
His song filled the air over water mead's nearby, and floated through great woods,
A trickling stream flowed with golden water running and leaping to a noble river,
Last years fallen crisp brown red leaves floated off on a journey to a noble river.

Listening to a nightingales opera warming the hardest heart it floats in the wind,
Then when it does not seem possible to hear a better sound the bird changes pitch,
While it sings sweetly the rest of the grasslands are silent, proud and respectful,
As no other voice can match the wonderful tune that rings through heaths and dales.

In the distance there were some landmarks that were familiar so now I was not lost,
I spotted a butcher-bird, cockchafer in the warm woods as I stood on spongy turf,
Saxifrage in the meadow as I walked out from the wood into brilliant May sunshine,
Far in the distance a horn sounded to tell workers their work was done and go home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Natures Secrets Behind Hedges

Nature hangs sparkling green curtains all around the fields and the meadows along its edges,
From great tall trees that sway in summer breezes everywhere including tiny little hedges,
Its hides her secrets well, like a mother, protecting them from some people and prying eyes,
Guarding her world like a woman warrior away from any chance of danger and any rude surprise,
Her hidden beauty is behind the thick curtains made of thorns and nettles, rivers, anything,
Then from each thicket comes a quiver of birds weaving through trees and taking to the wing,
This wonderful renascence is spectacular and repeating itself back to when world was created,
Sunshine smiling across open land, flowers for our bees the spring appears the land is elated.
When all is ready she draws the veils and shows us her most magnificent pictures in her troves,
Trees are white with blossom the ground is a woven carpet and flowers spring up in their droves,
Soft breezes diffuse the most delicious smells and the sun is spreading from mountain to dales,
Looking down on everything, wide wild meadows, wet water mead's and dense clefts it never fails,
In the sun the nightingale fly's from the south the voice of the turtle is heard in their home,
The swallow comes from the shore and the rich garden of China where it build it's nests of foam,


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother Of Waters

Mother of Waters
you're peace and tranquility;
how I long to be as free.

Oh Mother of Waters,
mighty! untroubled, and true!
change me to be just like you.

You have given us life
then have taken it away...
seen battles lost and won
through the nights until the day.

But who can say
what controls your silence?
And who can say 
what commands your violence?

Sweet Mother of Waters
graceful, mystic, serene...
who can know what you have seen?

You have given us life
then have taken it away...
seen battles lost and won
through the nights until the day.

but who can say
what controls your silence?
And who can say
what commands your violence?

Dear Mother of Waters,
great mirror of the dusk and the dawning...
calming, soothing, everlasting...
how I long to be as free!

Change me to be just as thee.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SIXTYTWO

 SIXTYTWO 
SIXTYTWO 
 
 
Therebedragonflies 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
There is no darkenness in the LORD my GOD he is perfect and forever more the 
creation He has made a little less than perfectly but some things he made to 
warm our hearts in spring are nearly formed as close to GOD he loves them all 
the dragonflies is one of those they meet all the requirements for our love. 
Four wings so delicately made to fly. A faces only mothers could have loved. NO 
reason much to live except just to exist existence then is love. They fly and have 
ewe noticed them at night how they like to lite near open water near a waterfall 
ewe find them mostly brown but there aer read ones and some blue ones and 
some good ones no they are only good ones and they spy on lovers in the night 
One heart lonesome thinking of her man one heart yearning to be a man they 
find each other in the dragon fly again. Water drowns a man he wants to swim 
into the underwater dragonfly the lair of all the mermaid wishes she is there oh 
mye Ianthe. You are terribly adorable! mon ange. 
<3 
>.< 
Soon the dragonflies will come back again 
L()()K at this it seems that love has blinded her to mye reality she waits and 
searches for our love amid the gleaming pearls of water searching for the wings 
the spotted owl no the raven quoted no the flying serpent there no it is the yellow 
tail the golden flyer there the portent of mye heart turned into love. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Night by a Lake

A round bright moon glowed low in the night sky throwing silver pennies onto rippling water,
A nightingale sang a beautiful haunting tune accompanied by a sedge warbler a nighttime bird,
I listened to a song thrush singing from the upper branches of a haggard, horny old oak tree,
Earlier before the light had nearly gone a redbreast bathed in the lake always his last chore.

I sat outside on this warm summer night the twilight showed me shadows of monsters and beasts,
An old lime tree like a thief in the night creeping up on me as the sun sank and the moon rose,
Noises from the forest sounded like madmen that had escaped running in chains I looked around,
Twigs, dry branches snapped then a hurried rustle, was the forest haunted like the locals say.

Popping open a bottle of ginger beer sounded as loud as a hiss of a sidewinder rattlesnake,
Crunching a biscuit was as loud a huge avalanche of snow sliding fast down a huge mountainside,
Eating my peanuts I thought an army of soldiers were marching at the back of my wooden cabin,
I tried to think what creeps about in the dead of night making these noises, I wasn't scared.

A small owl seldom hunts by day except in the spring when he becomes restless and excited,
Little owls normally crepuscular and nocturnal rather than diurnal may sit on telegraph poles,
The creatures of the dark creep out from their hiding places when night time covers the land,
And a badger sits in a silent motionless vigil hiding having dug out an old wasp or bees nest.

Sitting outside my cabin on the lake on a moonlit night you are last person left on this earth,
There is rustling in the hedges and trees it is relaxing yet startling you are being watched,
A gander of geese fly silhouetted past the huge bright moon on their way to warmer countries,
My bottle of ginger beer nearly gone the same way as the biscuits I yawn and make my way to bed.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Steals the Sun

Autumn steals the summer months so now in loneliness I shut my doors and grieve,
Rain cleans the dust from a warm summer and as some flowers droop they say goodbye,
With the rain refreshing all, the smell and the perfumed dying plants turn into just sticks,
The air has rested for weeks now awakes and shake trees and my heavy wooden doors.

The shadows grow longer, but the day grows shorter, with a coolness of moisture,
Veils of clouds rush so much faster the showers are short bursts with sharp hail,
Along the sky are trailed clouds, with their gossamer drapery amid intense azure,
The sun rises once more so brilliant for these days, the calmest most impressive beauty.

Time passes, I close and lock my windows and pull back on the great oak shutters,
Then come the rains, long and deluging amid late summer frosts, that damages corn,
And when steady gushing rains, flood the meadows and fill the mead's, all is lost,
Late autumn steals the bright suns, in loneliness I shut out all light and grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fallen Snow

A snow flake drops on an empty forest floor
For a moment the small *thud* echoes
Suddenly two more fall 
And that small *thud* 
The *thud* that started in echoes ended
And started in a beautiful winter song
And that song echoed through the trees and the forest
Then moments later ending its song in small repeating flurries
Singing, “Fallen snow, fallen snow, fallen snow shall come once more!”
Then finally one snow flake ends that song with a *thud*
A *thud* on an empty forest floor…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Has Spring Sprung

Can't seem to get off to sleep tonight, thoughts buzzing around my old head,
It's dark and quiet, the cat has gone out and the street lights have gone out too,
The odd car passes by maybe coming home from friends or a night on the town,
Could be on the way back from a restaurant a Chinese, or picking up family?

Looking at the calender I see we are getting into mid March and days are longer,
Could it be that the winter has lost its sharp teeth and the might of frosts gone,
A thousand welcomes to Spring but it cannot bring back youth or thicken my hair,
Or enable us to offer the first gathered violets to dear souls in their heavens.

The fowled of the farm yard lay, the pheasants crow in the copse the ring dove coos,
The linnet and the gold finch sing while man looks to fences and drains and water levels,
Next is ploughing and sowing, pruning and planting and talking of good years gone,
Sprimg stirs all with her mighty influence from the depths of the soil and heart.

So spring is with us and she will throw off one dark and gloomy coat after another,
And spring will chase away winter with his hardly wrinkled face and keen eye for beauty,
It is marxh rough yet pleasent, vigorous and strong with hope and strength and lovely voice,
His gales will come rushing and sounding over forest and lea and shake nature wide awake.

The tacamahac shows off its long furry green catkins, the mezereon its clustered blossoms,
Then the splendid red China rose unfolds itself to the fresh air, and green pastures return,
Coltsfoot and cardamine embellish old fallows and the star of Bethlehem gleams in the woods,
Crocus spreads around like a purple flood over the old established meadows, spring is sprung.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bond to Tide

Each breath, a pool of hope, rising and falling, the tide of my being. How did I learn this? I 
need not think to do it. Does the ocean feel the same? It seems to work so hard, forward 
and back, pushing the shore. Could it stop? Perhaps only I am captivated in this moment. A 
coincidence? Our souls pull together. How easy to forget the rhythm of these breaths. They 
are mine...yet I see them in water? How long does this ocean pulse? Has all been lost? Or 
was nothing to gain? Just be. Ocean and me. I am sure my breath is drawn in with the tide.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sapphire

There is fire in the sky tonight
Just glimmers really
Echoing the flame within my soul

Embers in the sky
Like coals beneath the heat
The cool of night
Like my heart

Ready is the spark
That luminescence within the clouds
To take flight into true flame
Lighting the sky like day
With a new-born star

Or just as ready to fade
As dust sailing away within the winds
From glimmerings into ashes
Cast into the sea

There is fire in the sky
Fire in the sky tonight
Just glimmering really
Echoing the flame within her hair


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The End of June

On a beautiful June morning very early we made our way down to the fields,
The men had scythes to ring in all the bustle for the annual hay harvests,
We were a merry bunch and we stripped down to the waist in sunburnt groups,
At close of day we sat down in the deep cool grass of a hidden shady valley.

A cool stream clear as glass the shadows on the stream rippled and danced,
The shadows reflected circles of light on the stony bottom, a perfect day,
On the small bank an azure crowfoot waves to you in an evening light breeze,
The purple comfrey goes one better and dips its leaves in the crystal spring.

Hanging over the babbling stream branches droop over weighed by chestnuts,
We pick gooseberries, currants, ripe strawberries as the month slips away,
The cuckoo's departs and as a dark tinge of evening comes, glow worms glow,
We walk to our homes happy and tired over sweet bails of hay, lovely days.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shorter Days

Shadows of the year begin to fade early upon the forests and lush green fields,
A gloom both pleasant and soothing relaxes all after the glare of summer days,
September hangs in the air bringing to morning and evening a pleasant coolness,
Leaves burning on bonfires smoke rising in the cool air the smell is haunting.

A veil of clouds are drawn away like clipper sails billowing in soaring winds,
Through the sky are trailed the cotton clouds and beautiful gossamer curtains,
The sun comes once more to calmness and excuses himself as the sun is colder,
Beneath this sun children play in this time of change they run about all day.

The shortening day sounds a warning to make haste and enjoy all natures beauty,
There is silence over the fields and the solemn hush inspires thoughtful mood,
Then the sun appears and shares its cooler beams bathing the woods and fields,
Nature smiles at the sun an old friend a long friendship of confiding affection.

Blackberries so thick protected by razor sharp thorns to ward off the uninvited,
While mushrooms spring, by magic white and fresh in spongy rolling green pasture,
The geometric spider hangs its webs on bushes like silver jewels in a shop window.
September is proud to show all it's beauty as the sun sets early we light our fires.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Icicles and Sharp Frost

One dark and very cold night I decided to stretch my legs and go for a walk,
Stars were so very clear, if I stood on a ladder I, could touch the Dog Star,
Jack Frost is busy frost on frost sparkled and twinkled in silver moonlight,
The river and local brooks stood in silence only waterfalls trickled slowly.

A frozen mist floated down and rested over the top of any frozen water way,
Becoming denser, pressing nearer the icy surfaces I could smell sharp cold,
Standing on the bank in a frozen setting was a big old oak's moonlit shadow,
The tips of my ears tingled and my breath was rime, it was so very beautiful.

Layers of water slowly flowed over the ice, that water turned to ice in minutes,
Plates of ice covered with a frost clogging the runs and eddies everything still,
Icicles hung down from branches and the arches of a small bridge solid and strong,
In the morning ice would be levered up and broken, left to sail into the distance.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sparrow-Hawk

There is a sparrow-hawk souring high and low around a huge forest,
Searching, just above the ground into the farm lands and gardens,
He swoops down in a morning sun an atmosphere soft and delightful,
Like a bullet over cowslips and primroses, there is one less robin,

His tail is long and slim it sets him apart from the other hawks,
He flies through his skies clipping the abundant nightingale wings,
Although his eyes see for miles he flies fast and near the ground,
Young pheasants hide in the rich green grass of a lush hidden meadow.

The secret meadow has been left untouched and alone for many years,
Home to the Austrian briar, Guelder roses and fiery orange poppies
Enjoying the peace of a spring morning the grass rich with clover,
The hawk catches a small bird that hangs in the air and swoops away.

The air of the grass is delicious, scattered flowers nod in a breeze,
Butcher-birds are noisy a sure sign that they have some young chicks,
Turtle-doves are abundant in the near by forest well hidden by thorns,
Above all, in an old oak a hawk sits watching, waiting for his dinner.  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Snowdrop in March

As March sets in people are eager to work in their rural gardens and fields,
The earth turns up fresh and mellow and there is beauty in its very blackness,
Flowers are fast springing in the boarders, delicate and beautifully poetic,
Familiar friends the alpine violet, the dog tooth violet, daffodils and squills.

The little snowdrop peaks out of the soil to see how many of his friends wait,
The snowdrop sees the Almond trees blossom beautiful while others are leafless,
Bends his little white head to the tacamahac, smiling he waves at the catkins,
He casts his eyes at the mezereon with clustered blooms, a China rose unfolds.

The trees in the woods feel the warmer weather and wild wood flowers sprout up,
The snowdrop nods to his friends the Coltsfoot and cardamine in older fallows,
And in this magical setting the star of Bethlehem beams across the grey trees,
A kingcup waves to the celandine showing off their fine deep and golden lustre.

Then who does the snowdrop see, can it be his friend the daisy growing on turf,
The crocus spreads like a purple flood that has beautified meadows for all time
But for today the violets, white or purple takes its lodgings under our hedges,
They move along the moist banks which is well remembered from a sweet childhood.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Cowslip and the Primrose

How beautiful and pleasant is nature at this very moment it uplifts hearts,
Green is the grass dotted with young flowers in golden rods of sunlight,
The cuckoo has returned from far away and she shouts her gladness once more,
A nightingale pours hymns with love joy from every bough so sweet so lovely.

The cowslip and the primrose bathe in soft dewy meadows they bend in the wind,
The scent of their presence rises to heaven and heaven smiles down upon them,
The country side is a paradise of love youth and beauty it takes breath away,
If a child was permitted to break from parents she would run and jump with joy.

To breathe fresh pure air to revel in the feeling of all the delicious greenness,
Let work stop for a day calm the brain and heart and just lay down in soft clover,
The otter can bask so can the sedge snake and the toad, why can't can man bask too,
Such a day must come for all families or nature will waste its time go elsewhere.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

November

Walking on a cold November morning the woods are bare the old leaves going or gone,
Mist covers the land and clings onto wet spiders webs that hang from the stark trees,
Who could enjoy this time of year when there is nothing but clouds, fogs and frosts,
Fogs that are damp and hang over watery places like rivers, streams and water mead's,
The summer flowers are gone and the long grass stands high amongst wooded thickets,
Thickets of sticks standing alone in an old unused field or an old desolate garden,
These thickets withered bleached and sere a sad sight a lost legacy now all shriveled,
Green gorse and broom waved white in the summer breezes have now waved a last goodby
They are like skeleton trophies of a death rattle with dry with brittle hollow stalks,
The brooks are filled and the rivers are turbid covered in a brown dirty thick foam,
Rivers hurrying along with angry strength and the waters soak the fields and glades,
Leaving our gardens damp and desolate their flowers just naked stems and dying leaves.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lovely Day

The primroses still continue their welcome bloom on the commons on a May day,
With scattered oaks and rich thickets the birds chirping the days are longer,
Hundreds of nightingales singing together, sad songs from an enchanted forest,
A cuckoo is heard from deep in the fairy forest and the rich grasses knee deep.

Mornings now are not so dark, the pools and streams flow white with ranunculus,
Foxglove leaves are springing up, firm and green in the woods and on many banks,
Soon it will be time to dig and hoe, the red and black spotted butterfly flies,
Time to wander over ancient commons, the ichneumon flies are out busy and alert.

It's so nice to see the spring again in gardens the common current is so lovely,
Hedges luxuriantly green, the perfume of hawthorn, everything is just beautiful,
The woods to which the young people used to go out before day break, a-maying,
The sky with dark whitish clouds scudding their way to the sea, maybe some rain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Moon's House

My eyes, that which has betrayed me the most, look up toward you, my shining moon, in the
sky. Frozen in place, I look to you for guidance, finding your arms held out to me in that
cruel gesture. I will not take it, for your fingers will never close around my shaking
ones, and I will never find your smile as kind as I did the first time. 
	It is like looking at the sun, only to find it harsher with each dimming glance until I
am blind. 

How hard it is, to stand within the moving tides that pull towards you, all running to
your hand and falling through the gaps between, returning to itself as whole as it will
ever be, save for the drops that lovingly slide down your wrists. 

	With locked gazes, I can not help but wonder who you are looking at, if it is to me or
the ones around me, I will never know, but for now, I will follow the sinking waters to
your grasp, but I shall keep my hand reached towards the burning sun, and I will take
neither. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn has Gone

Autumn is on its way he is leaving us to endure cold damp and wet times,
The trees have portrayed their last piece of grandeur and the leaves go,
It's the end of the richest and warmest colors the landscape unrivaled,
The delight of walking through woods and over long fields is disappearing,
So is the joy of watching the wind driving the many tinted leaves before it,
Gone treading on rustling leaves in still glades the language of the season,
The hops have been gathered and the poor city people's holidays are now gone,
The farmers are busy turning up the soil with his plough ready for next year,
The ditches and the meadows are being banked up in the many muddy old fields,
Gathering, storing potatoes, carrots, beet-root and Swedish turnips finished,
And the orchards are cleared of their fruit the old bruised apples for cider.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter is Here

Even in the wintry world the soul of the coming year bursts through the frost,
Amid drifts of snow the long icicles hung down from eaves, fences and ledges,
Walking by day is bracing and delightful hot chestnuts sold from street corners,
Fires burning in metal bins people warming hands stopping for a few minutes.

As the day darkens,lights shine from house windows silhouette through curtains,
Music from piano's songs and good conversation lift hearts in domestic bliss,
Fairy flakes silently and suddenly delight the towns people a sparrow sings,
Whatever the calendar may say feelings do not cross seasons until the first snow.

In the parks and woods see wild scenes of winter life with driving snow storms,
A sombre landscape noiseless passage of a hawk amid the trees, and cutting wind,
Moaning pines, the cold light of day growing colder as the quick darkness falls,
These and other ghastly things that appertain to natures annual winter has come.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Hard Winter

On a cold frosty December morning snow has already visited the land so bare so dreary,
With its mighty sword it has cut down dahlias and made us look after any tender plants,
In the north sky the aurora borealis, flashed, a winter tale says it is a sign of cold,
So once more we prepare for hoary frost and snows, a sharp slap from an evil east wind.

Those who wrap up in warm cloaks, coats, and fine furs they will bare the bitter chill,
For those fortunate people, a fire blazes in their homes, a table well spread are glad,
But put you hand on your heart and tell, how many will miss these things in the winter,
The many with the huge burden of suffering and freezing how they must yearn for spring.

For those who can we must lend a hand to lighten distress that will certainly prevail,
We must brace up our hearts, forget our own troubles to assist others when called upon,
We must rouse all the slumbering humanity in our nature and collect warm coats not warn,
How much better will they be on the backs and beds of our suffering in the cold winter.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Poem the 1st Chap. Inspired Bye ~ Part #22

Why not-we begin ... today?      ~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~   ~ ~ ~~ "Blind" ~~ ~ juries out, ~ ~ breakfast's on, ~  ~ behind me ~ ~ rising ~  ~ the Sun, ~ ~ presently, ~ ~ friends, my ~ ~ heart grateful ~  ~~~ is open"" ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~      ~ In complete abandon... This season I am left here. As up and coming it is brought to me, the glorious nature of my shining Son, and so... so here he comes now, the purest kind of awakening for me, and the sweetest joy of my hearts delight!  Our young one... Jamie... Just a running... Yes our little boy in those pull up Pampers. Just glowing, like the burning of the morning Sun ... . ~ ~ As so, and so  as well now she can be found to be as free... My precious Wife, tenderly floating around and just a humming within the kitchen, and as I go-in-just to kiss her... I know that I am well... because I can always be certain of this. The dear heart, she is breakfast cooking for us again, and like the gentle plains have been sent to rain. To move she always does so as to nurture us with the fervent nature of her love, and so now... So with it being the Lords day and all. ~ ~ Today we are all going home to see Him, and to hear what moved our gracious Pastor... He has been brought to say... ~ ~ For He too is a shining congregate in the blessing with us all, and when I am moved myself... I look to see Jamie. Our little boy wee small in those pull up Pampers. Fold His tiny little hands, and start to pray, and as so... So I am taken in... Yes by the very vision and pureness of His perfect innocence, and overall the sweet and ever certain, and absolutely beautiful. Enchanting tenderness of his fragile understanding, and the honest, and forever resilient way, the one so  treasured by me now of the compelling nature of his simple and unconditional openness to God... ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Global Warming Goblins

 



 The Global Warming Goblins 
 were gruesome 
sneaky creatures
and there are movies 
featured with these 
creatures
they 'd often spread
gruesome tales 
just to scare
they didn't care
like tales of dying whales...
and dying polar bears...
They'd pretend
to like nature .
They'd pretend 
to like humans
Yet, the gruesome
sneaky goblins
blamed them for the strife
they set out to hurt humans 
for the rest of their life.

Crunch! Gobble! Crunch!

"The earth will melt-they'd shout!"
And many more lies spread about!

"The earth will burn!"
"The  earth won't turn!"      

      Lies, Lies, Lies !

" Serve us or lose your  head!"
"For if you don't, you will dread.!"

 Crunch! Gobble ! Crunch!   


Copyright  McCuen  2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Winter Tale

In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.

With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.

It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Butterworth Town

Walk along a steep cliff top over glades over Yew trees and brambles to Butter-Worth Head,
Walk through a wood and stand by a warm bank of the clearest spring a mezereon will blossom,
The old tacamahac shows off his long pale green catkins and a China rose gently unfolds,
Green plants bursting the mold with wild flowers will nod to us just as do old friends.

Walking over a Colts foot and a cardamine into a moist meadow a star of Bethlehem gleams,
Many of the wild flowers sway in a soft breeze not understanding how beautiful they are,
My old Friend the daisy waves from far below us they are small but nobody would miss them,
Over another meadow the crocus spreads like a flood of purple the greenest of grass nods.

Violets peek out of hedges many banks and have done through many many of a child's memories,
Remembering the shrieks of children's delight when they are seen for the very first time,
A flash of many years rush through my mind and back to long warm days and long good friends,
Some spots we have seen in our long gone times have delighted us and those who are long gone.

A million greetings to spring her pale arms full of flowers the flowers seen on spring days,
She has also the flower of our youth and although we are children deep down gone are those days,
Gone are the first gathered violets to say good by to the dear little souls who are in heaven,
The bees buzz around these violets and rabbits hop around forgetting fears across the field


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer has Gone

Winter steals its unwanted self upon us and the sultry heat of forgotten summer is past,
Torrents of rain painful hail have battered away our fond warm memories of a summer day,
The pasture now cloying feted mud which were hard ridges that hurt unsuspecting ankles,
Now the cattle in the fields breath out great plumes of steam they stand in deep puddles.

The sweet air that was filled with scented wild flowers from the richest meadows has gone,
The rich green seas of swaying grass and mighty oaks that groaned in breezes is now bare,
Leafy masses and the refreshing voices of our summer birds both have been silenced or gone,
As the shadows grow longer earlier in the day and warm nights are just gloom the magic gone.

There is no warm glare when the sun does shine it is low it hurts your eyes we look away,
Cool moisture of the summer months were welcomed now the foggy damp is wet, uncomfortable,
The beauty of a sunny day stimulated every sense in our bodies now it stimulates the cold,
Vials of clouds scudding across blue skies stroked by nature now falls as rain sleet or snow.

Clouds like airy lengths of gossamer drapery amid the azure of the lofty immensity of the sun,
Are now black and shaped like a blacksmiths anvil flash with lightening with heavy wet winds,
Gone is the sunrise of brilliant days of the calmest and the most impressive beauty has died,
And the children of men scattered over our nation are not on fields nor hills they sit indoors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

April

If the wind changes and the showers fall heavily on meadows and glades April is Green,
Buds and leaves grow quickly on these green days everyone can see that there is a sun,
Walk through villages, commons and steep lands, the sun reflects off the thick grass,
Larks sing as they twist and wrestle with warm air watched by blackbirds in old trees,
Across the commons large flocks of goslings the same shade of green as a willow catkin,
And gorse in bloom right along the hedge sides in dells and woods lying in the sunshine,
Their faint scented perfume and scented wood anemones are in their thousands over fields,
The turf is sown with violets while cowslips grow buds over the meadows and flower early.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Poem the 1st Chap. Inspired Bye ~ Part #24

~ Yes, I'll set here with Him and with you, but only for a moment... " Yes talk some alone with you and Jesus! " Of my many dreams.For my new, and expanding family, and for me,and for Jamie, (((and the many a sorted thing,))) and yes I reckon. ~  ~ To run off laughing still I just might go off alone again in time to wrestle with the wind. (((Oh but no, really...))) In my honesty, and my abandon and in the gentle advance of my heart, I say to you. For this is to be considered as well. ~ ~ In a while I reckon. (I'll want to go back in to help Ma and real soon, and of this I'm sure.) ~  ~ To set the table for dinner, and fold, a small lot of the laundry, it is my honest hope this time while I play and roll and jump around on the ground some for a moment with my two teenage children and our little Jamie, our young one, and feed my tiger fish and then do some of the rest of my chores, and so I have found through God and through the sweet nature and e'er-gentle heart beating well within Him. ~  ~ It is to be mine, this! my greatest fortune! ~  ~ To have a happy home now and the better part of my fancy set free. For so beset and living in the honest way-beside-me ... . By one! The tenderness given to me through the nature of His perfect goodness, perfect Grace. ~  ~ Gods' love has finally found me, but still wandering, will I always be! Down along that leafy road. Perusing along, out amid the mighty structures of the spruces with Jamie and the honey humble bumble bee, bumbling on by beside me, and never will I forget these. ~  ~ As back when as to cast them... I set my thoughts of this day with my family and with him... Aloof the songs of the wind while in love I ran about and chasing them with the many little jumpy grasshoppers. (Always ever ginger in their joy!) ~  ~ As they carried in their way for me, and within their spirited hands. My hope of this day! One I have found with them, and in view of God and in the ever perfect way, ( of all of this, (His natural beauty!)) ~  ~ Yes Jamie could be seen, and as God is the one who has granted me this time to be alone with him. ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Morning

Morning is but the infant day
Born of the womb of time. 
A babe that speaks to those that hear
A language so sublime. 

The sky with blood from birth is stained
Foretells of coming rain. 
Red sky at night is his delight
At dawn a sad refrain. 

That sailor in that ship at sea
That farmer by the brook
They know the signs, they read the sky
Like you or I a book. 

While wet or dry this day shall be
Both yours and mine to keep. 
Until it's hours reach 24
And then it too shall sleep. 

Why gaze we then at painted sky
And dwell upon this thought?
Let's merrily go forth and live 
This day that time has wrought


Details | Prose Poetry | |

February

As one waits for the morning and looks for the first flush in the east,
February strains its eyes and ears for the earliest signs of spring,
The signs could be a slight increase of some birds in their passing,
From mere call-notes to twittering and an occasional song and a flower.

February comes in as a month of thaw from a cold winter to wet and dreary,
It is a month of anticipation, and the birds from the continent regard it so,
Expressing their feeling as a carnival by all sorts of merriment's and gaiety's,
It is also the month of the snowdrop, and sap stirring in trees, buds swelling.

Snow birds begin to sing and dance and a song sparrow joins in from a high branch,
As it sings, a beautiful bird, its bright ruddy breast appears, the first robin,
February, just now and again, delivers a faint undercurrent of bubbling life,
Like a mountainous country, before the sunrise, peak after peak, a rosy light.

Delusive days, a whiff of spring today gets buried under a foot of snow tomorrow,
Magical sounds of the early song sparrow, strikes the first blow, of winter fetters,
Flocks of ceder-birds, called cherry birds, and wax wings dressed in their Sunday best,
Wax wing, is named, because on its feathers and tail bits resembling red sealing wax.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sidewalk Ant

I like ants.
They're adorable.
With their tinky little bodies and legs, 
They put a tiny little smile on my face.

I remember there's things I love about the world,
Like how each ant,
Works all day with his family,
And how they all built their home together,
On a crack
That someone will inevitably step on.

I respect that ant.

As a child with minimal understanding,
I would make games
Of crushing ants beneath my sneakers,
Or blowing down their noble mounds.
I would never do that now.

Those ants inspire me!

If I venture outside with laziness
On a ninety-five degree day,
I find them scurrying faster than days past
When the temperature 
Had been seventy!

Their endless motivation tickles me.

To see an ant this spring is to remember
That there's more 
Than winter's obnoxious squirrels
And harsh words from a chilled humanity.
Where were those ants all winter?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Primate

hairy and pungent
the silverback claims his own

reeking of brutality
his agenda is plain

his emotions
simple and deep

he is the father
of humanity


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Eating Strawberries in the Dark

All night the blush and cooling,
the rush of making love again,
night light pouring its milk
across the bed
and later eating strawberries in the dark:
their red flesh so bright
they flash in the mouth
when with each bite the teeth 
bisect one to its inside white star-shape.

The moon going down pales
the room to a watery milk.
Only a slight flush in the sky.
Star-filled, love-bruised, moving apart,
we enter again the warm loam of sleep.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It is Hard to Watch

Softest breezes carry delicious scents from a carpet of flowers weaved in the woods,
Bluebells bend as one, ripples in the oceans, they rise high then fall like the tide,
Watching this sea of flowers it is hard to accept the one you love will soon be gone,
A nightingale sees your sadness from his bough, his head cocked and sings a sad song.

It's hard to see flowered landscapes growing rich, your love smiles with sunken eyes,
Plum bloom falls in showers following the wind when your love is weak with suffering,
It's so very hard to smile and laugh, watching your love, as her skin hangs off bones,
It's so hard to look at the sea of bluebells knowing your love will soon be in heaven.

At times, good people ask me how she is, I can't answer because it's too hard to speak,
Watching larches, dressed in spring green next to wild cherries, it gives me no comfort,
We used to sit and watch pink wallflowers in our cottage garden it bought us happiness,
But now my strength has gone it is so hard to pretend when your heart is in little bits.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deep in the Woods

It's a fearful place it scared me in my childhood and it still does,
So very far in the deepest of woods it lay, black, a deep dark pool,
By bushes, overhanging trees, stretched across dirty stagnant water,
An unpleasant quietness gave the scene a dingy dirty smell of waste.

The trunks of trees, undisturbed for years bowed, sagged over its brim,
Some had plunged headlong into its gloomy flood buried by its deepness,
A frightening place in the dim shade and the solemn hush of the woods,
The silence made it more fearful but there was lonely solitary beauty.

A timid little primrose did not fear the sombre place on its muddy bank,
Other plants sprung thickly there was thousands of starry flowers around,
Mixed with wood anemonies a breeze spreading their luscious sweet breath,
The woods revel in their flowered families so quiet yet so very beautiful.

In spring, knotted trunks displayed crisp leaves to join odorous flowers,
It is in laughing contrast with dark winters of grey moss and gloominess,
Nature calls for the birds pair by pair to weave within the leafy boughs,
To summer homes under hollow banks where the blackbirds build their nests.

In the maze of twisted stumps and roots a chaffinch makes it's silvery home,
On a bough a storm-cock sang to his love sitting in a beautiful willow tree,
There was a pleasant sight a pleasant smell from a close tasseled honeysuckle,
And to see within the shadowy solitude a sudden gush of warm bright sunshine.

Through some high opening everything became bright, clear and very beautiful,
Through brooding nooks and hoary branches the sun shone onto the black water,
And within the pools lowest depths a little world of its own began to come alive,
The beams of sunlight fell onto the bank and the flowers gave the pool new life.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Autumn Walk

One fine, blustering, autumn day an old gentleman walks from his home,
If anyone wondered where he was going he was on his way to a forest,
The old gentleman walked at a leisurely pace stopping now and again,
Just to see what the farmers men were up to and who was the plowman.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry,
Duck, geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors,
And he could hear the flail or the swipple, knocking out the cut corn,
He carried on walking, smiling and made his way to the brow of a hill.

He stopped at stiles and rustic bridges casting arches over the water,
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air,
After looking all around, happy would nod and murmur, "Ay, all is good,"
Having satisfied himself he looked forward and so he walked on again.

It would not be long before he stopped, catching his wheezing breath, resting,
This time by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from large hedge,
And clusters of nuts, hanging by the wayside through many copses on his way,
in all these natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child.

A handful of blackberries went into his mouth and nuts in his jacket pockets,
With a quiet inspiring and thoughtful cheerful look he carried on his quest,
Bound for a long walk he was in no hurry enjoying nature and all it's beauty,
An old man stretching his legs enjoying the season of autumn and golden leaves.

He stopped again to talk to a very old laborer, who was busy clearing ditches,
And had you been nearer you would have heard their nostalgic talk of past days,
About the changes in that part of the country agreeing they disliked any change,
They shook hands and the old man waved and carried on with his autumnal day out.

Many years ago he was young and full of life, girls marveled at his thick arms,
In youth he was buoyant and sang songs and made love, went to wakes and party's
But now his wooing days had passed but still there was a twinkle in his old eyes,
His beautiful wife a rosy light hearted damsel had passed on, his son, moved away.

Back in the day he was strong and lusty he had no fear or cares his life was good
But now he was much leaner and his muscle's gone it left him like an old dry kex,
Sure those days where much better for him there was no comparison, none at all,
He went on his way and in his mind he was no older he saw all with youthful eyes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Renaissance

Some people associate October with gloomy fogs and storms,
Calm suns seem much lower than the summer it makes eyes smart,
The autumn winds up his harvesting, and the out side pleasures,
We stand and watch with some sorrow as the last swallows leave.

In gardens, on darker evenings, are red glows of the autumn fires,
A haunting time we are bewitched by the smell of burning leaves,
The fires dwindle, there are glittering stars in the frosty skies,
Under those frosty skies an autumn breeze sighs around the eaves,

It is a time in which to walk during the shorter but brighter hours,
Dressing warmly, enjoy the tranquil splendor of a fresh greenness,
Time to be thankful for the good and the beauty of a summer gone,
Spring will soon return and the renaissance will be a glory to behold.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only When the Cuckoo Sings

The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.

The taccamahac a name to deal with, blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth."

The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mountains and Cowslips

Wandering with friends through romantic and enchanting scenery the sun shines down on us,
The day is cool and clear each step on spongy mossy ground makes us feel as light as the air,
Finding our way along banks of a winding stream with each turn a fresh scene of loveliness,
This beautiful walk gladdens the eyes and charms the heart as nature is shows us her pictures.

While looking at these beautiful canvases of nature it is very hard to choose which is the best,
And looking at the glowing landscape a friend points towards a display of even more beauty,
In this scene there is nothing to say but just look at what is around us each turn makes us glow,
We feel the happiness of nature unfolding her gifts and you just know she has a winsome smile.

And as we walk further along a summer glade we nestle deeper into the bosom of mother earth,
Mountains and cowslips and the good old daisies join the purple heather laid out like a carpet.
The feeling is that nature is not exhausted yet she has many more treasures waiting to unfold,
As the dancing stream bubbles along and winds round an impending rock a surprise awaits us.

There is a scene so grand and wondrous that makes us silent and we are chained together in awe,
It seems up to this time a handmaid have been leading us through the porch and into the hallway,
Now we have arrived we have entered the chamber itself and stood face to face with our host,
Once more nature has opened her house to all her guests and hung forth her richest draperies.

The scenery before us now makes goose bumps rise on our arms and raises hair on our necks.
The sun shines brightly on the waters and the brown watered stream turns into a river of gold,
The land stretched out before us a radiant green that met the turquoise sky on the far horizon,
The caressing breezes carry delicious smells and scents it's a new spring everything is awake.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hopscotch

Taking a short cut down an alley, I saw a gleam of sunshine,
It had dried the pavements so children could chalk hopscotch,
Small children to much older children all joined in together,
Throwing their stones into the right boxes so they could play.

How sweet it was to hear such happy laughter see bright cheeks,
The freshness of true innocence that would put adults to shame,
Running in this dark little alley way, the paving was cracked,
But they were all so very happy as they didn't know any better.

They are noisy and this time we will let it go and not complain,
To see so much joy in squalid surroundings makes a tear well up
Wearing hand-me-down clothes so thin ragged so badly neglected
From now if something petty annoys me I will think of hopscotch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts

     There is a man in the street.  He walks his dog, unaware of the eyes observing
him.  The ladybug's short flight ends on a windowsill.  A man sits and wonders 
why life consists of sitting and wondering.
     The great storm came.  Its violence shakes the foundations of his thought and 
a rude awakening occurs.  There moves a creature, unaware of its movements,
unaware of its destination,  unconcerned with its destiny.  Fate has it so the 
creature can walk, but there is nowhere to walk.  There is no truth, there is no 
future, there is only continuity.  A season of death approaches, and all are 
prepared with flowers.  A return to the beginning, when I did not exist.  A return to
the windowsill, where nothing was achieved.  A return to the streets, where 
nothing was seen.
     A hopeless motion is repeated, and the creature is found on its back.  A push 
to an awakening follows.  Out it flies, to follow the creature on the streets, to an
unknown destination, to an unknown future.
     The storm passes and there is a return to the deathlike silence.  No man can
say what death is, yet each man has his future embedded in its existence.  Each
man has come from non-existence, and to it each shall return.  But why is there a
fear of death, if each life was plucked from it?  Why can not man again 
experience a rebirth from one state to another?  Is there another universe in the 
state which we can only recognize as non-existence?  Once I was there, but there 
is no memory.  I am now here, but there is no reality.  There is no experience 
which can not be classified, and there is no classification for reality.
     There is only the storm, and the short-lived hope it brings.
     Time is the great variable.  It is the essence of life.  It is the road upon which 
each of us travels.  Another dimension, unclassifiable, indescribable.  If there is 
a spirit of man which flows from one state of existence to another, if it is eternal, 
then time is a mere means of measuring its position.
     The answers to man's questions lie in the concept of time, of the continuity of 
man.  Each man lives but a short time, but man as a whole spans a greater 
length of time.  Look for your answers here.
                                                        Tom Bell, 1968


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Seagull's Salute

My dear mother always had a fondness for seagulls.
I don't know why, we lived far from the sea...
The day of her funeral, as the hearse circled the block of our home, 
An old American custome hardly done anymore...
I was quite schocked to see a seagull overhead slowly looping as an airplane on 
parade...
Near fifty years, and I'd never seen one locally,
Food for thought.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wind Mountain


High above the horizon
rises your form of gray Zion.
Shawls of majestic boughs
of evergreens.

The ground covered with pine needles
the essence of nature blows in the wind.
Serene Silence evolves here in Mother Nature.

Ray fingers from the spirit sun, dance
caressing the heartbeats of brown earth.
The small mountain variety of flowers,
bloom and flourish in this rich soil.

I sit quietly and mediate,
I am one with the rolling
streams, floral bounty, winds,
that toil on this mountain.

Here on Wind Mountain I come to
the great spirit in the heavens,
one as a child of his creation.



 I am always drawn to nature and spiritual inspiration in the end. For me when the world
seems cruel and overbearing to live within I withdraw to the Creators Zion.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Comes Winter




A blowing season moans mournfully
rising with fearful anger
and singing determinedly in passion. 
Chilling the air around me
makes way for natures winter slumber.

Winters sun disappears
in shades of violet,
this season grows with anger.
A wintry wind now sings in blue layers,
stars twinkle through the darkness
and nature displays her glory.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Corner-Stoned

Bowing down for this subtle borrow in trade, 
My head just pounds with an ache just throbbing away.
My thoughts gathered and crunched with a million bits and pieces of the obvious.
But lots of unnoticed empty space!
You are there and I am here. 

Calculating, analyzing and specifying such fine details that are completely misplaced.
Never bending and never-ending our minds spin wheels like bulked bails of rolling hay.
If I shouldn’t, then I couldn’t, and if I couldn’t, then I wouldn’t.
But I’d never say that I didn’t outrun that race.
Angled in time leaning straight forward with those hands turning mine,

I’m catching up to our dawning of today.
The Sun has risen above our dark blanketed night.
Taking the shadows that linger with my soul’s final debate,
The Moon stands corner-stoned guarding glares that glow over darkness,
Veiling off your sights that radiate!
You say this and I say that.
But a compromise is far from this archer’s perfect aim targeting at my hindsight.

You’re always right, 
But so am I justifying boundaries to your realistic reasoning for my analyzed why.
Following you, following me,
We are all that we will ever be.
My night becomes the next day and your day becomes the next night.
Like spinning merciless on a merry-go-round,
My own mind has to question the who, what, and where am I.
Challenged by my own self-defeat, 
I’m corner-stoned with so many of those that have lost to a forgotten lie.
Defeated by my own self-lack to compete, 
You’re corner-stoned with so many years of albeit, 
So I’ll defy and you justify!

® Registered: Ann Rich   2002


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Super Quiz Annoucement

Hey, guys...Since I've been negligent regarding clue posting; The Super Quiz 
deadline will be extended till midnight of Friday 10/19/07.  So, good luck- and 
here is clue recap, once again- No. 1)It can be associated with keyboard humor.  
No.2)Yikes, strikes, thumbs in dykes/dikes- actual spelling should have been 
dikes-  remember, I admit being brain-dead.  No.3)It's namesakes generally 
come in pairs.  New; No.4) It's sweet to the senses, of that, you can bet your hat.
Good Luck!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NATIONAL TREASURES

Brecon Beacons for pony-treks,Cumbrian fells and bubbling becks;Dartmoor 
with rocks rain scarred ,Lake District views beloved of bards.Northumbria, above 
on moor and hill,where Roman echoes linger still.Stone-bridged hamlets in the 
Dales with enclosed leas along its vales.Snowdonia ,one thousand yards high 
reached by slow trains up to the sky.Pembroke with its distant trail so 
long,heritages for us to protect and prolong.National treasures to preserve and 
enjoy by rich,the famous and hoi poloi.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WINTER TURNS TO SPRING

Snowfall so heavy in 'eighty-two reproduced a Christmas card view.A biting wind 
swirled in one foot drifts over hanging in bridges..makeshift.The fields flooded 
into skating rinks into which each footstep sinks,cracking under body weight so 
not the best place to skate.Thawing February brings twitching noses in tussocks 
of awakened primroses.Rummaging on hazel boles,hibernating mammals poke 
from the holes.Leafless hedgerows where buds now form a carpet of white 
corm,Badgers forage for food near their sett renewing their bracken scented 
couchette.Sparrow and robin pair off in twos as lengthening days come into 
view.aconite open in rays of sun below yellow catkins with tails fine spun.Osier 
shoots in green corn camomile as early Spring mornings begin to smile.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RUNNING FREE

Winter melts and seeps deep below,permeates cathedrals with snow,in spate 
nature's blood in flood .In moorland gorse new springs become a tumbling 
source.A babbling burn in feathered ferns to riverine unseen,a stream of 
freshwater clean.In rivers soil silts against sloping banks and the current slows 
into eddys, where fat chubb doze.Deeper waters then running free,winding slowly 
to the sea.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CARTMEL TO KESWICK

Buttemere to Ulla pike,our walk more ramble than hike.Up and down,rain or 
snow,two teenage daughters in tow.Haystacks,Loweswater overlooking the 
lake,now locked in memory's keepsake.Up Skiddaw and Wythrop beck,much 
much longer than our usual trek.Through the wood onto Dodds crag,both the 
girls now starting o flag.Down the slope to Underseer stopping to buy a small 
souvenir.Out on the fell with spongy moss,Wainwright in hand as the paths 
cross-cross.Along the beck in a tree lined walk,watching the antics of a hovering 
hawk.Deer grazing 'neath woodland trees,Cartmel to Keswick,just the place to 
take one's ease.lunch-time picnics on grassy banks,vacations now recalled with 
much thanks.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DEATH IN THE MORNING

The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,fluttered with a nervous jerk;warily 
searching for sustenance,above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.The 
winter harsh and icy cold,driven far from its familiar fold,seeking food further 
afield to an urban garden that might increase its yield.Under a biting wintry sky 
the short tailed falcon hovered high,an efficient killer from above,more than a 
match for pigeon or dove.Taking its chosen meal in flight,swooping sudden from 
a great height,the momentum imprinting our window pane,her throat slashed 
she soon was slain.Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest this finicky eater 
pecked at head and breast.The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,as 
nature's journal leafs another chapter.