A Rainbow Sings
Prismatic rainbow graces sky many ways
with brilliant hues of multicolored rays
picturesque goniochromism sings to decorate
a ketch with Tyrian purple sails out late
Sepia hue tinges this kaleidoscopic scene
monolexemic shades threaten to richly preen
majestic phenomena seen in sky embraces
mists, vanishing clouds and aurorae traces
A Rayleigh Scattering sets rainbow apart
miracle that sends opalescence to impart
this sky mingling multitude of colors now
as red, orange, purple and yellow take bow
Interwoven within this prismatic awe inspiring view
The hopes and dreams of gentle poets like me and you!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-10-2014
In the Christmas Freeze of 1983
Mama thought she lost her Oleander tree
Some called it a “bush,” but at 14 feet tall
Its shadow cast wide on her home’s southern wall
How she mourned the loss of this beloved plant
She begged the Lord for any blessing He’d grant
The freeze ended soon, though her tree appeared dead
The scent of water each day clung to its bed
On January twenty-fourth, the call came
Dad said mom entered God’s heavenly domain
A neighbor had found her, lying in the yard
Next to remnants of a plant she’d not discard
In May a miracle appeared to occur
The strong plant revived, as if waiting for her
*True occurrence based on my mother’s death, January 24, 1984.
Poem written July 12, 2014
On this September’s mild evening
I watch blue stars flicker, to glow
Around your hair like angel wings
How fair the dance ‘neath our window.
That in hushed tones, I speak your name
Enshrined in warmth of timeless grace
My hands fold yours with love aflame,
While eyes rest deep from my embrace.
Although weak heart quivers in ticks
With faith, a miracle is done;
Your birthday nears at forty six
As prayers trail for more reruns.
For health anew, may God restore
The gift of life from heaven’s door.
In loving memory of my deceased mother
who suffered heart problems at age 46 ,
and survived a few. She celebrates
her birthday this September 17.
Elly Waterouse’s Maybe The Last Letter
by nette onclaud
FASTER THAN NIGHT
In seeking ways to beat the speed of light,
what folly might be there, to let it be,
obnoxious to the core, we let it go
to never realize a dream the warp can see.
The death we all must know; the naughts and ones,
so fast, we never come to understand,
quite physical, much faster than the sun's
removing who we are to who's been planned.
Our space, still limited, dark matter slows
until there's more, creation by God's plea
who reasons life goes on, but never goes
beyond the limits of our mystery.
Dark energy, propelling speed of light
has reason for the need of ending night.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet.
That the brilliance of His majestic ways
and fire that burns from His white-hot eyes
may give their light to space of infinite size
and shine on all Earth's creatures' love and praise;
that the mercy He gives to him that stays
from wicked ways to keep his lips from lies,
for faith and grace to remain pure and wise
may give His Word renewed glory and raise;
that the millennial Kingdom's earthly time
arrives after end times' brief, labor pangs
and saves God's children from sin's filthy grime,
so they that were tempted of Satan's gangs
will live on in glory and in their prime
once Christ defangs the Serpent's deadly fangs!
In the repository of unlived things,
I find unquenched love,
A tarnished wedding ring,
An old baseball glove,
A half-sketched dream.
The sore sight fills my eye,
An oil-soaked cloth of faith,
Restraint against sin piled high,
A picture of Jesus laid to waste,
So much regret, I begin to cry.
Behold, I see a new start,
An infant’s wiggling toes,
A chest of breath and beating heart,
Courage clamors and fresh breath bellows.
Meet the crazy with the lazy;
Enter a space that feels hollow;
Time marks hazy oddness sickly;
Await new face as time swallows;
Misty moments minding message;
Open pages in cold mellow;
Resting movement reaching passage;
Pry life stages in odd shallow;
Here a spiral way of looking.
Intuit a glow that fashions more;
Dance a tribal pace of living;
Enjoy a show in glimpse before;
Appeal to form that functions well;
See the whole norm in art that dwells.
12 May 2014
Upon a tree, the one tree, in the field,
Branches and leaves hang loosely from the trunk,
Providing protection to those concealed;
A soft leaf provides an egg with a bunk.
The small white shell sits in the settlement,
full of distrust, remorse and betrayal.
It has been abused by the elements,
one of mother nature's fallen angels.
Close inspection shows a crack on the side,
seemingly abandoned by any kin,
it fell far from home with the wind's high tide,
yet a small noise can be heard from within.
The white shell splits at the crack with a cry,
Now free, the little green hummingbird flies.
Written: March 21st, 2015 at 11:00 EST