I love rain
It's a month now into spring
And still the rain pours down
Hey, is it ever going to end
There's many here that frown
They want the sunny weather
That will come soon enought
But right now, I'm enjoying it
Rain, I love the stuff.
Next week we're off on holiday
Now it really does rain there
And I'll love very bit of it
As it soaks up everywhere
To hear it's rhythm on the roof
It makes me feel so grand
Though many think that I am strange
They just don't understand
We don't get much rain in WA
So when it comes, for me
It makes me so excited
I guess it's how i be
So keep that rain a coming down
Let me feel it's soft, wet touch
I don't know what is wrong with me
But I love rain so much.
23 September 2013 @ 0624hrs
Leeroy von Nebulae and Pitter Patter Supernova
Upon the sparkling April field, where the bell-flowers blossome'd,
two poets stood amid the blooms, two writers of their wisdom,
where singing aves exalted them, cause deep in verse have fathome'd
and treated poetry like none, with loyalty and serfdom.
Meantime the birds were chirping in the leafage of the forest
the two composers synthesize'd the crop of thoughts that random
became their poetry's free verse, philosophy, thus, modest,
the scriptures called bankrupted talk and artlessness of flotsam.
The authors, thus, amid the trees, and vervains' purple colors,
narrated 'bout the pepper steaks and pizzas pepperoni,
the grayish donkeys and their bray, through softened words of candor,
conducting hence this spectacle and joyous ceremony.
What was occurring round the two was godly sent, on purpose;
the softened breeze, the sunny morn, the singing of the birdies,
and furthermore their kindest verse that both believed was flawless,
- the soul's redemption stands upon the praising by the toadies.
Obtusely raising, slow but firm, their tilted thoughts euphoric
have driven both to fly above this natural assemblage,
hence joyfully enjoine'd the cause of logic anti-strophic,
amid the clouds envisioning a pizza-Heaven-cottage.
Leeroy von Nebulae and Pitter Patter Supernova
expressed their malarky of verse, that donkeys then recited
and stood impassive 'mid the blooms, their thoughts a dull cadenza,
evaluated by the birds, that chirped their notes, astounded.
© 03-23-2014, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic decapentasyllabic verse)
The shrieking sun
& ponderous waters
The cerulean skies
& infinite stars
The radiant flowers
With silver lined petals
All these things,
Are things that amaze me
But beneath the
& radiant flowers,
Such beautiful things
Can hide sadness
That is why I am afraid
Of the things that amaze me
I do not know?
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.
I can touch buds on spring flowers as they open to greet the sun
Smell a sweet scent in the breeze, as the darkness starts to run
feel on my cheek ray's of the sun as life emerges from their bed
I taste the salt from my tears, GONE, is that what they said?
If come spring my time on earth, should be ended with one word
I will do my best for family, to teach reason and spread your word
How do I teach family of my knowledge, hope God will please employ
How can this man teach his family, when he has lost all hope and joy?
Can the only one on earth to love or share this sorrow with be you
Lost like falling leaves of spring, moving only when a cold wind blew
Realizing I'm caught between dying and dead just as these leaves
No happiness or joy just asking why, when, what or if I have to leave
Make good use of this man but, children dying take hope from this old boy
grand-child can't live, why should I survive without love, hope and joy?
Death is a thief of a child
"If spring is all the time I have to finish teaching what I know
I'll teach what I can of life to my family without shedding tears"
Play The Radio
Get Up And Dance All Night Long
Music Heals The Soul
Another year has marched out of my life.
A crusading warrior making his way back home,
Leaving bloody battlefields in his wake.
Trampled valleys where dreams once stood.
In the beginning, the year tiptoed in,
Softly sprinkling crystallized wishes.
Ideas, floating like a fine dusting of snow,
Forming a light covering on my bed of anticipation.
In swept the Ides of Spring laden with promises.
Storms tossing my wants in a turbulent sea of needs.
I planted my seeds with the expectancy of progression,
Hoping to find nourishment for my battered soul.
Summer scorched a path through my life
Bringing passion and potential to my fertile soil
Growing, thriving, reaching for the budding of fulfillment
Hopes alive, green and fresh, standing tall against adversity.
Autumn flew in on the winds of a changeling,
Taking the abundance and leaving a barren field.
Stripped of optimism, I wander in the fields of despair,
Wondering where my footpath led me astray.
Yes wicked winter with your freezing rains.
You beat against me, leaving blisters in your wake.
But Spring will return, of this I am certain,
Bringing with it the possibilities of contentment.
In one corner of my room,
That is shaped like a tomb,
There is a window, where I sit
And see my world through it.
I see the rising sun,
I see the melting dew,
I see the blooming flowers,
I see the sky’s changing hues.
I embrace the fading sun,
I live the joyous rains,
I feel the flowery fragrance,
I walk those lonely ways.
I float with the summer clouds,
I breathe the winter breeze,
I touch the autumn leaves,
I celebrate the cuckoo’s springtime songs.
Through the window,
I see my world.
Neither the autumn leaves,
Nor the springtime songs;
Neither the winter sunshine,
Nor the summer rains;
Would have been great
Had it not been through my window rails.
Through my window,
I see the world.
In the window, lies the entire bliss;
Beyond the window is only an illusion.
Are easy, archetypal terms for when
Fresh shoots begin to green the thawing Earth
And fill with sweet clichés this poet’s pen.
At least I know what Spring is not—
The “cruelest” month’s not April, no,
In spite of Mister T. S. Elliot
Whose Spring and soul were both of snow.
But he was young. Age brings surcease,
And Spring, forsythia and daffodils,
As flowered sonnets sprout, increase,
And decorate the rain-swelled rills.
Thus, in the landscape of my autumn brain
The hues of yellow and of green remain.
No time to rearrange
As the seasons start to change
Our die has not been cast
We can alter where we go
We can change a river's flow
But we cannot change our past
In the spring the world was bright
As I journeyed into night
It was a time for learning
And from what I can recall
I thought I knew it all
In my soul a constant burning
As spring turned into summer
The sound of a different drummer
Made me believe that all was lost
I was running like a deer
Knew neither common sense nor fear
Never contemplated cost
The autumn of my years
Began with bitter tears
And a time for much reflection
It was then that I could see
The world was not all about me
And I began to change direction
I feel my heart palpitating
And I live anticipating
New challenges to face
True wealth comes from sharing
True happiness from caring
It makes the world a better place,
Morning emerged out of night dark.
Shy sun began to show its face,
It streaked the night sky with daylight,
The dawn was striking and clear,
Blue azure sparkled in the spectacle of sunlight,
I left warmth of cozy bed to catch that sight,
Stretching limbs to get off sleep stupor,
My nostrils widened to heavenly fragrance,
It was spring time,
And everybody could feel its vapor,
Each leg movement was up and about,
As if it was springed all right,
Zest flowed abound,
And eyes searched far and beyond,
Wherever they were laid,
Colored canopy of blooms was in raid,
Red, blue, geen, yellow, pink and what not,
My little garden was witness to it all,
Blooms had been ripening and had now broken free,
They smiled as if coy and confident bride,
I ambled across to the green carpet,
And stopped at a riotous bloom,
Cool wind blew across,
And they all began to zoom,
This bloom was as if a search light,
Instilling delight and dispelling all gloom,
I was a late riser,
Many had awaken before me,
There was activity on the room,
And it was on the riotous bloom,
Little pale streaked honey bees were in flight,
Flying now and then landing right,
They were busy gathering nectar,
And possibly ready to ferry it home,
No! Was it a beginning of a new home?
No it was not; I saw it sharp and clear,
Developed broken wax cubicles lay in vantage,
Right there near the bloom,
Looking as if it had been a part of bee home,
And now was a little home stand alone,
There was a rebel mother bee,
Or my imagination was on a spring,
To make most of the spring,
These little bees had brought in their home,
They could not wait to get home,
Now here they worked,
And here they stored,
I watched it for a time,
Before it struck me real hard,
If little bees could use spring thus,
Why I could not,
I had a lesson indeed sharp,
And my mind was hooked to the spring harp.