Sun beams like Hot Choclate on a blue day...
Soft silky and smooth on your skin...
Butterflies softly floating like falling feathers in the wind...
Gently gliding gracefully over the bright green grass...
Eyelashes brush against your cheek like soft snowflakes on your face...
Fingertips flit freely across your arm...
Together playfully prancing like horses running wild...
Spinning tops twiling tenderly....
Wishes whispered wimsically like pixies playing hopscotch...
Softly calling quietly,
I love you!
RICH HARVEST, LONG WINTER - ALOUETTE
Summer’s green near shut -
Held ajar by glut.
On the groaning ground -
Spilling o’er with round,
Bursting butter-beans in gourds.
Now is winter’s brown -
The piled logs run down.
Drifting dead, the months prolong,
Freeze all thought of yields :
Cold minds whiten fields.
Till springs door open - too long.
2nd September 2014
Standing out in a field alone, a little white flower named Daisy longed for someone to share her world.
One day a blue flower named Bachelor Button entered her world they became friends.
She knew by his name that he was not the propagating kind, but that didn’t stop their relationship she called him BB short for best bud.
The seasons of Spring & Summer they enjoyed the sun, laughed in the rain and held on fast in the Fall.
Winter came it was long and hard they were both covered in a blanket of snow, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again or even survive .The snow fell then came the ice, this went on for months.
The Sun shone brightly the first day of spring. A few days later warmth of the sun melted the snow, Daisy popped up .
I’ve been waiting days for you to come out, said BB, they both chanted hooray!
The snow was completely gone in a few days, the birds started building their nests , bugs were crawling around ,butterflies began to visit the two flowers. I wish there were more of us Daisy said, to BB.
They laughed as the sun and wind blew through their leaves. Then it started the sun and rain took turns until one morning the air & field was filled with the smell of flowers.
Daisy and BB looked at each other and asked what kind of flowers are these ? they’re not white like daisies they’re not blue like bachelor buttons. They did not know the birds and bugs carried the seeds from the two of them and the caterpillars buried them under the soil.
The seeds from the new flowers were then carried by the winds many miles away, they landed in fertilized gardens and flourished, although they faced danger everyday.
as they were called WEEDS ..
The Gardener pulls weeds out of the garden so they don’t choke the flowers, which cost a lot of money and require lots of maintenance.
However there was a Gardener who saw her friends spending hours weeding their garden , that they didn’t have enough time to admire and enjoy the labors of their love
So she set out to give a home to all the weeds ,she provided a place where they could fit in and multiply, they required no maintenance, rain provides their water .
The best part of all is their beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Ask my granddaughter-- What are those flowers in the garden ?
She will answer "WILDFLOWERS " their parents were Daisy and BB
Peering through plate glass at a puzzling view,
In the midst of hot coffee’s morning ritual brew.
Staring out with amazement and wonderfully struck,
By our Cherry Tree’s overnight sensation run amuck!
By nature’s own standard, cruel joke she has played,
Million blossoms wide open one February day.
This juvenile sapling knows not what it feels,
Sprouting vivid Pink colors, the show it now steals.
From those all around laying dormant in state,
Expecting nature’s cue to blossom their own petals awake.
And by then poor young cherry will have muted her splash,
Replaced by green leaves summer storms will soon thrash.
But alas all this splendor making warm visual sense,
In the short time required for fresh java to dispense.
Tomorrow I’ll once again observe through plate glass,
The wonders waiting just beyond cold winter’s Rye Grass.
Submitted to Giorgio A. V. Contest themed: Impress me with a small poem II!
1) user name: wedge
2) choice of motif: nature
a slight breeze
and loosely packed snow
on yonder branch
comes tumbling down
in myriads of tiny snowflakes
each flake becomes a miracle
glistening in the streetlight
like a diamond
so far the days of singing rays
have come to meet their sullen end
twixt nights of joy with hidden ploy
a sweetly tone, they do offend
O gasp! the serpent true must strike
O gasp! the lustful raging psych
whose cares are lost forever long
roaring out, O hear my song!
ideas soon drain, decisions fill
a mind at pace with thoughts that spill
float soundlessly thy solstice chill
the misty seep, foreboding reap
emotions run amok like thieves
for darkly cast, a favored past
along is lain misguided leaves
A self-written poem begun in Christmas Time,
While it tasting the soup and looking for rhyme.
In the kitchen, neighbor with the quiet tomato paste,
The sorcerer's apprentice, a poet pretty well placed
Near Soups (ciorbe) with characteristic sour taste
With luminous face and much grace added the rest:
As he was sipping and tasting from raw and cooked.
His group had a passionate look at what was booked
For the dinner: These might be meat and vegetable soups.
They had to choose till the coming of the helping troops
For the pig`s sacrifice rite, old mixture of joy and grief
Under the hot and long debrief of the pleasant smell-thief
Tripe soup (ciorba de burta) hard prepared from beef,
And calf foot soup (ciorba de vitel), with green-gold leaf
Pickled soup (supa de moare) with pork and big rice;
But use the dice to decide between spice and allspice.
From the slaughtered pig the village` families prepare:
Carnati - sausages kept in special aromatic smoke
Of wet fir and oak burned at small fire as enjoyed by folk;
Caltabos - sausages made with liver sprinkled with beers;
Toba and piftie - dishes using pig's feet, head and ears
Suspended in aspic like a frozen symphony in red
After cups of plum brandy and before going the bed
Tochitura - pan-fried pork to bid it a farewell, twice
Served with mamaliga - palesta , and red wine with ice,
Or boiled wine with pepper and cinnamon against frost;
So that the pork can swim and the verse were glossed;
Piftie - inferior parts of the bashful pig, mainly the tail,
Feet and ears, kind of meal like taken from a fairytale
In which all are cooked and served in a form of gelatin
In this naturalist field, all the poets smile like Mr.Bean;
Jumari - small pieces of pig meat are fried and tumbled
Through various spices if after all, you are a little troubled
And may falter some poetical from the famous songs
Like "So, good people drink…" couples of diphthongs
Since Saturday to Thursday and make colorful the gray.
This poem was written in the Night of Tuesday to Friday.
( And later we`d find that the housewife had covered with it the pickles cucumbers jar.)
waiting scents of spring trek from long winter silence fawning sounds river deer - Note In a breathe this is not 5-7-5 but best I could do to get the double metaphors flowers fawns birth and sounds of frogs croaking- kajika frog
sudden winter rules
freezing remains of summer
thin ice layers display
hidden graces of futures
small buds of trees gleam
You're sitting alone at the bar of the coffee shop and you've got the usual.
black decaf latte, today's newspaper, and that pen that smears blue ink.
It’s the same every night, that's why you come back. Monotony is relief.
The only move you've made in what seems like hours was to refill your drink.
You stare at the latte like you’re about to open a gift.
Lifting the cup high, your lips sip the heavy cream.
Tired eyes watch the frosted window and the drift
that carries the uninvited snow effortlessly past you.
The room behind you is burning loud with conversation;
The same arguments, theories, solutions
It's a sickness stuck in the same old rotation.
Like hopeless addicts, they fiend for absolution
There’s talk of Plato’s cave that shrouds enlightenment.
Others discuss Gandhi’s hidden path to the same effect.
They repeat wise men’s words in circles they invent,
leaving what’s more than a hint of ignorance to detect
The sun sets and you're blinded by a glare as you look to the skyline,
the light glows as it sits atop the trees; you look down with a sigh.
Through the window you catch the eyes of a battered man, the look of isolation and despair intertwined.
The man’s face, streaming with tears, tells a story of one too many goodbyes.
What difference does this man make, which he is or what he needs?
You’ve seen it all before; a different movie, the same old theme.
Plus, the tilt of his head and pain in his eyes speak for him of his own misdeeds
Your stare stays locked as you say out loud, “things are always what they seem.”
You have a heavy feeling bring a question that stays planted in your mind
You wonder now if you walk the very path that hollowed this man's eyes.
The thought turns into voices, the words they say are all entwined.
Getting louder now, the more you try to block them out, the more they intensify.
Like joyous green of summer, my heart is singing filled
With you, while winter`s white is witness of good willed;
The glass works and the hot red wine spreading light:
Comforting carols “Silent Night” or “Brad Frumos”.
Comforting thoughts of good like good miners,
And cakes a lot with names of saints and sinners
Looking the heart of sweet cherries strudel under the sight
Of mother humming “Silent Night” or “Brad Frumos”.
Smoldering embers and feeling like hot chocolate
With scent of incense offered to every Christian mate
Under the new temptation of good and hope of right
Teaching of church on “Silent Night”,under “Brad Frumos”
The sacrifice of the pig, a ritual Symphony in red,
At the other side of modal logic, with wine and bread
And slaughtered pig and soured soups that might
Be prepared and savored on "Silent Night" ,near “Brad Frumos”
The aromatic smoke ascending, and dancing heavenly
Like our attempt to preserve and conserve not only
The clay and flash creature but also the inner light
And so many candles to see the Light on “Silent Night”...
The smell of coffee: hot and bitter in the cold winter night
With the rhythm in the left hand and the rhyme in the right,
He wrote a poem in his secret pocket,
A wistful star like a speedy rocket
Ready to leave this planet intense blue
In search of other traces of life anew.
He remembered after mother had died,
In the cold touch ,stalagmites and stalactites cried.
Father and son felt a strong taste for sweets.
As in the sunset, the blind boatman meets
With an awkward touch the water`s ring
But generally they needn`t to eat anything
For a while they rested an extraordinary team:
Father insistently (sometimes boring) told him
All his recollections:childhood,war and the rest…
All muscles and teeth pressed hot, like ice on the crest.
The son learnt them by heart, and later
He would retell them to father, even better…
One was on duty to wash the dishes;
The other tried to follow his wishes…
Their only joy was to read and read and read…
One had to cook at home ,and to bake the bread
In a bread factory:He was happy even when he was sad.
He could recognize each bread: All his loafs were bad.
He was like Chaplin in “New Times”.
He was speaking in figures and rhymes.
He wore a monk beard and father was much more younger.
Looking through the window: grey hunger and anger …
At the weekend, he used to ask his father
About the favourite meal, but rather
He would find a surprise the next day.
Each day was windy winter and grey…
Father had the same touching answer:”Something good”.
In the strange interference ,water and fire ,one was rude.
Solitude was their common friend stealing in like a lizard,
But, in the afternoon they played sweeping their courtyard.
They had leaves in autumn and snow in the winter.
The sky was grey without sun, the clouds were bitter.
Father was counting the leaves, in the old horizon
The son was painting the days ,in the cold horizon.
The war with the falling down leaves fighting hard
With red faces like an inveterate drunkard .
And years after his father met his final hope,
The son would stop in front of the sweets shop ,
Ready to buy recollections as Christmas tree sweets.
youth`s luminous graffiti,
drawn on winter`s wall.
I do not know?
Fallen snow will remind of me/ it is snowing ...
Slowly as in the dream/
Boy word-beads/ with signs on his spine/
He kisses fine/
Your eyelids /
And it snows ... It snows /so slow/
It does/ and you're thinking of me/
'Coz it's warm/ it's better to stay in warmth/
Waiting for summer dim/
It is snowing/ slowly like in the dream/
Flakes/ go round/ playing the music theme/
You've been looking for rescue/
You searched in wine/
But it's in me/
all the rescues are mine/
It is snowing/ the snow is fluffy and white/
If you see darkness/ I'm deaf and blind/
there's the cast of time/ on the arm/
But I discern the light/
Dreams/ upon your eyelids tips/
Prepare you for winter drowse/
And it snows/
Fallen snow/ will remind of spring /
it will crumble and crackle in vain/
It will snow / fluffy /white/ and slow/
And you'll become whole/
The beginning of December:
All must burn their sins on embers;
Tender winter, the stars glitter,
Christmas lights fill the merry streets;
"Mos Nicolae" comes with gifts.
Let` put them in kids` laced up boots:
Books, games, chocolate, grapefruits;
The stars glitter, tender winter:
Young girls try the mother`s lipsticks;
Some get symbolic wooden sticks;
Asks pigs be cut, especially
For the good Christmas Eve supper.
As nights polish the moon` copper.
Tender winter .The stars glitter
Yet it is “Noaptea de Ajun”;
Children will write to “Mos Craciun”;
And they will start caroling friends;
With little ploughs ,and stars in hands
The stars glitter, tender winter:
In white ,with blessing of the heights
Transcends the secret holy nights
The life: Nativity`s beauties;
Again, mother gives us cookies;
Tender winter, the stars glitter.
Soft lazy clouds push down on sky
Clinging to the heavens with solitary resolve
Heavy wet blankets the oblivious wind
Spreading an icy breath of discontent
One Deceptive Snowflake leads the exodus
Leaving the safeness of sky
Praising in dance new freedom
Giving tow to weary stitches of white
One and more descend into morn'
Following in blissful ignorance
A sea of look-a-likes
Crashing into a wall of color
Masquerading as equals
In denial of their uniqueness
Land in rest
On heels of the charge
Helpless in a frozen wall
Wishing only for thaw
When warmth melts betrayal
Into wells of forgiveness
Frozen in Crystalline – Number 2
Cold light, held above the vacant bench,
iced tribute to love’s passioned warmth.
submitted to Frozen in Crystalline – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Andrea Dietrich
Let us go my friend
into the white, soft pillows of snow
that sits undisturbed in the yard.
I'll grab the shovels
and you grab the buckets my friend
and we shall build a snow fort,
that'd be the envy of the neighborhood.
Let's go my friend,
I'll build the walls,
you build the towers,
and we shall put the flag up together.
go here and I'll go here.
Make snowballs the size of our hearts,
and I'll storm the fort,
and you shall protect it.
Come now my friend,
if I shall win,
then this little snow fort,
shall become a snow fort of love.
Winter winds blow all around.
I’m astonished by the sounds of Jingle Bells and reindeer stomps.
All of this should never stop.
Snow lies on the ground, if only that weren't too profound.
Time only leads to decay, but not on Christmas, not today.
You should see the angels pray.
Toy trains, and rag dolls are the things kids used to want.
But time has changed, yes so have children…
Santa seems as if a villain.
So much fighting, so much crying, it sounds as if the kids are dying.
“I want money, I want fame, and these toys are just so lame.”
But that’s the product we provided.
Second chances are no more, Santa’s plot we wait for.
He’s sick of this, he doesn't care, it’s as if he’s not wanted here.
He gets ready to take it all back….
There’s still one toy left in his sack, it’s for a little girl, half a world away.
Now how could he have missed this, on the perfect Christmas day?
He turns around, not time for war.
This toy, the girl is waiting for… It’s not a toy like you’d expect.
She didn't ask for electronics, or stupid games such as Sonic.
She just wanted one small thing…
She’s waiting for something EXTRA special this gloomy day.
In a bed she sits and stares, at the window near a chair.
She’s so weak, and all alone.
She doesn't even have a real home, not where there are bright lights anyways.
They've decorated a weeping willow, the only tree around the “home”.
So she has lights to see.
It’s Christmas after all, but there’s no way to calm the raging sea.
She’s dying, it won’t take much longer, and she doesn't care about the tree.
She needs a new heart extra bad.
So, Santa’s bringing her the one thing, that will stop her parents from being sad.
He rushes to the hospital in his golden sleigh, and climbs right down the vent,
He’s saving Christmas today.
Santa rushes in just in time, finds a doctor, the girl is dying.
It’s not what he usually does, but he stays and watches as they save her life.
He waits for her to wake up.
“Santa, you saved my life, oh thank you so much! I needed my heart to be touched.”
He just smiles, and kisses her hand. He’s so glad he didn't destroy the land.
Christmas is still a special day.
There’s no more sorrow, no, not today. Santa smiles though some are still ungrateful.
There’s that one child, standing in the snow, her life can now be started in the evening glow. That’s life for the grateful, loving, caring, and the thankful. Most of the time Santa just gives toys. For all the good girls and boys. But not today, and not tomorrow, once a year he gets rid of sorrow. So sleep tight and say your prayers, Christmas time is but once a year.
I do not know?
…and I will come.
When the first snow falls down/
when the fall gives its rights/
to the winter/
you know I will come/
for good or for bad/
I’ll board the train/
Passing by / stations/ and countries/
I promised/ and I remember/
You said “there’s no fortuitous meetings/
…and I will come.
When the first snow falls down/
When you’ll lose the trace/
When my firmest snickers/ wipe out/
I will/ I will come…
Unexpectedly/ knowing solely the door/
Just the road / for sure/
Before/ take you I’ll ask/
“are you ready to go?” /
You are ready/ I know/
All the noise doesn’t matter/
I don’t haste/ will be later/
…I will come.
When it finally turns out/
That November is overthrown by December/
When the first snow falls down/
Will be clear/ that nobody is remembered/
And I will come…
Somewhere in chest/ between ribs/
You slashed me/ with thoughts/
I can feel it with lips/ crawling under my cloths/
Our world is alive/ our life/ we’re alike/
I will come.
When the first snow falls down/
When the death is changed into fate/
When the winter gives up/
To wait/ for spring/
to stay with shining sun/
I will come.
statue catches severe cold
despite massive concrete prayers
covered with black ice
© Elly Wouterse
The - to me - inspiring illustration @ "About this poem"
Each morning, a white symphony
wakes up the same melancholy,
Cold sun and the white which will burn…
Dreams and the dust filling the urn
From the back of the time`s pony
Each morning, a white symphony;
The wind`s instruments by the sea;
Violins on sky`s balcony;
All seasons`tribute in advance:
Winter with its full dress entrance;
Each morning, a white symphony;
Hearts`s piano found harmony.
Hope established its colony;
Kids with carols and happy eyes.
Soon, they make a palace from ice.
Each morning,a white symphony.
The coldest white had fell
Surrounding all the feet of those behind
The day turned into hours
Just in the mind
Did the gift appear in night?
Or were dreams reality?
Did it come from karma’s hands?
It drifts from sanity
The trek towards that happy place
You’ve been there many times
Something was different now
It held a horrible surprise
The box wasn’t full of life and sound
The ashes of memories made were here
Taking longer to twist the knife
Left remains of a child now in tears
Standing still you couldn’t breath
Excuses flying in your mind
Trying to figure out the scene
Hoping there’s time
You look up to see
Expectant eyes for the last time
You wish you could keep
But it’s the saddest of a smile
Snow with the glow of the white dawn;
Glittering beam on the white`s lawn;
Up and down from the hill, when laugh
Kids never know when it`s enough
Naively, it started to snow...
Mother`s big cake will grow and grow
For children`s journey with carols
Along the village, playing roles:
Bear and goat or taking the star
And the plough for bringing so far
"It`s time of peace for cat and mouse."
"Abundance in each blessed house!"
Then, each year gains new Paradise;
Candles on the big cake arise;
Children`s ball became a red moon;
All that they need, a giant spoon
To taste dietetic whip cream.
I do not know?
hello! hey! boungiorno! what is the date?/
this world of dimensions created duality/
no letters/ no words/ are enough to express/
someone like you/ in reality/
i filled all your emptines/ MY still quiet bay/
as Jhon opened world in his Yoko/
you searched perfect princes/ looked for "right him"/
now at only one overman looking/
i swear/ i will hold you/ as much as i can/
would become all the axes/ and outer space/
voice is speared by the screaming wind/
falling down/ flakes to your place/
going crazy just seeing your knees/
don't regret anything/ my Benito/
unbelievable/ perfect/ unbearable/
you whisper/ "la comedia e finita"//
I do not know?
Trapped. No where to hide.You scream at me through the door.Though your words still
I sit on the ground alone.Blood drips down like tears. tears run down like rain.The room's
spinning. My heart bursts out of my clothes.We got into a fight. Why is unclear.
I tried to leave. You hit me. I fell.I started to cry. You kicked me.A sharp pain burst out of
my chest. I could not breath. I have little energy,I kicked you. You fell. I ran to our
I am trapped. No where to hide.I'm weak. I stumble to your Night stand.I see a gun.You
break down the door. I grab the gun.You start to choke me, squeezing my throat like you
were trying to get some sort of juice out of me.
I pull the trigger.
BANG!Trapped. No where to hide.Your grip feels looser. Your face in pain.
You fall down. i fall into darkness.Free. No need to hide.
Winter is a vacuum in the mind
when spring knocks with violence at the door.
That death grip shows white knuckles
and frosted ears.
We are the children of fate,
weathered in frame,
punctuated by seasons.
Hastily we go to warm the limbs
and limbs fold to keep the kindled coal.
Our sorrows are as ice, we chill.
But winter dies as did the warm;
the grip is not defeat
but only a retreat.
The accolades are everywhere
when the cold grip of winter is released.
The wind carries away the cold
and stores it in some cavern in the north.
Less than this we would be
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.
If I leave you again,
it will be for the last time -
you snarling day-fog, northwest winter.
I would escape to Santana softness,
no harshness, warm-spot summers.
Monoliths rising in the Pacific
signal the winds as they pass.
The winds blow ashore, carrying the albatross
to rest at last.
Warming and wetting they come to Seattle,
dropping a burden from the sky.
Some say the weather mocks men to suicide.
I am adrift on land, feeding on turnips
The driftwood is not tree but people -
people of a different caliber than fiber.
The wheat seas swarm with them.
Water pours from Palouse Falls and drifts
patiently to rejoin the salty sea.
Calloused hands feed hungry mouths.
They sow, they reap.
The rolling hills of the Palouse, so violent
in the making, would scold a thinner soil.
When east meets west in Washington,
the merging is a clashing, frightful.
The lines are drawn as poles are set
in solid soil.
There are no prisoners taken and no mercy
Still bread is dipped in broth on both sides
of the fences, along each line of trenches.