Long Seasons Poems. These are the most popular long Seasons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Seasons poems by poem length and keyword.
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Walking in the dawn,
in the forest loud with sound;
Hear the birds sing in the trees!
Listen to the wind,
see the stream flowing free;
Touch a leaf so green, dew wet!
Do you hear it now,
the sound of nature, the song;
A song so sweet, magical
Written April 23, 2009
Colourful leaves in piles,
luminous colours for miles and miles.
Burgundy, orange hovering,
the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering.
A cool breeze makes them dance,
some quiet and calm, some leap and prance.
The Autumn sky so changing,
clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding.
And in one blustering wind,
piles empty where once colourful leaves had been.
Sun touches the leaves of a tree,
Like a stained glass window scene, to see.
Written October 15, 2008
deep clear sparkling snow
diamond like snowflakes falling
horse swiftly gliding
Written October 28, 2008
my little garden
plant unfurl your leaf
send your root deep deep deep
tis spring tis spring now
Written April 23, 2009
Butterfly hair clip
Deep purple antique necklace
Doll, of my childhood
Pearls, old and yellowed with time
Pink glass vase with wilted roses
Mom's favourite earrings
Scented candle, burning
Written November 5, 2008
On Bent Knees
Prayer books waiting at the door,
polished pews and stone cold floors.
Specks of dust glitter in the light,
half forgotten dreams still burn bright.
Stained glass windows cast a glow,
on bent knees this day my prayers flow.
Written February 2, 2009
Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon,
I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store;
Opening the door, chimes sang out,
The store dusty, small and amazing.
To the ceiling books and rows of books,
The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods;
I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church,
Alone, I am in this place of books.
So many to touch, but one beckons me,
Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust;
Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting,
I purchase it of course for a small price.
Finding a café close by, I settle in to read,
The words on the cover seem to be engraved;
A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time,
Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age.
Written April 23, 2009
Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips,
Holding out my hands to the heavens above;
Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair,
Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name,
Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling.
Written March 13, 2009
O, The Glistening Tears
You come in the light of day,
Through the ornate cemetery gates you come;
Down the lonely long road,
Past the headstones, row on row on row.
O, the glistening tears.
With a broken weeping heat,
You come, for us your family buried here;
What a cruel destiny and cruel fate,
Such love that even death cannot destroy.
O, the glistening tears.
And when the seasons change,
And fall winds blow over us resting here;
And when winter frost is in the air,
And we lay beneath the pure white snow,
O, the glistening tears.
And when spring comes and flowers grow,
You come in the light of day, you come, you come;
For us your family buried here,
Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end.
Written February 8, 2009
The Memory Of You
Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom
They were so happy laughing and talking
Together, mother and daughter, friends
I wondered if the girl realized
My heart was filled with envy and pain
I have so many things to tell you
Happy things, sad things, just things
Things only a mother would understand
Tears came to my eyes as I watched
God must have needed a special angel
To separate the puzzle that was you and me
The pieces that fit so well together
Mom, our love is an endless river
It will go on and on and on and never end
God took you from me, it was your destiny
I know nothing could keep you here
Our parting words, I love you so much
Your answer and I love you my daughter
God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift
A precious gift, the memory of you
Written February 8, 2009
_ _ _ _While walking one day in crisp autumn air,
On the edge of the sidewalk, I saw it so clearly_ _ _ _
a worn leather wallet....
(at least, I had thought it)
But with C L O S E R inspection, it took no detection,
.....to see my mistake, in a quick double take
It was a lone, shabby leaf,............ which I gladly retrieved
It made my heart grieve................to know that time turns the leaves
verdant green, into brown.............which we can't turn around....
Time lost in a flash...................is it too much to ask, that the seasons slow down,
or the reasons are sound?
There was amber beneath............................... this worn crackling leaf
with some gold clinging too, ............................as if giving us clues
that our fleeting days dwindle,..........................like the flame of a candle
I saw smoke, nearby, r
from leaves left for burning,.. and no one was stirring, which seems quite surprising
o u @@ * *
This m n d left to smolder, on a day growing colder* *
In the palm of my hand, it f" l "u "t" t" e "r "e" d to please me,
then it s" h" u "t" t"e" r "e "d in breezes, with tangible FEAR!
Above in the trees, birds were singing in chorus...
While the branches were swinging.....in sync with the verses
"Blossom to blossom.. Green leaves are sprouting",
"Leaves turn to rust....Then to ash in one flash"
"Ashes to ashes...'Till dust turns to dust"...
. . .
My poor fragile keepsake, "q"u"a"k"e"d" in the wake of s-h-a-t-t-e-r-i-n-g sadness :)
into a million
p i e
and t-h-r-o-u-g-h my fingers,
Phantoms, nightly steeds, flared nostrils all aflame
with their steely hooves thundering on my brain, as they came,
these apparitions shrouded in blackness, to carry me off, conscious,
into the darkness, into the mystery of the subconscious,
they came to light the fires within, and within my soul,
to shed light upon the darkness, for me to see, to know
just how far to go, just how far one can go,
is what these phantoms, nightly steeds, want to show.
B. J. “A” 2
March 26th 2002
Women and Love
Even when it is lavished upon their fragile, fractured hearts,
their desperately searching, lost souls, their buried spirits.
Some women - with sex – are reaching out for security, financial gain,
for some, it is playing a game, reaching for the ladder they see,
reaching for material things they can touch, some out of fear,
some for a future that will take them passed their past,
some out of anger for that past, some out of spite,
some for revenge upon the unknown,
out from the subconscious, some,
just for the passion.
Many – I do Believe – by the hands of Mother Nature,
from the pure essence of purely biological needs.
Many of the reasons for a woman making love, having sex, just ****ing
are buried deep within the psyche, the subconscious, of which,
most no nothing about and likely never will understand the mystery.
For those who do know ?, understand ?, little or nothing will change !,
as does, with those who live in ignorant, blind, bliss, for the patterns
form a lifetime rut, most remain the same, habit, ritual the game.
And so, for the self-destructive, the destructive nature, they doth permeate
the heart and soul, permeating the very essence of every relationship,
regardless of how shallow or deep, how meaningless or meaningful.
And so, are the reasons for woman
( let us not exclude men from the analyses, the meaning,
the understanding of human nature as stated above )
to be many colours of butterfly wings ?,
shades of gray ?, or be the blackness of the whole ?
That journey, for them, most of us will never know !,
for we, after all, are not but human beings,
products of our life’s journey, our life’s experiences,
our nature and our nurturing, our life’s march
through history, times past, present and future.
In their passing, in the here and now, in what is to come ?,
some of us have been most privileged to have tasted pieces,
moments of it all, and understood, and in that,
have come to know some of what it is that makes a woman
come and go, as the seasons, seasons with reasons untold.
Sometimes, even if we ( men ) cannot understand, only see
the unreasonableness that fills the air, our eyes, our minds
and our thoughts, we still climb aboard that ride,
that roller coaster turmoil, that is laid before us.
Leaving the mental anguish, the emotional whirlpool behind,
letting the intellectual analysis go, in lieu of the purely physical,
is where my thoughts now take me, with my experience, my words
that will bring this monolog to a logical conclusion
To have “ tasted the pieces ” !, what a journey !, for one’s mind,
even as one suffered the searing pains of being burned by the
flames of a troubled mind, yet to have tasted, to have felt
– not in mind but in reality – the “ fire down below”,
what a thing to have experienced, to have come to know,
that electrifying heat from the flames down below,
as they galvanized one’s manhood, and in unison,
in harmony one’s manhood electrifies,
sets aflame the motherhood in her.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 27th 2002
In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.
Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.
As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.
A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.
He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.
He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.
These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.
just below a marvelous landmark of a metropolis that see's no end to its expansion, lies a stretch of land. curved by many years of our moons control over what covers more then 50% of what anyone could inherit in this world. lies a log. only a few could tell how many years this artifact has gotten to observate. not that it could form opinions and idea's or have the slightest emotion but its there. the smell of sea salt. the ever swallowing winds and waves that swallow this small penninsula, through out the many days the light and darkness have taken there turns, to the forever clock work of the change in seasons. this log, this stump, has sat here. If you believe in destiny, you may come to believe this log serves a purpose for any who find themselves venturing to this corner of the world. love has started here. happiness has found a landmark to add to a foundation to the souls that let it take over them. memorys from a father to a son, to a daughter to a loved one have been forever forged here. no matter how much of are climate changes and reshapes this land all these memorys will stay embedded. unknown to the common folk who stumble upon this stretch of beauty. it will always be there. One cold day. a philosopher, a poet, a man in search of answers that roam uncontrollably through out his body decides to ponder in this place as he seeks an inner answer for his search for peace, harmony and happiness that has been in a bit of a recess for what feels like an eternity for him, hide and seek let your childish memorys take you away as you remember what defines the meaning of hide and seek. this poet feels nothing more then sinking in the ocean like the flat long rock he threw to skip. counting the times its bounces back after hitting its surface. this imagery slowly creeps its way into visualization that it almost resembles himself. beauty in 5 seconds that most in this beautiful world probably have never considered, never captured. he stands up, takes his steps forward. the paralyzing feeling slowly diminishing. each link in the chain that has kept him bound slowly disappears. He begins to wish he had on sandals instead he imagines the feeling of the small pockets of sand away from the rocks creep warm heat into the spaces in between his toes even though its a cold summer set day. he makes another step. his thoughts tend to take him over and do circles each step he takes, each breath he takes. before the poet realizes where he stands he feels the water rush up his legs. as he opens his eyes wondering why he had them closed. he reaches into his pocket to throw another rock he has been holding onto long before stumbling into this beautiful abyss that captures moments unknown to all the unknown souls who have wondered here. he kisses the rock, looks to the distance and tosses it.
before the last skip even came the poet had turned around. he knows from this moment on nothing will be the same again but not in a dark gloomy unpredictable way. more in a way that is so new. another adventure, another moment soon to come like the many before who forever embedded there memory's here. a new start. not one wished upon but one that found its way to him, who is watching over the poet making sure there is ground every step he takes? the answer lies in himself. just like it does for you.
To a perfectly perfect stranger
met on a time on the river bank
I asked a simple question,
“How should I live my life
and live life to the full?”
He smiled at me, His eyes dark, wise and weary,
hair of a time weathered gray,
his life charted across his face.
In a voice coarse as the shifting sands, He said
Let your heart be as the wondering wind,
that passing over lands and seas,
mountains and deserts,
takes unto itself the flavor of each and all
yet never surrendering itself to any,
never staying to dwell in any part
but rather giving freely of itself to all in equal measure.
Bearing with it seeds, to bloom,
taking with it a taste of all that it might touch.
Giving of itself freely but
taking only that which is freely given.
Laughing, sighing, roaring and singing,
growing and changing yet at heart always the same.
At heart, be as the wind, He said.
Let your soul be as the deepening seas,
vast, unfathomable, its’ darkest depths unreachable.
A place of mystery and wonder, terror, despair,
yet golden and glittering when touched by the sun,
with silver fire burning, when touched by the moon.
At times at peace, at times full of tumult,
your cradle, temple, your grave.
To every shore reaching, that which is of itself,
being everywhere, and all the rivers and streams of the world
shall, in time lose themselves in it, and become of it,
and it shall grow, and broaden and deepen,
its temperament governed by the wind,
but always it shall mirror the unchangingskies.
In spirit, be as the seas, He said.
Let your mind be as the open skies,
that know no bounds, that ascend ever upwards,
that dwell on all that is, for all that is,
is but a part of them or hangs within them.
For having no beginning and no ending, and
knowing no definite boundaries,
they can lay claim to all, and they sustain all
or are themselves sustained by all.
The stars, the moon, the sun,
sky and more sky,
and the more that is revealed of it,
The less of it is known and seen,
and the grander the scheme of things.
For it is not only that which is known that must sustain you,
but rather that which is yet to be discovered
In mind be as the skies, He said.
But in body, be as the earth
that holds a something of all that is and was, within it’s bosom.
And of all that shall become, it is only too eager to learn.
Be as the earth that in humility suffers all to thread
upon her breast and is ever smiling at the skies,
enduring the whims of the wind,
the wrath of the seas, the ever changing mood
of fickle seasons, ever changing, ever passing.
Humblest and lowliest yet mightiest.
Holding together the fabric of all that we are
or might ever possibly become; a home, a sanctuary.
The holiest of temples, the lowliest of dens.
Mirroring us, sustaining us in all our guises.
In body be as the earth, He said.
Then go, seek out a pool of clear waters,
Deep and clear, dark and still.
Therein shall you see the truth and learn,
For then shall you stand as an oak tree in a forest,
tall, proud and mighty! Magnificent
Your head held high, to the skies reaching.
Your arms stretched wide into the winds, far spanning.
By rivers swift sustained, tumbling and rolling,
Chasing the unending seas,
Yet always, firmly rooted
There on the deck, I took a practice swing
tormented in the possiblity--
then hope was dashed--I found no hope to bring
up to the plate, when Ump cried out, "Strike 3!"
I was the last to bat--in this last game--
just oh for three, my record said it all!
And in the dugout, faces all the same,
the looks of gloom! Just waiting for my fall!
I took my place, right up there to the plate.
Out on the mound, the picher grinned at me--
as if he hoped to make my swinging late,
or throw me one--I couldn't even see!
He'd walked a batter, waiting on first base,
to tie the score, if we'd get in the race!
"No girl can hit!" I heard the catcher call,
and echoed from the bleachers was the same,
we made our stands, the umpire cried "Play ball!"
and then I vowed to get us in the game!
I gripped the bat, the windup came too fast!
As did the ball, but where it should have been!
"Strike one!" the umpire yelled at last--
The fastest ball that I have ever seen!
"She'll never swing!" the catchers words for me--
then threw the ball out to the pichers hand!
While out on first, my runner waits to see
if I can swing, or only make a stand!
Right in my face--the picher scouled a bit--
while I choked up--and readied for a hit!
All set to hit--I made it then my dream!
and came the ball--I could not swing at that!
"Strike twoooo!" the umpire made it scream,
then said to me, "You've got to swing the bat!"
The bat it weighed a hundred pounds or so;
"She'll never swing," the pichers eyes did say,
With that he gave his very best, I know!
I glued my eyes--as it screamed straight my way!
I never saw the hitting of the ball!
but won't forget the cracking sound of it!
Nor know again the feeling of it all
of this my very most important hit!
The sound it made--that ev'ryone could hear--
a batters dream--but pichers' greatest fear!
The ball soared hard and high past second base!
then seemed to drop so slowly from above,
as quick as I could get us in the race,
I watched it bounce right off the fielders glove!
The tying run was just ahead of me!
Ole "Never-Steal" now ran like not before!
And right behind, fast as my feet could be
I gave my best! And then I gave some more!
The crowd gave out the seasons wildest plea!
As I yelled to the runner just ahead,
with all the grit that I could find in me,
"I'm going in! And if you stop--you're dead!"
Ole "Never Steal" was giving all he could
and on his heels--I made my promise good!
We saw the ball come by as rounding third!
Not once a hesitation in it all--
and as the umpire watched without a word--
he swept his arms, to make the tying call!
The score was tied--third baseman set to throw--
now ready at home plate, the catcher stood--
and through it all--my only thought was GO!
but if I did--I'd have to make it good!
I knew the ball was thrown down to home plate!
The catcher poised, and glued where he should be!
I had to slide, and heard the ball hit late!
"She's SAFE! She's SAFE!" my Daddy yelled to me!
Now layed to rest--our coaches greatest fear--
the only game we won--throughout the year!
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Dedicated to the Oklahoma Sooners & Saint Barry Switzer
Fifty years, boy & man, I’ve been a Sooner Fan;
And, like others, I’ve wondered many times:
Just what is Sooner Magic?
Is it real…or only in our minds?
Sooner Magic has won many games
And has even saved some seasons.
Fans always revel in its Glory;
But, still, we seek its reason.
Is it more than simple superstition?
If so, Sooner Magic must have a source;
And some way to know exactly when
To unleash its awe-inspiring force.
Yes, something very special happens on the field
When the desperate hopes of All the Sooner Fans
Somehow fill our Sooners’ hearts with Urgency.
Oh yes, they feel it…to a man.
And, as that feeling swells in their hearts,
It’s like some supernatural persuasion.
Our Sooners do what must be done,
They rise to the occasion.
Oh, there’s more to Sooner Magic.
On this point, please don’t be deceived.
Before Fans can even hope for Sooner Magic,
First…we must Believe.
Believe in the Power of Tradition.
Believe in our Sooners’ Will to Win.
Believe our Sooners will make it happen.
Believe because they’ve done it…
time and time again.
Yet, there’s still more to Sooner Magic,
A simple fact beyond reproach
Fans’ Belief must find its inspiration
In the Heart of the Sooners’ Head Football Coach.
With Confidence and Strength of Purpose,
He molds the Character of our Sooner Team.
He transforms talents into skills and abilities
And forges Victories out of Dreams
He’s taught our Sooners how to win;
But, win or lose, to give their All;
That Luck is Timing, but also Preparation,
For they must be ready when Victory calls.
In the blink of an eye it happens,
What seems a relentless tide is turned;
But it’s not called Sooner Magic
Without a Victory…well earned.
A breakaway run, a recovered fumble,
an intercepted pass;
Yes, Sooner Magic only seems to happen
when it must.
Anxious Fans go wild. Our Sooners win the game;
And, somehow, Sooner Magic always seems so just.
But Sooner Magic doesn’t happen every game;
And, sometimes, it’s simply not enough.
For on any given game day,
Their foe may just be too tough.
Even when “The Streak” died that day,
There was solace in what Coach Wilkinson would say:
“I’m proud of you. The only ones who never lose
Are the ones who never played”.
So, there it is; no mystery now.
Sooner Magic’s source is plain to see:
A Coach and his Team in singular accord
With the Hearts of Fans like you and me.
So, Fans, be very proud;
And know we play a glorious part;
For Sooner Magic never happens
If we’re not True of Spirit, True of Heart.
For as long as Fans have Faith,
As long as Fans Believe,
There’s no limit what our Sooners,
With a little Sooner Magic, can achieve.
Yes, it’s simply called Sooner Magic,
Great moments to be remembered
with a measure of glee;
And fondly recounted, season after
Moments when our Sooners were as
great as they could be.
Your image appears through a purple-hued haze of silence…
weaving its whispered dreamy spell, while you re-connect the strings of my sleeping heart
You go about undressing my soul as I watch your image drift in my celibate reality
I hear the melody play it lonely tune ~ but, it is absent of the warmth of touch
For its only your image I see, my heart's held hostage by the cry of the songbird
My unknown lover, kidnapped by the makers of dreams and fantasies
experiencing the uncertainty of the child that lies sleeping deep within
Alone, with the clever artists of dreams and visions encountering the forever of my loneliness
brushing off the blurred images with softly painted hues of repeated memories
designed by the masters of dreams and schemes, sleeping to be hugged ~ dreaming to be loved
Oh yes... I've dealt with kings, queens and dragonflies
in the dancing reverie of the fragments of my reality,
gliding in and out of the dust of Heaven's stars
sprinkling me with their sweet purple dreams gliding over shimmering evening skies
In lavender scented breezes, I make my way through the night's crimson threshold
in starlit dreams that melt across ancient seasons
shimmering purple shades of shadows painted in serene, pastoral Botticelli scenes
I sleep in soft billowy clouds, spreading my wings in God's peaceful heavens
my journey - painted in purple pastel colors of love...
peering through misty clouds and diamond stars by His Divine presence from up above
They make their nightly visits into my fantasies, my thoughts
painted by the makers and weavers of dreams, coming out of their secret, hidden places...
they silently reveal their amethyst, painted masterpieces
lightly kissed in dewy, lavender scented bliss
My Botticelli dreams...softly swaddled in dream woven swathes of purple calico...
The sweetness of long remembered thoughts tickles my memories in delicate ambrosial perfume...
redolent of lilac scented blossoms- each flower's fragrant sphere, lingering sweetly in the air
Ancestral shades drift in and out of what was... what might still be
singing their lavender effulgent melodies in lovely violet shades
through soft, flowing wisps of dreams, lingering in meadows of glowing moonlight...
Your sweet scent, so succulent in lilac memories urging your return
they delicately float across my dreaming heart waiting so patiently for your sweet scented whispers
to wrap seductive chiffon fingers around my sleeping soul on Morpheus' silky crimson screens
across the evening's deep indigo blue horizon
Between the cracks of earth and sky I succumb with on soaring wings toward your biding arms
catching falling stars in the mist of twilight whispers, where scarlet lilacs are sprinkled...
dreaming together of the end of our days
until your sweet love finds me neath’ the evening's indigo, starry art
painted in Botticelli dreams of purple calico...the delicate lavender wings of dragonflies ...
Dad looking at that weatherboard house, Old Tooters home,
A thrifty man.. us to him did his brother send,
Saying that the place could do with a mend;
The roof had red patches of pitted rust, the cost agreed, an aluminium spray, as if were new!
A bulge I saw like a big brown bag, ‘those eaves with bees were occupied’ my Dad said,
A bee man was arranged for tomorrow morn.
Off we set early that day to arrive at 8, for to watch the bees and the man perform,
He wore dungarees and a netted hat, and held a pot of smoke as well as that.
He pointed its puffs, ‘the bees were calm’, that’s what Dad said,
The man then moved this Italian swarm, they were productive he said; moreover than the norm,
Before he went saying no to pay, as these bees alone did make his day.
He pointed to the now vacant hive, saying there would 'bee' honey, most pure inside.
He told us cut it clean in two, the lightest colour would be the new.'.
He then drove off us to leave, me, my Dad and Tooter made three.
We cut it through as we'd been told, there was honey like sunlight, then a ring of gold, the core was darker of long months ago, from each we ate squeezing the comb, it fairly gushed upon the tongue.
The first seemed sweetest, the lightest one, the gold was more subtle onto the palate,
The darker ring also was sweet yet with a herb like twist; it did us treat.
Old Tooter said there was a reason.
For ‘twas gathered in the springs plant life season.
We ate a lot till we felt queasy,
Then Dad said work would make our stomachs more easy.
We set to work upon the tin, scrubbing back rust, and knocking roof nails in;
Then dad spun the flywheel on our new Briggs & Stratton machine,
Two hours later the roof was all silvered out, Old Tooter exclaimed it was better no doubt.
What Dad had promised was accomplished to the better; the old guy even wrote us his thanks in a letter,
‘Twas 40 years ago that day; on that I ponder as I write away..
Thinking on life, on seasons.. on reasons; just where is 'home?' where does it lie?
Under an immediate or distant sky?
Is it a street, a house, City, or shack?
Is it where you are safe from harm?
I'd say yes, with close good family, like that day on Tooters farm:
I look out a window its now dark night,
Tomorrow brings yet; the soft dawn light.
As I think, I recall a yeasty savoury smell,
Mom’s currant scones fresh baked from the oven; and risen well.
For me all these things are together tied
With what is home real deep inside!
And I know I'll never be parted, from that memory's treasure,
Where love was poured in generous measure..
So if I need to know of if, what, when and where?
I'll take a walk back up memory's stair...
Back to that day of sweetness fresh from the comb,
To say loud and clear; (honey I'm home).
©Joe Maverick 12-01-2014