The powdery snow gloves the fingers
of maple forest, protecting barren bark
with the expectation of rose tipped bloom.
A meeting point between pristine
innocence and the veiled promise of spring
ripening. Each trunk and limb mirrors
the action of man. Reaching, arching,
swaying, creating aisles of church-like splendor,
a sacrament where the virginal may walk
toward communion with their God. Inward
toward the birth of faith and outward toward
the wedgwood sky in celestial sight.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
amidst the green field
behind grandpa’s old brick house
lies a broken fridge,
unmindful of time passing
until my mom calls me home.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2010
A Brothers White Production
Skipping through the tall dry grass
memories of childhood flood back
the summer of youth a distant cry
as mudlarks face an early sun
On my back in the grass, as I read
stories of kings and knights
wind caresses my hair, whispers
an almost forgotten song
Dragonflies circle above in the sky
mesmerised by their flight
I am transported far back in time
lost in these pages I now breathe
And I am a boy again, plastic helmet
cardboard sword; brave and strong
we run around fighting each other
and invisible low-life enemies
Dragons appear in front and rear
Swooping down breathing fire about
But they are no match for us
as we slay them one by one
Those days, where grass was our universe
where friendship lasted a lifetime
and we would forever stay young
-deep in our hearts we always will be-
August 16, 2017
Copyright © White Wolf and Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
When I was a young boy,
I built a castle on the beach.
I made it from sand with my shovel-toy,
Then the waves grabbed it in their reach.
They tore my castle down,
And dragged it down into the sea.
So i took my shovel and, with a frown,
Built another castle quickly.
I built it bigger and stronger
Than the ones in the past.
I thought this one would last longer,
But its walls would no longer last.
I built a moat around the last one that day,
But the waves seemed desperate to wash them all away.
Copyright © Caden Jones | Year Posted 2011
The sweetest sounds of burning trees
A gentle stroking in the breeze
The calm has lasted past the storm
Cloudy visions, Satan’s roar
Too many sights have passed my way
A time found only in the haze
The softest screams are running bare
My aching bones creak as I stare
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark
The battle’s started at the end
No one is coming to repent
The sinners grab their wine from prey
No judgment calling here to stay
The sport is reckless to be told
The one is laughing at his souls
It falters nowhere to be sure
The power grows forevermore
Like a spirit in the wind
I have no say in where you’ve been
But cross the line to come to me
And pay the price for ecstasy
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark.
Copyright © John Paluszek | Year Posted 2013
One moist patch, like dewy grass,
surrounded by a field of weeds,
emerges first and breathes at last,
through openings, the air it needs.
Cut off from, and cut off of;
counting on, and counting in;
from down below, to up above -
A smack on tender, crimson skin.
There is a pulse.
One spring bud, like seedling stems,
surrounded by a garden wall,
is standing out from all of them,
despite the fact, they're just as tall.
And though the bud has not yet grown,
the soil and the water see
more than just the seed they've sewn.
They see the flower it will be.
There is a pulse.
One tall stem, like climbing vines,
surrounded by its petals' plumes,
shares its elegant designs,
and stretches as it blooms.
And when the wind begins to call,
the flower spreads it's pollen 'round.
It falls in love, and loves in fall,
and falling love renews the ground.
There is a pulse.
Copyright © John Taylor | Year Posted 2010
It can be an orchard with peach trees against patches of blue
as they swerve downhill and meet the foaming sea,
see him capture an indelible moment after
moment until he's amazed by that wonder
to have captured a breathtaking view...
which will be eternally frozen in his memory.
A photographer lives what he feels,
wouldn't it be a celebrity on high heels,
or the most gorgeous child cuddling a puppy
that she saw shivering when snow fell in February?
Didn't he anxiously climb that remote, sun-sunken mount rising in the East...
to find tiger cubs suckling from their mother as she watched a flock of sheep?
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2012
on sorrel moccasins
roosted on tortoiseshell
of root cellar
in numb imaginings
lit with half-light
squeezed in jars
of russet and avocado
a cornice of sky
split with laughter
for broken arrowheads
gold and silver among leaves
air billowed white
soft frail bones
scattering in breath
into apple night
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005
We bend low under over-hanging branches
lit by reflected river-light gently shifting.
Our boots suck the muddy bank.
We wade into clear water
the dappled up-light playing
on our serious faces.
Intent on our task
Cold-shocked I gasp.
You hold your jar steady.
I scoop mine.
Triumphant in a shower of icy prisms
we hold our prizes aloft,
laughing and shouting,
water streaming down our arms,
jars teeming with tadpoles.
Faces pressed close
to these underwater worlds,
we stand transfixed.
Each reflects a small disc
of sparkling sky.
April trees rake scudding clouds.
Far away farm dogs bark
at wind-snatched shouts
of bird-nesting boys.
Somewhere, a cuckoo calls.
In the back garden
a blackbird stakes out his territory.
Ignoring him the cat purrs,
yawning in the sun.
on the garden table
beside a upturned jar,
of flattened tadpoles
drying in the sun.
The bored cat
her tail held high
in the shape
of a question mark.
Copyright © Maggie Huscroft | Year Posted 2006
UNGRATEFUL CHILDREN A parent's lament
Pounce on the fleetest of hearts
Hospital frights of prematurity
of EMS sirens
HIV trembling tests
Breathless Worry atop cloud kissed Trees
Sleepless Nights of bully battles
Struggles with Education’s foes
Mad Escapes from Fathers of Violence
The teary wave good bye for fledgling endeavors
Day night day night day night…unending
Slight Imperfections and Imagined Slights
Shortage of Cash
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2012
Death belies the darkness summoned,
tombstone-colored is the sky,
shards of memories merely fragments,
wailing wind the sole reply.
Violent storm winds strip the tree limbs
like a poltergeist, unseen,
tawdry feeders, heavy wind chimes,
beat against the window screens.
Waiting for the glass to shatter,
like so many childhood dreams,
china teacups, rosebud patterned
in the dustpan, unredeemed.
© 2009 Danielle White
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
Young girls’ bright eyes widened
Behold the wild wheat field
Playground for imaginative innocents
Gracefully swaying golden stalks
Feathered with grain centers
Shooting up like ostrich plumes
Enhanced by the aroma
Of tantalizing potato pancakes
Wafting from Miss Anna’s kitchen
Such was the ideal venue
The catch of a summer’s day
Chewing on a chicken leg
Hiding low in duck-walk form
Produced a lesson in nature
Black ants erected colonies
Tiny birds sang overhead
Warm sun bathed the golden paradise
Plans dashed through my mind
When I grow up, I want to live here
Right here in the amber field
Thatched weeds can be my roof
Rain will not seep through
As I play host to God’s creatures
I’d want for naught
Grain could sustain me
As wind-swept shadows dispelled the heat
Two decades passed swiftly
Before my eager return
To revisit my playground of youth
Stinging sadness overcame me
As I stared at an empty mall
That had replaced the weeds
What is there about a bulldozer
That doesn’t like a meadow
And buries forever a young girl’s dreams
But I will always remember
Gracefully swaying, bowing stalks
With grain centers that shot up like ostrich plumes
Casting shadows on little girls’ faces
*For PD's free verse challenge
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010
An only child on grandpa’s farm
I idly dream my days away
in hidden nooks or wooded glades
where elves and fairies go to play.
I race the wind in open fields
in shades of yellow and plush green;
supine I lie watching the clouds,
pick out blue patches in between.
I chase the pigeons, shout in glee
at lazy goats and grazing sheep.
Beside the lake I sail my boat
and in the water go knee deep.
Sometimes I fish with homemade rod;
that’s when the ducks come in a flash.
I give them bread out of my bag,
with cries of joy they quack and splash.
The ducks and I get on so well,
our days are spent without a care.
We have become the best of friends.
It’s love for nature that we share!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
28th May 2016
Contest: Feeding the ducklings
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2016
It could have been you
Hiding behind the post
Stretching out your arms
Your tiny face upturned
To the early morning sun
Waving at me softly
While swaying with the breeze
It was only wishful thinking...
But you look so much the same
that I walked a little closer
and nearly called your name
A scent so very subtle
Drifted through the air
Reminding me of the last time
I tied a ribbon in your hair
I picked the wildflower for you
But you’re much too far away
Shall wilt before you see it
This one I picked today
Against the velvet petals
You won’t get to press your face
But together we will pick the one
That grows up in its place
I’ll save this in our special book
Pressed between the pages
And hide it in our secret place
We’ve known about for ages
The next time that you come again....
You’ll know right where to look!
Copyright © Julie Conerly | Year Posted 2010
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
My sweet angels, am designing a new house for you
God, please may I borrow your lavish natural hues?
That particular soothing shade of sky blue
I'd use as my shelter, my roof would look good too!
For the walls I'll take that calming green
Mattresses of fluffy clouds, the whitest ever seen
Twilight pink drapes, my gal's Fav color its always been
Woody brown chairs, for my sleepy frame to lean.
A little golden glitter, from delight of the sun
A silvery shimmer mixed, the magic has begun
Let stars twinkle bright in the room of my son
A sky dreamer, he's always been one.
An all season garden blossoming blooming forever
Yellow sunflowers, violets and lilacs, splendorous ever
Crimson beaked robins, saffron flamingos, amber beavers
Amazing creatures and wondrous bottle-nest weavers.
There will be a VIBGYOR arc always outside the window
My children shall play hide and seek below
Air kisses, to me, shall their rosy red lips blow
As their scarlet cherry chubby cheeks glow!
Copyright © Yesha Shah | Year Posted 2012
piggybacked through summer.
On handlebars, calloused fingers
steered dirt bikes to an emerald kingdom.
Two boys, on tree stump thrones, ruled worms
unearthed with splendid crowns
of sundrenched leaves,
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2017
The rumbling of thunder
From some bowlers in the sky
Makes me shudder, gape and wonder
Why we tell our kids that lie.
Does it reassure them, thinking
All that noise is just a game?
Or are they aware we’re winking,
Making such a silly claim?
As a child I did envision
Rip Van Winkle getting strikes;
And I pictured the collision –
Pins and ball – each bowler likes.
But I knew that my perception
Didn’t make a lot of sense
And that grown-ups used deception
At their little ones’ expense.
Still, perhaps their best intention
Isn’t really so off-base
If it soothes some apprehension
And puts giggles in its place.
So when thunder starts resounding
I will think just like a tyke
And find comfort that the pounding
Is another bowler’s strike!
Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2012
Golden soft was the light that swiftly flew,
As whistling rain pelted majestic oaks
And the soaked birds began to cry for you
As Nature silently wrapped up its cloaks
Thirsty for coming dawn, so bold and new.
Silver Maples fluttering in the wind,
Where the fast sleeping rabbits hid away
All beautiful, we wish to never end
With brightened colors, every joyful day
As Nature's beauty flows out to transcend.
Life streamed quietly in the lands of peace
And the still waters kissed by skimming birds
Beneath a deep blue shade, it was a bliss
In such days, everything could spill our words
Joys forever, days sealed with heaven's kiss
Morning-tide, we would scent the wafting breeze
Coming from the trees swinging in the air
The deep valleys where waters did not cease
The silent streams, ran like poetic flair
Beneath nature's shades, and beauties of His
collaboration poetry: *Robert Lindley & Truefeeling*
Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2015
In the orange land,
the sidewalks race wild with them,
postured like statues of royal gardens
the marble lions
amongst hibiscus limbs.
I like the smell of them,
earth warmed dirt
and fallen honeysuckle
beneath the Florida sun.
I poke with
one tanned fingertip
where the flesh
cocoons around their
it is like
the open sesame
The open mouth of a lizard
has no bias
it dangles on ear lobes
like Coco Chanel
classic in style.
the tail becomes an asp
wrestling with the truth
of it's loss.
Copyright © Jennifer Brooks | Year Posted 2005
As a child,
I thought butterflies
got their colors
once they touched them.
I thought the flowers
were so touched
by their visit,
that they gave them
different beatiful colors;
all and the only gift
they could give.....
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017
Babies soft fingers and their tiny toes,
are like lucious petals on a bright red rose.
Little wild mushrooms like babies bald heads,
constantly growing in most flower beds.
Their fingerprints, white stars in the sky,
and the rain, oh the rain, the tears babies cry.
The sound little rattles make when thrown on the floor,
like the noise of the thunder when it's starting to pour.
Babies are like flowers,
tulips or lilacs, a daisy a rose.
Babies soft fingers,
and their tiny toes.
Copyright © Maddi Collier | Year Posted 2007
The moon, pausing near her zenith,
On that balmy night in May,
Painted a warm, nocturnal landscape,
In varying shades gray.
A mockingbird insomniac,
With golden harp did play,
And serenade his lady love
With songs as bright as day.
A shy, retiring whip-poor-will
In some hidden, forest swale,
Intoned his lonely-heart refrain,
In a melancholy wail.
The gentle breeze, that washed my face,
Tasted honeysuckle sweet,
While silver dewdrops glistened,
On the grass beneath my feet.
Though my magic, childhood years have gone
On frightened wings of flight,
I treasure, in my reverie,
That enchanted full moon night.
Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2005
I, as a boy, went down to the sea
Clambored o'er rocks far out to the bluff
Stopping to search the tide pools for shells
Senses alive with sharp, briny smells
Warm morning wind cut ragged and rough
Yawning with promise, the sun winked at me.
I reached the dark cliffs and down to the shore
Settled my person upon an old log
Wiggling my toes to delve in the sand
Betting the treasure of shells in my hand
That sunlight and breeze would scatter the fog
And warming, I shed the sweatshirt I wore.
'Twas then that I spotted a bird, scarlet red
A Cardinal, and male, with exquisite feather
Perched on the snow fence rimming the dunes
Greeting the day with the saddest of tunes
And there in the grass, surrounded by heather
Lay one female Cardinal, soundless and dead.
I stayed there all day just observing that sight
The male with his anthem, still pleading his mate
True longing and pain such as I'd never heard
A song split my heart from the throat of that bird
I stayed beyond dinner, the sun bowing late
And still, he sang on, deep into the night.
I went back each morn to hear that bird sing
All day he would croon for his dear love to rise
The rest of that summer, and even years hence
With endless devotion, he trilled from that fence
Tho' one Spring he failed to return to those skies
I watched evermore for red birds on the wing.
Well, I'm old now and weary, but here's the odd thing:
When the cold has relented and the sun smiles bring
A soft breeze that's scented with a hope for the Spring
While I wait for the black arms of slumber to cling ...
Tho' I've looked for the gist
I can swear, through the mist
In the eve, heaven-kissed
That I still ... hear ... him ...
* In loving memory of my favorite human being, Walt Whitman. *
** FIRST PLACE in the "Best Rhyming Poem September thru October 2017" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor. **
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017
Drop of water
In the river -
Sound of joy
Copyright © Bogdan-Ioan Vaida | Year Posted 2007
I do so love harvest thanksgiving,
That time of year which celebrates agriculture,
When church flips from being god-centred,
To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.
It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion,
‘Cos tins are given no problem;
Natural remedies aren’t primed as better,
Than medicines, to the mind and body superior.
As a child who regretfully attended church,
I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:
That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank,
A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living.
No food bank is respectable, of course,
But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;
And that the Church offers such for just one day,
Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely.
God is sometimes just such an abstraction,
Academically, he’s for the objective mind;
He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:
Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind.
When you just need a meal on the table,
And need it supplied by someone else,
Whether by government, food bank or church,
It’s a person that's there, not divine impulse.
I thought it was moral to impose that on believers,
As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot,
About real mechanisms, real structures and methods,
Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.
Being grateful for food, diet and health,
Eclipses salvation humility and responce;
Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible,
To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force.
Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance,
For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job;
It’s that occupation and training which ensures,
Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.
The harvest basket every year means to me hope,
Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;
Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average,
That this real examination is something to advocate.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
***NOTE~TO BE READ WITH A RIDICULOUS "SILKY SOUTHERN DRAWL" (have fun:)***
"Storm over yet...?"
"Well hay'ell ye'ah!
sum'body git me a da'gumm cole beer.
whadda'bou that boy th'er?
sum'body git him'a cole beer too!"
"Diddy! that boy ain't nothin' but 8 years old!"
na'I don't give a jolly'durn, if he ain't nuttin but 8 year'owed!
'dat boy dun' sat him thr'ew a big ol', storm!
torna'durr warnin' too!
he gonna have him'a cole burr;
mama, git him'a cole burr!
ta'days father's day!"
© 2011 ~JSLambert Esquire
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
Like sick allergies,
Boredom can be passed around
I call it: THE BOREDOM DISEASE
Like a horrid storm,
Boredom can catch you off guard
Hold on for DEAR LIFE!
Like the whooping cough,
Boredom can be serious
If I were you, I’d
Get a vaccination !
Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013
Once was a gal who felt so alone
Tornato came up rooted farms home
Landed on wicked witch
Munchkins came out of ditch
Gave dog lollypops instead of bone
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2013