Alone, there I stood by the bench in the park.
On a leash by my side, my protective young hound.
In the distance I heard the echo of whispers;
As a dark hooded figure approached in a cloak.
She stopped and looked at me this beautiful maiden.
Rose like lips smiled gently, against skin bright and fair.
She took down her hood, released hair long and fair;
I offered my hand and on bench did we park.
We looked at the stars appearing so maiden;
As we talked of our youths and her company I did hound.
Then the moon cast its shadows and darkness did cloak;
Whilst trees bustled, rustling, the night timely whispers.
As we cuddled up close, to get warm friendly whispers;
It grew colder, I gave my jacket and said it wasn't fair.
So we got up to leave and she bunched up her cloak;
We walked to the car to the place I did park.
In the back did we place my faithful friend hound,
And we drove into the night on our journey so maiden.
We drove and we drove till the dawn arrived maiden.
To the rustling chorus of natures whispers;
And a fox searching for breakfast did stalk and did hound;
Saw chickens, roosters and hens such a fair!
In burrowed field did monstrous combine park,
Whilst autumn leaves rained tumbling natures cloak.
We went to my home and and we hung up the cloak.
Then I partook a chance to kiss the hand of my maiden.
While we spoke of the night at the park.
We enfolded ourselves to bodily whispers;
And I nestled amongst all of hair fair;
But when in heat of moment the barks of my hound.
A knock on wall from angry neighbors, please shut up the hound.
So I fed him, watered and let him outside; around me her cloak.
Then returned to my angel so beautifully fair,
Her skin looked so radiant my heavenly maiden;
That I caressed it so longingly, with gentle whispers,
Then stopped and remembered the leash in the park.
Then cursing the hound; I tell the dear maiden.
Dressed quickly, coats, cloak; and I love you whispers.
She tells me not fair, and we go to the park!!!
Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2010
Longing for heart-quiet
in the inevitable fall
into Winter’s short days of sun
forwarding to Spring’s
longer days — a circling back
in the sameness of time.
with no respite. A longing to quiet
those thoughts playing back
battle after battle. The awful
repetition. Mind and life wasting.
And, in the darkest season,
the conviction that the sun
will only half-rise in this lifetime
of mine. Feeling that sting
as from a bee’s disquiet
of green slumber. Swelling to a fault,
every damned day. Slamming me back,
season upon season. Holding me back.
Chilling me with doubt that sun-
shine can overcome rainfall
and that, invariably, given time,
better times will come and quietly
advance into Spring. Fast forward, past Spring
to Summer, and onto Fall springing
back to Winter, and round again. Flashbacks
ever more glaring under the sun, then, quite
out of the blue — a glance, a nod. Overrun
with fluttering, my heart paces in time
with fledging love’s free-fall.
And, with the passing of another Fall,
Winter heralds in the sweetest of Springs:
daffodils and Easter bonnets — a lifetime
of celebration ahead, no looking back.
Past risk and reason, I bask in the sun
that is love’s shine. Rain or shine, quiet
in the peace of it all, Fall after Fall, back
to Winter, Spring, Summer. Quiet as a Spring sun
bursting through clouds. Love, for all time, requited.
Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014
The autumn sky attunes itself to hearts,
a sour grey murky wash where lost eyes tire.
with insubstantial dust it affects so,
that vision blurs and minds retreat to when
those aged weary organs last supped hope;
and still they seek to quaff before it fades.
Mere dregs they hunger as the last joy fades
to quench beyond their volume broken hearts
and rehydrate that desiccated hope,
rejuvenate the goals before lives tire,
that minds may ponder not upon the “When?”
but concentrate on “What next?” and “How so?”
To take uncertain step, and take it so
as not to fear the fall if stair it fades,
would stir adrenalin so’s not to tire
the fragile confidence of tender hearts,
that they might respond quickly, those doves, when
presented opportunity to hope.
This then the grace of God, the wisp that’s hope,
which we in arrogance might dismiss so
upon our slightest whim and if and when:
an employee who on our command fades.
this grace exists beyond the grasp, the hearts:
phenomenon which will not doze nor tire.
See now how eyes do genuinely tire
as surcease emanates from new-found hope,
providing respite for those weary hearts:
hammock of restful sleep delivered so
the love embattled souls may rally when
their combined lumen some dark agent fades.
Thus through harsh winter flare as daylight fades
with fuel of ‘the multiverse’ entire,
the essence of which Lazarus lit when
his sisters had begged balm of Only Hope.
Such embers must be stoked to fierce blaze so
The Darkness may not touch creations’ hearts.
Faith should not tire when allocated hope.
Our God heeds not the ‘when’ of our say-so,
but stokes each heart with love that never fades.
Copyright © Perry McDaid | Year Posted 2014
Morning flood broke cataracts of light here
My heart have wings that beat in happy skies
O stand here with me in autumn's bright mist
And feel the sunshine breaks through languid day
There's a power of love that cuddles warm
The soul with better promises of joy
There are powers that earth's despair destroy
Invested not in human fragile arm
Something to trust outside the jar of clay
Someone in whom we breathe and exist
And faith in us his fevered hope make rise
A wind against the salt upswelling tear.
I take this dawn excited with its charm
As gift to give, and as a gift to cheer
I seed all joys by grace sweet enterprise
Another coming of you, O my Christ
A final hope to fold carnal cares, lay
The mortal flesh away, and lose alloy
The hills shall skip beyond dreams and decay
And this mist bright garment before my eyes
Will clothe my warm immortality there
No guns grief will shatter the heart, my boy
The blossoms never fall, nor time shall storm
Against the fortress wherein is our bliss
So day comes harvesting my page with cries
Of glee, turning eagle's loop, as dreams buoy
The heart in skies of promises most clear
God is the author of all joy, I say.
God shall seal our hopes in a whispered kiss
And joy break forth abroad to still alarm
Then this autumn when green turns gold shall list
No dry, nor brown, nor gray in festive air
Tomorrow and yesterday passed away
You against my breast shall so snuggle warm
Your tongue with my breath tells the news of joy,
Eternity is here, stitched upon the skies.
My heart a banging bell heaps love and lay
Across the chiming dell dawn-rinsed, the air
Where I dream, flickers with stars like fireflies.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
A whisper of beauty sets to the night
In ancient time of Autumn breeze
A flightless feather to soar the sky
Records the silent echos of sorrow
Carries through on seasonal change
Keeping time with history's eye.
A feather passes a tear filled eye
The sacrifice before the night
The day of blood held in the breeze
As a gentle wind through summer sky
Pierced by the blade of sorrow
The Holy man of change.
New land wandered for man to change
A wishful time to England's eye
The eagle spies the foot step night
The pilgrims beyond the breeze
As children cry to burn the sky
A massacred Indian sorrow.
A black man echoes sorrow
The pain of life to change
Freedom from the blood stained eye
His cry seeks out the night
Caressed by Autumn breeze
As another feather floats the sky.
Blood stench streams in horrid sky
The bodies of broken sorrow
The feather sights upon the change
As delusions form in hatred eye
Secrets under night
Their souls become the breeze.
Reaching upon the new day breeze
A scrape of cloud and sky
A world united in mornings sorrow
The view of landscaped change
Laments cry the tearful eye
Through restless lonely night.
Unto the land of darkened night
The feather of recorded sorrow
A moments break awaits, the next Autumn breeze.
BY: DARREN J McMURRAY
September 25, 2008
Copyright © Darren J McMurray | Year Posted 2008
When the clock ticks towards the end of July,
I begin spending all too-hot summer days painting the blue-jay,
A rare and almost-majestic mini, hard to find the right color paint
For. But on good days after sunset the air becomes crisp
Enough for me to enjoy the change in temperature corresponding with my change
Of mood or palette, all-encompasses occurring under
That unfabulous shroud of melancholy, that, under
Which I cannot keep safe-keeping in July.
When the colors on the page scream for need of change,
I ignore the plight of the real blue-jay
As he exists in this reality of crisp-
Air-fragility which causes my paint
To dry and crumble like the immature cheap paint
Of a five-year old hanging just under
My incomplete summer canvas crisp
With hopes of an increasingly hopeful July.
I stroke the brushed-over blue-jay
Feathers fake on canvas which changes
With every motion of my hand, changing
The color of my paints
As I allow them to drip over the image of my blue-jay,
The reality now out of sight making reality more clearly hidden under
The lie of a canvas in late July.
It lies hidden under remorse of lies, crisp
With not-yet-oncoming autumn crispness
Teasing me with surreality which changes
With every movement of a hand this time of July.
I methodically repetitiously move my hand to paint but what I thought was real
was revealed as not under
The surreal thought of the canvas as the actual blue-jay
Who fluttered his meaningless blue-jay
Wings a long time ago out of sight—crisply
Seen crawling around or over, when it should’ve been under
The hammock tree in the rain, recently changed
To my favorite willow peaceful-painting
Locale no matters the month, even July.
The time the blue-jay wants most to be changed
By the crisp stroke of a masterful painter
In the yard, under the hot sky just after mid-July.
Copyright © Brooke Wolfe | Year Posted 2007