And the storm calls to me in ways you'll never understand
A gentle call that urges my soul forth
The lighting guiding a path for my feet to walk
Between the stones and ash of all that once was
I stand in the echoing silence of the rain
It drops down upon my skin like the blessing waters of heaven
Soothing me, lifting the weight from my body
I feel at once as if I am home
Standing amid two dimensions
Caught between two skies - here and there
The night wraping around me in warmth
The gentle wind lifting me off my feet
Drops from the clouded moon washing away my body
and I am left just a soul, an essence
The storm calls me forth from beneath my roof
Beckoning me into its depth
I stand among the reeds in the basin
They dance and sway as if welcoming me
And I sway with them back
Caught up in the power that charges the air
That threatens to sweep me away
If the ground will just loosen its hold
The thunder rumbles a low welcoming growl
And I get pleasently lost within it
I am so small compared to its vastness
I close my eyes and succumb to the skies wishes
Rising higher until my feet no longer touch the ground
My fingertips touch the liquid color of the stars
A sigh drifts from my lips
There is no need of thought to stay afloat
There is no demand to breathe in air
No crushing weight upon my chest
As my lungs struggle to survive
There are no struggles here
I make my bed on blackened clouds
And give in to the call
The storm has claimed me as its own
It was such a struggle to stay upon the ground
When the storm would call me home
Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2013
Arise, you song birds sing in morning dew;
The flow’ry host to colour fields and furrows,
And sap of Spring runs gold in willows veins;
As tender leaves unfold to speak of birth,
Fresh mountain ranges iced give life anew—
While waters melt and stream through cricks and borrows
The gleams of light will melt the winter strains
Though spills of oil have quenched the songs of earth.
The corporate sting of greedful revenue,
Has bankrupt natural wonders—greedy farrows
The eagle has no pow’r to save her eggs,
Tall forests fall and crush the robin’s hue
When flow’ry petals change to black on yellow—
The spotted fawns arise with warbled legs
Copyright © J.R. Dawson | Year Posted 2013
The ides of March have gone and come.
Still, strains of vernal music sound
clear echoes, in my ears, of early times,
of other years: an orchestral swell
of oboe, flute, and violin.
The feel of warming wind,
the scents of orange blossom,
daisy, buttercup, and clover
I once enjoyed --
are those days over?
My recent times are flavored
with metallic clank, with oily odor --
my eyes fatigued by newsprint
and small-screen glare.
And music: the blare
of claxon-horn and siren-wail
and, sometimes, noise which
issues from a box borne on shoulders
through the street; an empty, but compelling,
quite insistent, loudly pulsing beat.
I welcome all new, although slight, intrusions.
Pale sensory perceptions bring back images,
now faint, once acute, of places, times,
and pleasures past. Faded sights and faces
and shadowy, unquantifiable pursuits
evoke a time when love, like freedom,
didn't cost a dime.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
My Madness, Me...
Confined by this straight-jacket,
strapped in, numb and dumbed,
a washed-out, has-been, also-ran,
body, eyes, the equilibrium of mind,
rattling like stones in an old tin-can.
Still, I am,
and I am unchained,
my dreams taking flight, soaring,
above these claustrophobic walls,
of synapses, and dungeons of stone,
swooping through green valleys,
taking a detour to savour the joys,
soaked in torrential, evergreen memories,
of a younger man, with passion in his bone.
My wings unclipped, unshackled, free,
I am, and though I am unable to see,
At long last,
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
A path leads,
to where wild grass grows,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
Along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swaying to the lilting bird-song,
in a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing the remnants of pain away.
Melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
from the burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
nudging dimming light to take leave,
of the day
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
In the beginning of spring a path was made
In a shady green forest where lovers laid.
It connected the west side to the east,
And brought together Beauty and Beast.
The path was secret--only for love,
Quiet and secluded, with an occasional dove.
With secrets come whispers--whispers through trees.
Rumors were carried in the voice of the breeze.
Many supporters of this path of pleasure
Made it less hidden--something to treasure.
Blooming spring flowers made a nice décor,
And by summer, the count was even more.
With more and more sins having been created,
The path was forbidden and very much hated.
The rebellious cries in the starlit night
Gave all the wise men quite a fright.
No more eloping, or the mindless riots.
The path became empty; the forest quiets.
Many months pass, and winter nears.
The path is now covered with gold and brown tears.
Defeated and hidden by the wisest of men,
The shameful path was never again.
Copyright © Samantha Senft-Greenberg | Year Posted 2012
Start with fond wit and let jest flow;
Plan what to do in manual work;
Reach to clear bits of dirt that shows;
Indulge and woo that cleansing perk;
Notice the piles of messy stuff;
Get going now to clear and clean.
Cheer helps re-style more than enough;
Lax stores somehow spread cluttered spin;
Entice your quest to sort things tight;
Aim to arrange a tidy place;
Now do your best to discard right;
If work feels strange, pace clearing space;
No matter how, spring cleaning works;
Go do it now in fling and jerk.
26 June 2014
Copyright © Leon Enriquez | Year Posted 2014
SPRING AND THE DEVIL'S ARM
Abbreviated by an early autumn night
the summer, once tormented by a torrid sun,
relented to September, as if dying might
give reason to all things the heat and time has done;
The stalks of corn, if touched, explode into a dust,
and water tables sink down to a new found low,
but love always goes on, as love, it always must,
through drought and flood, and shortages that come and go.
There in the field, an old man points his maple cane
as if a prophesy, and something we should know,
always, always, always, there will be too much rain,
or not enough, and only love can ever grow.
There is a blizzard brewing, it's part of the plan,
up in the wastelands north, with tons and tons of snow;
and on a winters' morn, snow will be deeper than
the fences seperating everything we know;
and how the wind will howl, and everything will freeze,
there's little we can do, but hope for early spring,
always, always, always, we fall down to our knees
in love and prayer that times like this always will bring.
Next spring the rains will always fall, perhaps too much,
for some the devil's arm will reach down from the sky,
and twisting life about, there is no gentle touch,
excepting love, and that is all that gets us by.
Always, always, always, love has to always be,
though borrowed from the wind, though sought in pain,
though snatched out of the grip of some cotastrophe,
if not for love, there'd be no welcome summer rain.
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2012
EARLY SPRING RAIN
To watch the sky begin to fill
with clouds that roll and pitch until
all Heaven seems so black and bleak
then lightning makes a sudden streak
and blows the southwind at its will.
The air so fresh it brings a high
as I breath in the falling sky
and darkened all of space now seems
engulfed in thundering that screams
and makes the world think it could die.
The first raindrops now hit the ground
the joy of it is all around
each budding leaf breaks through its pain
now free to come out in the rain
and here is love that's seldom found.
Now falling fast and falling free
blown in the wind that has to be
the rain sets in and for the night
a steady rhythm cool and light
and lulls to sleep the grief of me.
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2011
spring flowers arrive
when all old roses
show their ugly thorns
(January 29, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Copyright © christine a kysely | Year Posted 2011
friends don't stop asking why i don't
when for the words the will is lost
when the price they give, don't cost
but, pain and energy to the utmost
and then they ask whether i would
when for the rhyme i need a mood
while here in the town life is crude
no one knows, to live more if i could
i need to give my pen a breath
and on a paper ,i spit my wrath
i need a feeling soft not math
when you lost the blood it's death
i need the moutain to be strong
i need the fountain, oh , how i long !
i need to hear the twitter of bird
in the deep woods, there, is my world
the words don't come easy as before
they hurt the head and the heart's sore
they need a bird to twitter the rhyme
and a soft breeze to tune a time
if you have Spring here i don't sing
if you have butterflies, here no wing
if you have roses, i have thorns
if yours sings, here my bird mourns
it's not fair when fate is wrong
and the pit with worms throng
and the days for others are nights
and the nights for them are darks
to the world i say this word
you don't have to be poet with word
you have to be human with a feel
if you don't have that, yourself* Kill*
To my friends with my regards to *Silent One* maiinly.
Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2016
I came to rest
At the Edge's Mill Inn
But that old smell missed
I just smelled again.
The longing quenched
My surprise of you
Then I knew
The old smell here
Was that old smell there
In your home at Spring Ridge Farm
And the longing kept
Coming in waves.
So, I went up to my bed
In the Joseph Baugh room
Filled with seafaring things
And a theme of sailor dreams
Where I arose at three
And stole the silken rose
Red from those
In Gail's make-as-they-stay librarae.
Then swiftly like an old salt
Raising the main sail I drove
To Spring Ridge Farm
In the night
Where you slept
Inside with that old smell
That I could not smell
And left that rose not living
Trapped in your front door
And drove back
To the Edge's Mill Inn
To that old smell missed
I just smelled again.
Copyright © David Lasoff | Year Posted 2005
Tis spring and budding the crocus blossom
the fuchias have died from winters fright
the cold gate of winter has released it's might
and yet in hybernation is the possum
the spires of the foxglove will skip this year
within the glacial tears have winnowed past
then distilling of snow hardened fast
anon the daffodils and violets will appear
The shoots of life spring forth in arias song
the frost within the heart of winter fled
fountains bound forth from waters shed
they have all been kissed upon by dawn
In the hills the trails gates are broken
winters past has smote it's autumn
languishing leaves can never blossom
and beauty of it's death rarely spoken
Purple lupine forest yet to stretch the meadow
the wetland swamps lay still in fallow
yet is tendered by frog and swallow
soon the cattails and water lillies fellow
The leaping children of the woodland forest
will spring forth from lonely glen
and years to rushed for blessing men
yet in it's radience within does rest
Seems felonious that within rejuvination
that the doubts of men should sprout
when manifest of nature does so shout
that rebirth to life and love it's susperation
But one must chose what one's course is fated
rebirth it's possibility to man
in soil the breath of life to land
Nature has so amply demonstrated
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Copyright © Poetryof Providence | Year Posted 2011
I like my lies the way my mother used to make them. Wrapped up in spring roll pastry and thrown into the fryer. Served on a plate to a child who had nothing else to eat, so I’d believe her. Every time she said she loved me between the screaming matches and hung over mornings I believed her. Every time her boyfriend came into my room while she slept the day away and told me to toughen up, I believed her.When she gave up on our american dream and took my baby sister home and left me here, I believed her. I just never understood her. But I am…I was..Faithful to her. See my mom is something like an Abrahamic god, all knowing, all seeing, all powerful and ruthless- viewed with this love us mortals will never understand. We pick up the pieces after a hurricane...porcelain shards of a broken plate hurled against a wall, we murmur among ourselves “she loves us, she does! She just works in mysterious ways, but we don't question her because that would be blasphemy!” So when my science teacher asks me if I'm okay I proselytize and say "I'm fine. My mom is wonderful! Magical even, she can make it rain glass shards inside our apartment, so strong, and brave she can stick a needle in her own arm and not need to squeeze anything except my neck- where I am still so afraid of needles.
In my earliest memories we're sitting on an island porch; this warm wind's blowing. She pushes and pulls these oil paints on canvas, willing the sky to become alive on dead skin. It almost glimmers. and I'm in all of her might.
In our kitchen we have this photograph of us, and she is lying in a hospital bed, tired like the god she is from the trial of creation, holding me all pink and new.
Found out a few years ago that I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, guess her body tried to kill me before it even gave me life. Call it prophetic. old testament.
My professor laughed when I told him I'm afraid to work in oil paint, and I laughed too, uncomfortably. I hear her voice spill lout of my mouth and I thumb my prayer beads.
It’s been about three years since I’ve spoken to her, by which I mean I don't consider myself particularly religious anymore. But I still get hungry, and by that I mean I still get homesick. But there aren't any Indonesian restaurants in Richmond so I have to remember these recipes on my own, have to make these spring rolls, like she did. Even though I was always home. Sick of the spring rolls she made. So I'm putting what she did on a plate.
Copyright © amanda pressman | Year Posted 2017
Drifting through the lounge, floating all the way towards the store. Feelin’
through the old tomes and pristine newer articles. Trying to find a cadaver of
knowledge to feed from. I find myself back amongst friends in the lounge as a
whispering nymph bothers and twitches my shoulder. Gyrating and dancing like
someone at the club she whispers temptations of darkness and grim tales of luck
and love into my auditory nerve complex. The mini universe inside my skull
formulates and thrashes about trying to figure out the riddles left and right,
obtuse and sharp. I dream of better days when all my friends and foes would
gather for love and loss. Now there is a stagnation and little more then
temptation for unreachable more. Frustrated I lie back in my body and pout.
Copyright © Brock Gates | Year Posted 2014
I do not know?
Cherry blossoms shudder
like weeping women
their delicate pink tears
tickle the pond's icy surface
Pawn fish pond.
The golden bream
of Koi lustre
mired in cold spring water
They shadow dance
next to the green bank
where blades of frozen crocus'
huddle together for warmth
The Gods move so slowly
Sighing on the black wings
who wonder if Winter
will ever end
Copyright © Erica Lewis | Year Posted 2008
from brown beds,
looking this way,
to a spring sun
that has come again
like the vultures
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2007
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
There were these dreams we dreamt and so many stars wished upon.
In the time our lives were happy and life meant everything.
When you, my sweet love, woke beside me each and every dawn!
Ah, when all was right with the world and the grass smelled like spring.
For there was this life we lived we thought would always live on.
Still we knew what death was--and how it could touch everything.
But my own never thought yours could die...until it was gone!
And until nothing was left...but the grass that smelled like spring.
Now the stars are wistless orbs...but I must continue on.
Through the haze of pointless days that has buried everything.
For there is this place I must visit...each and every dawn!
Where you sleep, my sweet love, and the grass always smells like spring.
Copyright © Patrick Stafford | Year Posted 2006