Freedom and natural law?
Man was born
Free to run
For his life
And fight for his bone.
The masses abrogate freedom
For warm walls and bread.
Who would surrender
Themselves to freedom
But the reckless or enraged?
What is more natural
Than the freedom of wolves,
Than fear and hunger?
The wilderness is beautiful
And as natural as death.
Who abandons himself
To run afield?
Man returns to the barn,
Comes home with the cows.
The wolves run free.
Nature gives them the moon.
With beauty and brutality
The gift is given.
Why dream we so of fertile flowered valleys
Streams that lie outside Heart’s watching door
Away from foot and hand embracing
Same yin/yang feelings within wandering mind
Lying into nothing mores.
Is this boredom of life-living just repeating reason
For lack-lustered colors repeating so in dry sun-less days
Thanks be then to push opened eyes out forever-questing
To far afield where better, singing treasures lay.
Quick, let’s find something more, new, fresh to follow…
As early Sun breaks through my lazy gaze
Aha, thought I, a smile well forming
To sing again of life’s sweet purpose raised
Into my own creating sweet forever Mornings...
A way...a way, away to stay away
To live, to Live, a bettered free-choice day.
Scarecrows stand afield
their torsos crafted of straw
but they don’t scare crows
Checked by www.howmanysyllables.com>syllable_counter
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Dew Fresh Morn
With dawn of dew fresh morn
A smiling sun
Gilds the clear horizon
Behind the hills
Spreads sparks of hope afield
And is on run
Across the azure sky
To shine with thrill!
Our better angels, where have they flown?
Far afield, in a storm, windblown?
And where, the light, where wisdom shone?
If only we could see.
The answer, it seems to me, is unknown,
as the land is in a tempest, thrown.
Without their grace, I feel alone,
Give them back to me.
the end safety
No modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
The Med is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
we who do not travel watch the fire with awe
Further afield, people have too much water and drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber as matchboxes
For the rich to feel the heat, does it make them kinder?
Of course, it has nothing to do with us who live
where the breeze from the North Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
come when Outer Mongolia is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.
Households unhitch, clapperboard hulls creaking -
the sound of storm-lashed rigging, as washing lines
and telephone wires twist
netting loosening foundations.
Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock,
planks bob in the swell, chests and their drawers
billow and fill.
Bed-springs gape, cupboards
turn inside out, what surfaces
is the face-up exposure
of our everyday innards.
Even as mailboxes are torn away,
we refuse to believe that a river and some wind
could move our lives so a far afield,
or that this world was really in fact,
just this shipwreck on a shore
that is always moving.
What we once thought of
as an address,
has turned out to be only a buoy
on an ever-moving wave.
Hidden In The Hollow
Of His Blessed Hand;
Never Foe Can Follow
Never Traitor Stand;
Every Surge A Flourish
Every Strength Appear;
Afield To Blast With Hurry,
Touch The Spirit,
There, There, .... There!
Aboriginal tribes, ancient and free,
Bold explorers sailed ‘cross the vast sea.
Colonial dreams, a new world’s birth,
Devout pilgrims, a holy rebirth.
Emancipation’s fight, a nation’s test,
Freedom’s beacon, forever the best.
Great minds convened, a framework to frame,
Human rights secured, liberty’s aim.
Immense territory, a nation’s expanse,
Joint efforts waged, a defiant stance.
Keen Monroe Doctrine, a hemispheric shield,
Land’s westward march, a battle afield.
Mining for fortune, a golden desire,
Nation divided, a civil fire.
Ordeal endured, a nation’s renewal,
Powerful industry, of immense capital.
Quest for reform, a progressive age,
Raging World War, a historic stage.
Suffering nation, a desperate plight,
Transformation’s hope, a guiding light.
United we stand, a global might,
Voices united, a civil right.
War’s tragic toll, a nation’s strife,
Xenophobia’s stain, a troubled life.
Yearly sorrow, a nation’s wound,
Zero tolerance, a pandemic’s sound.
I was once a Romeo
In gallant quest of romantic love.
For sake of which I wandered far afield,
Past mills and quarries, foundries and farms
Where good folk tend their business
And useful things get done.
As spring gave way to winter,
I found the climate daunting,
With freeze and thaw displacing by upheaval
My belief in happily ever after.
My confirmations became suspicioned,
And my satisfaction curiosified.
My ratifications were soon dutifully amended
And my achievements ambitioned
To a more sensible view of reality.
Having suffered hard time in the punishment block,
Where one’s thoughts then tend
To either stagnate or germinate,
I arrived at this one eternal paradox:
Only fools dare ever fall in love,
While only love can save the foolish from themselves.
.
From toes unto nose's lip
alopesia
rrrrrr
there'z not
one
from the other
save
their romp
The breeze
It's free gift from the sea
their diaphanous wrap
mine -holic
Down mine sails went
az mine anchor
SPLASH
into the wet salt
az i
Mine eccentric
Stroke
stroke
stroke
off my went
afield the sea
hand in hand
unto theirn
bucholic
* bucholic; my 'Portmanteau' for, bucolic
and -holic < a suffix forming noun
indicating a person having an abnormal
desire for or dependence on, e.g. workaholic ;)
* pronounced: boo'k hol'ik
You may conquer
on horseback
but to rule
must dismount
Pandora
lies waiting
new blood
for the fount
Napoleon
Attila
Augustus
afield
The vanquished
in chaos
till order
—congeals
(Dreamsleep: October, 2023)
Bella Luna blemished with jagged face
Craters and debris of beauty no trace
Midnight sky golden globe rides high
On earth we see vision and softly sigh.
Luna mystery is at last revealed
When man walked surface so far afield
Moon dust and rocks blemished dead face
Revealed reality cannot be erased
Magical moon that rotates by our side
Regret for all dreams its mystery died
From far off distance presenting perfection
Jagged facade smoothed no imperfection.
Holiday Paradise
is burning Rhodes is surrounded by invading fires and blue sea
no modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
The Med is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
we who do not travel watch the fire with awe
Further afield, people have too much water the drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber are matchboxes
For the rich to feel the heat, but does it make them kinder?
Of course, it has nothing to do with us, we who live in a place
where the breeze from the North Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
come, when Outer Mongolia is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.
The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,
fluttered with a nervous jerk;
warilysearching for sustenance,
above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.
The winter harsh and icy cold,
driven far from its familiar fold,
seeking food further afield
to an urban garden that might increase its yield.
Under a biting wintry sky
the short tailed falcon hovered high,
an efficient killer from above,more than a
match for pigeon or dove.
Taking its chosen meal in flight,
swooping sudden from a great height,
the momentum imprinting our window pane,
her throat slashed she soon was slain.
Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest
this finicky eater pecked at head and breast.
The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,
as nature's journal leafs another chapter.
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