higher heart comes into focus
our third eye radiates cool heat
we amble along love’s locus
vibrant presence feeling upbeat
As trails of thought unwind
In the labyrinth of my mind,
Twisting, turning, weaving, dreaming,
My poetries start evolving.
The trails amble like a river in my mind,
Creating new paths – not leaving the old behind.
Each trail traces a story of old,
Leading to a poem – new and bold.
Steering through memories of joy and fear,
Some trails are familiar and very clear,
Others are unchartered, winding and free,
The outcome of the poem till the end, I cannot see!
Thus, in the trails meandering in my mind,
Beautiful treasures and wonders I finally find!
- Crystaldj
Copyright ©2022 by Crystal David John
Oh, come now - since life is full of care
and the woodland path is wanting wear;
and the trees of spring must needs be seen
as winter’s grey is sprayed with green.
Van dyke said: ‘walk a mile with me’,
but let us go further and then we’ll see
how the foot is connected to the jaw and tongue
and the track can move the lip and lung.
We’ll tread pleasantries and leave them behind.
As amble turns ramble, we’ll clear out our mind
of piffle and fluff - chit-chat and chatter -
and at last get to speaking of the things that matter.
Gasping with effort, we’ll listen to the other;
clarify our reasons and, when home, discover -
though the debate and the way were difficult and rough -
we’ll agree we have not yet walked quite enough.
Finery Winery resides down Amble Bramble Road
they make vintage bubblies created by old Todd Toad
His ideas are unique, his packaging is more than fine
His tasting rates are posted, somewhere down the line
Wizards, warlocks and gremlins travel out to his place
Once I noted a visitor from elsewhere, possibly outer space
Old Todd Toad’s reputation is beyond this planet now
His drinks are unique; many say “a big fat wow!”
Poised in dynamic stillness, awake, alert,
bereft of thought, as awareness self-aware,
with the flow of soma nectar, bliss beats spurt,
as we amble along with nary a care,
in quietude observing God’s will assert
His love for us as hearts joyfully pair,
that our self-existent light shines in the void,
whence we are no longer by ego decoyed.
Alien eyes gaze from a crystal mist of white,
Beckoning, encompassing, consuming your light.
You're now helplessly suspended in wingless flight,
So, don't look for an exit...there's no exit in sight!
They amble and ramble, then they scramble your mind,
The past becomes present, as you'll presently find.
Once you're prodded and poked, then you're poked from behind,
And all of you thought that...Genghis Khan was unkind!
Then you find yourself back, right back where you started,
You've been prodded and poked, then neatly discarded.
Your mind has been snapped cuz, your brain's been bombarded,
White-eyed and caged with the...mentally departed!
They whisk off to D.C., what else could be sweeter,
"We can't "Peter" around, our ship's on the meter!"
"We just heard that your "Boss," 'snot much of a reader,"
"I can't read either Jack!"..."TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER!"
As I get older
And as I amble and imbibe
The wafting of the aroma of roses
And as I get older
I still rock (just not in a chair)
And I roll with the lingo
Of the younger generation
I think things are sick
I try not to throw shade
I think somethings are fire
I am stupidly blessed
(and I say in my Hampton Orphanage drawl)
One hundred percent
As I get older
I find (as Ben Franklin confessed)
That the God of Heaven
Governs the affairs of mankind
The good, the bad and the ugly
And as I get older
(I said older not old)
I am a work in progress
According to the Lord
And as I head to
The autumn of my life
(The words of my Army buddy
And amateur sage Jack
Echo in my mind)
"People say
I am in my own little world,
That's ok,
at least everyone knows me there."
The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me
He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the woods by the creek
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores
The mem’ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine’s pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze
Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat
I’ve drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I’m tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem’ries aren’t so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare
But my mem’ries warm… and it takes me there
Today in my slower world
I watched a Golden-ringed Dragonfly
dancing in the garden: it rose and
Swooped, nearly touching my hair,
Then off again, teasing in its proximity.
In this new, dawdling world
Where time has become petrified,
I amble, maybe sit for a while,
And stop to watch dragonflies.
Breathing, imbibing my environment.
I feel the sun as it beats onto my face.
My pace is slower, more leisurely somehow.
Gratitude grows strongly, nurtured by
The water of experience, and unhurried
by the passage of time.
Now in the late summer of my life,
The leaves are slowly adopting an autumnal hue.
Edges tinged with amber, yet glorious
In their transformation. Marking the transportation
To fall with the splendor of maturity .
The Golden-ringed dragonfly dances still,
And I celebrate the ability to focus on this moment,
So precious and one of so many previously missed.
He swoops and lands briefly on an autumn leaf
Camouflaged but splendid in his magnificence.
On this radiant moment, a ceiling
of new moon beguiles the park-lane
where the breeze tosses its wings,
lit by a fluorescent in a haze I can't
comprehend--- a whip of angst encircles
my despair unrelenting to the beat
of a warm summer eve so glorious;
and yet, my spirit drowns from pain,
from the absence of love 's loss in ruins--
there is no recourse except tear
my life, amble alone in the stab of dusk;
Till a streetchild's voice blows through
my hardened ear-- soft, soothing--
that my inner tempest releases
a spark...his angelic presence rivering
through fresh mist alive with young eyes
dipped in joy: this waif without a name
offers a mangled grip of blooms, a smile
haunting as it is giving: in freeze of night,
I find one of earth's better angels
amidst this heartburst almost suspended by
time's daring request to snuff my hours!
Today I’m grateful as I travel though my life
as I amble through every day…
how the universe hides little bits of magic
for me to discover along the way.
A
an
ant
anthem
anthill
anthology
am
amoeba
amble
ambush
ambulance
am
A
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
I wish your heart had not been broken, your spirit crushed, so much unspoken.
One day, I’ll walk again by your side.
We’ll amble through the countryside.
To watch the fish jump in the stream.
To hear the wind whisper through the trees.
As the cuckoo announces the start of spring.
I know that sound will make your heart sing.
And then you’ll fish the old lagoon.
Strum your guitar and sing a favourite tune.
is it Friday already; my pill box says so
how many Fridays have fallen
into my palm. my nickname
is Friday, and I pop
my morning pills, interminably
mindful of ginkgo-biloba
and the rest; pillage
of my youth. left
for the book sale; to drop
off books and pick up more
from the library floor. ancient
you must think. watch me
amble row to row; I’m not
a Spring chicken; I’m wintering
in the sun; wandering; wondering
if pills are squandered on me.
oh yes, one more thing
I have to…ahem…go
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