The stanza was written in trailed off silver, circle over circle was wound to form silvery words, embossed around them though the palace sheltered paintings of razor-thin wings bespeckled with blood imprisoned sonnets that zip and fly with the hub, palatial and so endearing, the disembodied whispers are like paint peeling.
The present moment, like a bubble,
That shimmers on a gentle breeze;
It’s time on earth a fleeting trouble,
Among life’s deep and ancient trees.
It holds the past in soft reflection,
A mirror to our brief affection;
A future, yet unstressed and dim,
Upon its fragile, curving rim.
Volta
We watch its colors brightly turning,
A rainbow in the sun’s warm light;
A tiny, perfect, fragile sight,
That leaves the heart forever yearning.
Then with a sigh, it simply flies,
A silent pop before our eyes.
Marina, Motherina, Baba, Mum!
Reflect upon what your life has become:
Born in Harbin to refugee Russians,
Tossed out by Mao, with mild repercussions.
Aussie girl, country girl, raised by grandmas,
And grandpa and parents (both pains in her ****).
Small school, to high school with penguin-ed nuns,
Bespeckled and bikeless - childhood is done!
Went off to college at Melbourne Uni,
Made friends, stole a goat and earned a degree.
Entered the workforce for airliner doomed,
Later a teaching position assumed.
Married a beardy fresh in from Hungry
(also a Russian circuitously)...
Moved to the suburbs - East of the border,
Had a few children (not in that order).
Two in-laws out back, who helped with offspring,
Replaced by her mum, who started writing.
Son and two daughters, she raised to adult,
Some better than others - not all her fault.
Each offspring took flight, with their other half.
All but the youngest, who forged her own path.
Some grandkids were born, they grew up a bit,
Throw in some church stuff and that's about it.
a sapphire sea
bespeckled with sweet sunlight
watch the fairies dance
It's the time of butterflies to fly
angelic wings drifting hurried by
in the powdered blue clouded sky;
retrograde illusions left from spring
revolving a floating dance upon the wing
venturing into summer's fling;
hovering on echinacea cones
resting momentary brief never alone,
touching each water splashed stones;
Lepidoptera orange peached winged gilds
skipping flower petals imaginings fulfilled
rare and delicate lives quickly spilled;
sloe obsidian indigo shaped melds
barely a moment to be held
large and small and medium without bells;
awe and wonder at bespeckled migrating swallowtails
riding the gently salted sea wind sails
monarchs of the day uncompromised and frail,
grouped gatherings cluster to a southerly warm surprise
down to Mexico, the gulf and reflected in a child's eyes
the journey has begun and flight DNA memorized;
observe and watch, their efforts on the clock of need
spring north to breed and feed
leggy landings graceful on the summer milkweed
then south as summer fades away
with winters ready to chill their fate each day
for now, enjoy, let the butterflies play.
I lay spread-eagle in a field orchard;
Surrounded on four sides by long-grown, green grass
On a dry, October's noon. Nonchalant.
I watched a small squirrel climb a tree, close;
The branches shaking violently still.
With a soft thud, a bespeckled fruit fell,
And I watched it drift past my outstretched palm.
I thought of a line I'd heard too often;
"No man is an island."- or so they say.
I came to see with what I was content:
Though I could lay in that soft aroma,
Alone with the sweet sound of wind through grass;
Though I enjoyed spending time all alone;
I am afraid of living life lonely.
Terrified of being the star ungazed;
Of leaving nothing behind but my words,
For words can and will always be challenged.
As I stared on all that is celestial,
The constellations of my soul aligned.
In my emotion, the grass became rye;
For whilst I sought to be Camus' Mersault
I was but Salinger's Holden Caulfield-
Painfully aware of the blades of grass;
Too faddish of their personalities,
Yet hurt more mentally by their absence.
Still, the hardest part of this loneliness,
Is living knowing it was my own fault.
The green was bespeckled with putters
Till 'long came a singer, Miss Sutters
She started to sing
The golfers did swing
And now, poor Miss Sutters, she stutters
Entered in contest "Old or New in Five or Less." Placing: first.
Catagory: Humorous, Old Poem
I dream of the sky in your story
and the hillside bespeckled with red
The poppies full blown and bent northward
toward the slick running blue river bed.
The bees have their stingers tucked in.
The sun warms me with no chagrin.
I'm lazy enough in this summertime love
and I'm filled to the proverbial brim.
Absorb me delicious delights!
Cantankerous arduous sights!
I'll lie on my back in the long streaming grass
'till the sky inks it up with the nights.
Let no sound except nature be
and stop the flooding of time
Bring me back there where I lose every care
when the wildflowers were simply mine...
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