Best Busily Poems
Fluttering beneath the newly cut
Festive green hollies,
Decked out with heaped drapes
Of freshly fallen snow,
A bold little red breasted Robin,
Busily searching,
Cheerfully hops to and fro.
Darting between the soft, swirling
flakes
Of unique crystalline, driven without
respite,
He alights upon his sheltered
perch
And begins to shrilly trill:
Against the on coming, long
Drawn out Christmas night.
For the drawing darkness is
deepening,
Whilst the harsh wind blows so chill;
And, gently waking
From nonsensical dreaming,
I harken to the old dog Fox,
As, barking, he pads on down
Through the gorse strewn hill.
Suddenly stirred from dozing
Idleness,
As the charred log shifts and
settles in the grate,
I recall with vivid fondness:
Some old memories, good times,
The well meant promises
I did so earnestly to undertake.
Of old acquaintance...
Not forgotten,
And those that were
Or are no more,
Of circumstance and friendship:
And of they
That daily come
To pass through my open door.
But now the flames from the fire,
Dancing in the frosted window
panes,
Are calling for the poker
So I may stoke the blaze again;
For turning my warming back
Upon the locked out winters keep...
I hear that steadfast little Robin
Sing once more -
As I fall back into uncontested sleep!
Feeling the desolation, of smothering air
Hemmed in by crowds; the obliqueness of fear
Throng of the city and no sight of the sun
Incessant noise and the desire to just run.
And I drive.
Arterial routes clogged by metal and wheels
Schizophrenic drivers living others ideals
Neon and lights sizzling the sides of the streets
Marketing signage, greed’s consumer receipts.
And I drive.
White picket fences, roses, and manicured lawns
Ridiculous box housing, erected for ludicrous pawns
Playgrounds, big supermarkets, cafes and parks
Sprawling suburbia with its pools built by sharks.
And I drive
Warehouses dispensing the needs of the hordes
Industrious factories like cash castles of lords.
Sawmills busily feeding more desecration of land
Refuse collection sites completely sterile and bland.
And I drive.
Ten-acre barons on frivolous bundles of dirt
Escaping urbanity in the unproductive outskirts.
Postage stamp fields supporting ponies and kids
While toffee nose parents sit in ultra posh digs.
And I drive
Paddocks of cattle dispersed through productive farmland
Shiny new tractors with men toughened and tanned
Marshmallow hay bales pimple the face of the ground
Irrigators urinate on earth until drowned.
And I drive.
Magnificent mountains covered in beckoning trees
Clear running streams and whispering breeze
Wild flowers gently waving as robins flit all around
Radiant true colours and smoothing calm sounds.
And yes I am home.
They are lined up along the long hallways
wheelchairs protruding, blocking the corridors.
The aroma of antiseptic spray attempts to mask
the pungent smell of body odors.
The loud blare of the big screen TV
reverberates from the empty day room,
while medical staff busily sort paperwork
behind the sterile counter tops.
Each ancient face, each frail body
huddled beneath their blankets
reflect a unique history, a life story
that is waning with the passage of time.
Men and women, now trapped within their
weakened bodies, once vibrant and strong
now confined and consigned to wait
away from the public eye, burning daylight.
Written on 4/28/2015
When winter’s end is imminent and springtime soon becoming
blackbird and thrush in noble song bumble bee busily humming.
Scent of air fondles the hazy morning scattered seed cultivates
memoirs of time, to ramble throughout lob wood and hear sweet
bluebells across the valley chime.
sweet song of nature
the sound of the butterfly
harmony at dawn
Hosts of yellow heads briskly swaying hillside meadows in unison
bloom, fussy rodents in jubilant paradise; Street House Farm in
nature’s plume. Pussy willow caresses the embankment; Ridding's
Farm basks in the heat of June, inspired scythe displays ancient skill
fragrant hedgerow sings dawn’s vibrant tune.
tears of dew sparkle
grassy stems in sunlight sway
a whisper of wind
Ocean of radical heather signify welcome waves of moorland mist, deluge of dewy tears fall on this place heavenly kissed. Wooden bench outside the old hay barn, where the sultry breeze in sugar hill dances, orchestrates the old folk with war-torn minds reminisce those given a life of second chances.
for to those this day
a touch upon rustic face
nature’s sweetest voice.
© Harry J Horsman 2019
May is Mother’s Month
May is green
spawning inchworms.
I nest too
cleaning closets,
busily morphing
contrary to my wont.
Even the slothful move,
to her blossom song.
In a whistling fragrance
I recall how mother
loved lilacs and wearing
shorts to show a model’s leg.
This was her time, the spring.
Oh yes, and summer, I guess.
Fall and winter, too.
Quick now, the cycle is mine to ponder;
lo, youthfully to long for me
who follows me and calls me mother.
©Kathryn McL. Collins
For long I have been an aimless vagabond
I strayed far, the world being enormously wide.
Traveling to lands foreign, I searched my fortune.
At the end, fed up with all that was alien,
And wishing to withdraw from the world’s bewildering stress,
Decided to set out in search of my roots and my people.
Parents dead, my faint connections with my folks were gone.
My ancestral home was occupied by my brother,
With whom I had hardly any correspondence.
But when I was choked by thoughts of my dear home
And the yearning to visit struck me as an irresistible urge,
Without second thoughts, I boarded a plane,
And headed to my native village with dreams many.
From far I saw my house perched high on a hill,
Dappled in grey, squinting across the field.
Nearing it, my heart began to beat in pounding thuds,
In the excitement of a reunion long overdue.
Alas! There was none to receive me, only some creepy spiders,
Busily spinning gossamer webs over closed windows
Its vacancy haunting me, I tried to ring the doorbell.
But the rusted contraption sat silent on the cracked wall.
What had happened to the family living here?
Have they migrated to some far-off place?
A hundred questions propped up in my mind.
Wished to ask someone, but seeing nobody around,
I stood silent in the weed grown courtyard for some more time.
I thought of the heydays of my life, with a deep yearning,
To run round the house once more as a child
And be under its shelter, to lie down and dream the dreams of old.
Everything looked so forlorn. Feeling suddenly orphaned,
My eyes got welled up with tears as never before.
Hesitant to chew the unpalatable truth that this house will no more board me,
Casting one last glance with a heart laden with memories,
I turned my back from that spectral home,
Which stood silent as a symbol of UNWRITTEN ABSENCE!
Hark,
Listen,
Summer has arrived,
you can hear it in the pulsing air.
Watch it
as insects busily work.
Rushing to collect and pollinate
knowing time ticks on relentlessly.
See it
in the burst of colour.
Drink in the heady scents
of blankets of rampant flowers.
Feel it
as you gently touch blossoms
feeling grasses brush against your legs.
Hold and hug the gnarled old oak
with it's rough textured bark.
Taste it
in the Summer berries
that burst with flavour as you eat them.
In salads and tomato's and plump peas.
Savour
Summer's bounties
soak up the hot rays and bask in them
whilst surrounded by sweet Summer scent.
A light wind gently rocks our sailboat as
breezes begin to pick up on the sun drenched dock.
Cable wires rap and tap upon the mast as
daylight filters thinly through the clouds.
Egrets begin to peck around the gangway
foraging for scraps from bugs or grubs.
Great blue heron busily prepares her nest
high upon the eucalyptus tree.
I sit and daydream on the harbor deck
just enjoying the sea breeze, sights and sounds.
Kelp beds sway rhythmically with the currents
lapping the rocks at low tide, while
massive flocks of birds perch purposefully
near a lonely lighthouse high on the jetty.
Open seas spread toward the horizon where
pelicans busily dive bomb for fish.
Quarry rocks surrounding the harbor create
rocky protrusions, allowing ground squirrels to
spy sailors earnestly jibing on ocean water
tacking swiftly through the northwest winds.
Under the pylons and gangways
various starfish and mussels cling
with schools of fish swimming in tandem.
Xylophone sounds drift with music from a
Yacht club hosting a spring concert.
Zeal for the beauty of harbor life moves me.
Written on 2/11/2015
Mums Kitchen.
If I went back to the house of my childhood days,
I'm sure I'd see mum in the kitchen, as my eyes start to glaze.
Busily moving pots and pans from the stove to the sink,
I would hold onto that vision afraid just to blink.
Her blue and white apron all covered in flour,
preparing food and baking hour after hour.
Just hand written notes, no need for a recipe book,
Things made so many times she'd barely need to look.
I would sit at the table and into the kitchen I'd stare,
watching mum work away making such delectable fare.
The aroma's and smells that would waft through the house,
I'd breathe deeply and pretend that they entered my mouth.
There would be pasties laid on and the apple pie of your dream,
lamingtons, jelly cakes both all covered in cream.
cloud soft sponge cakes and chocolate chip bickies,
Mum made cooking look easy but was really quite tricky.
Mum would bring me some tea and load up a plate,
I wouldn't care about sugar or worry about weight.
Eating to my fill and my mouth gets the drools,
Then I would say, "Mum, your kitchen rules".
* This one is for my Mommy, her Mommy ETC- the lucky ones.
Nourishment- encouragement.
Minister of all heart's treasure
Donor of the kindest pleasure
Infinite love, no measure
Powerful embraces, your leisure.
Sublime being, forever proud
Never shallow, nor a shroud
Instructing all, love you vowed
Quiet sentinel, strength so loud.
Upon weary days, you'd not smother
Heart enriching, me 'n' my brother
To adore you, there in no other
Divulging to all, the perfect Mother.
This one is for the unlucky one's who have or had no choice.
O' girl born to royalty
From the moment of birth,
Preened for the aristocracy
Prospect to a King's loyalty-
Fed from another's breast
Mother was busily searching for
your future husband's crest.
Princess's every movement planned,
even to whom would be given her hand.
Aged of thirteen years,
a fountain of ideas was becoming hers.
Learned in languages, yet
to never have a tongue
Driven to madness
O' so very young.
"All that is expected of thee
is to be wife and Queen, in this land
of unity. Bear sons and speak not
a whit, after all... you are but a
woman, silly twit." Her Father, the
King explained that eve 'fore her nuptial.
"But Father, I know not even who he is!"
The frightened Princess softly spoke.
Yet the argument was always the same.
She was to wed the King of a strange land,
to go with him as always planned.
She was to forge the union of Kingdoms.
To do as told and enjoy all that is grand.
The day of the Union, she met her
betrothed, walking down the isle
He stood there , some fifty years old,
large, pasty, expectant and with a vulgar smile.
And all her fears, even within her
young years- drove her instantly mad.
In a rage, she died then and there
rather than to be locked in her Royal
cage.
These are akin to so many women and mother's alive to this day.
Never should these women go unnoticed.
Born into this earth one day quite unaware,
We grow with time and eventually age.
Pass through stages many and varied,
And in activities manifold, we busily engage.
We do not know what tomorrow unveils,
Or where the road we tread may lead.
But within us is a realm that will never change.
It is something that to vagaries, never shall yield.
Beneath all fluctuations, it stays static.
It is the light of consciousness that in us shines,
That has been slowly built in us through our breeding.
Through values garnered and what God in us aligns.
This screen of awareness is something so palpable,
But can never be seen yet stays securely intact.
It is the consciousness that God has planted in us.
Defeating all deceptions, it helps us choose the right act.
When we experience pain and heaviness of heart
On the screen of awareness may appear a shining star
It will sure pilot us through the dank and dark corridors of life.
Help us stay firm in fluidity, showing who we truly are.
Beliefs and concepts may evolve and change with time,
But as long as we are insulated within the protective screen
Of awareness, it will distinguish the genuine from the sham,
And our life will glitter in all radiance and heavenly sheen!
May.18.2023
~ Placed Fifth~
The Screen of Awareness Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker
Percy penguin tried to dance
Sadly he had two left feet
Waltz and Tango – he took his chance
But he couldn’t quite get the beat
Then one day he did espy
An advert with his beady eye
Dance Classes Starting TODAY
He began to smile it made his day
So off to the dance hall he did go
He found a lady penguin - her name was Flo
She had lost her dancing partner – he died at sea
Now she was as happy as can be
Percy took hold of her wing and tried to dance
Could this be the start of a beautiful romance?
Alas, Percy kept treading on her tiny toes
She needed them all to walk on the ice floes
They tried again; attempting a waltz and you could see
Percy was busily counting one two three one two three
Their dancing days continue, and to this day they carry on
You see them dance on the ice beneath the setting sun
18th June 2015
So thoughtfully busily going to the tomb
Were you enamored with words from the womb
Verbally gurgling did you succumb
Or did it come later in life
Likened to lightning spelling you under
Suddenly there before hearing the thunder
Rapidly vapidly words in your head
Were ringing and clamoring yet to be said
At work in your garden editing hedge
Trimming unwanted excess
It smacks of sedition this growing ambition
To put plants in orderly rowed inhibition
Sun reaching in silent distress
The beauty of discipline held up to view
In close captivated submission
In ranks and in rows uniformly disposed
Earthbound and holding attention
Yet openly Stubbornly free
They continue to grow.
To Flander's field poppies
And crosses akin
They are harvests of memory to reap
Promises planted to keep
What cherubim or spirits shall entreat
To preach the litany of thy beauty?
If rhyme and meter be the judge,
Then let my odes of bygone years
Fill dunes of sweet romanticism
With the stink of pusillanimity and nonsense.
Shall the minstrel regale thee in coquettish glee,
When springtime comes? What are his lyrics and songs
To describe the rapture of the gentle looks
That I long to hear alone.
Will spiteful maidens sob in the arms of their lovers
As you busily pass on the corner road?
What to speak of such frivolous indiscretion?
Only beauty without appellation will know.
A new dawning
And yawning
Before my eyes clear
I hear
The chirps from the birds
Those pleasing words
As they near my sill
Then a tap with their bill
Busily going about their business
In alertness
Their presents is consoling
As it was time to get rolling
Their sounds seem to blend with modern life
Our daily strife
And I wondered how they could acclimate to their surroundings
How challenging
While ten ton cars rush down the streets
Our city sparrow’s sits and eats
While they are within inches of this fury
Upon the trees they sit with glory
They build their nests in unnoticed places
While our world embraces
And their purpose is clear
For here
They bring cheer
To the city streets