Best Clambers Poems
How we love this secluded pond
He lowers me to the grass
And on my stomach I watch
Little beetles, blue dragonflies
Transparent wings fluttering
soft humming near my ears
My smiles born broadly in sunlight
His tender hands hold my back
to his chest. And in the shallow
pool numerous tadpoles curiously
investigate my otherwise useless
legs without pity or shame
He smiles words of joy to me
In my ears and to my mouth
Red squirrel clambers
the tree near our temporary
bed where his hands fumble
and his mouth smiles broadly
between my hands, breeze
lifting my curls as wings
on small hummingbirds
From the corners of his eyes
The lazy luce ponders the strange
ways of human tenderness
While he holds me in his
endless loving patience
That doesn't care about ability
Just we, water, sun and together
***
February 6, 2017
CHILDREN OF THE MIDSUMMER GARDEN
Dreamy midsummer comes to the garden
Leaving her perfume so intoxicating
Colors float up – bounce like a fountain
Autumn comes soon – a lady-in-waiting.
What can you say about fragrant Rose?
So beautiful her face wherever she grows –
Sometimes she climbs, or lives in gardens,
Her sharp thorns we will pardon.
Gallant Scarlet Pimpernel,
Grow anywhere far as we can tell,
Popping up in places unexpected
Yelling “Surprise!” He’s quite unaffected.
Baby’s Breath – so light, so airy –
No scent surrounds you, no perfume;
Delicate child of summer meadow –
A wreath of flowers comes in bloom.
Bright pink and purple, blue and soft white,
Pretty Petunia won’t hide from the light;
She likes the heat – humidity too –
Welcoming all dressed in her vibrant hues.
Shy Hydrangea loves the shade
Wearing a hat of tiny blossoms;
Hidden away in her secret garden
Thankfully never forgotten.
Larkspur blue conceals a pocket –
Hides her nectar there;
But only with cousin Delphinium
Her secret she readily shares.
Sweet Pea clambers up a trellis
Wearing flowers – pink, lavender or white;
Decorates brick walls or plain wooden fences
On delicate vines – a fragrant delight.
Flowering Stock known by so many names
But her spicy perfume to all the same;
Though she may go by many an alias,
Her true self we see in her flowers so various.
Bright Lobelia doesn’t care,
Sunny or shady, makes home anywhere;
Tiny flowers of lavender or blue –
Always smiling in any hue.
Simple flower, such an innocent face,
For children making Daisy chains;
Flower of friendship – predicting love –
“Loves me – loves me not,” a favorite game
Zinnia grows in so many places,
Loves to skip across dry prairie places;
Attracting hummingbirds and bright butterflies,
Always searching for sun in the sky.
Radiant Ranunculus shines like sunshine,
Lustrous face, dazzling smile;
In landscape borders or in bouquets,
Returns every year – so versatile.
C7
No bigger than a drop of blood on a finger
pricked by a thorn, it marches along
the stem of a rosebush; a Grenadier guard
in its crimson uniform, with seven spots exactly
splashed across its coat. Not a random
flick of a paintbrush, but like a soldier’s
chevron; its rank, its classification.
It rises ready to do battle with the greenfly
that hide amongst soft petals until
confronted with my outstretched fingers
onto which it clambers. I hold it aloft
and blow a soft breath across its tiny body.
Its wings fan open and like a fire-rescue helicopter,
it flies away home.
Sunflower clambers
Over whitewashed fence to kiss
A rose named Sharon
Deep within the emerald, jaded summers days
Whilst Mother Nature dances
Exotically lays
In the eyes and minds of human folk
Autumn Elf clambers up
Deep amongst the trees
To whisper words
To tempt her
From summers verde beam
At first she is easily distracted
As a beautiful fledgling flirt
Yet slowly
Through Autumns persistent promises
He softly tempts her
She settles down beside him engrossed in smouldering embers mirth
And whilst his teasing Tongue and breath
Does tinker on her cheek
The cloak of limes and lemon trees
Does
Very
Slowly
Slip
To reveal one precious summer bronzed shoulder
(at this point)
Autumn Elf
Aware his seduction does so succeed
He offers up his golden cap
Whilst bowing on one knee
As after all she is his queen
The one for whom he yearns
And waits silently within the trees
For her glorious return.
Cats and Christmas Trees Contest
Sponsor: Mary Oliver Rotman
I remember back in 1986,
I was only six years old.
I've heard so many versions,
But the truth must be told.
My lil' kitty Daisy,
Was literally crazy,
Sometimes a lil' lazy,
Never ceases to amaze me.
We had a real Christmas tree,
Not an artificial green pine,
The needles so pricky,
Could send chills up her spine.
She sat and starred,
At this one small ornament,
I made it for my grammy,
Almost caused an argument.
I continued watching her,
Began at the skirt of the tree,
Fighting for a spot,
Next to our puppy Mugsy
Hot on her heals,
She takes off quickly,
Bouncing off Papa's lamp,
Cat the brat looks at me.
Daisy sure was curious,
With a side of smitten,
I've never seen so much,
Confidence in a tiny kitten.
There she finally went,
Up and up that woody plant,
Roughly clambers it,
Her paws start to expand.
Knocking pine needles off,
Chewing on the tinsel,
Mommy tried everything,
Wouldn't come when she whistled.
Cats seem to be hard-wired,
Ancestors ruining tree's,
Complete feline fascination,
Out on a tangent spree.
I need to go get rosemary,
A safe cat repellent,
If I hurry very fast,
It may be a good deterrent.
As she decides to decline,
The look of fear on her face,
Too scared to climb down,
Thinking it's not very safe.
But who was there to help?
I was only six years old,
I'd do absolutely anything,
And that's how the story is told.
After everything is over,
I read a wise phrase quack,
"You can take the cat out of the jungle,
But you can't take the jungle out of the cat."
Written: November 17, 2015
"Tis Sweetest in the Spring"
By Rachel Heffington
The farmers wives are scouring
their farmhouse kitchen floors
The bold, brisk lads are happy-eyed
and whistle out of doors.
The dairy-maids churn butter
Into little golden pats
and squirt the streams of pearly milk
to sleek soft-footed cats.
The red-cheeked children play beneath
the pear trees caught in bloom
And to and from the hidden hives
the striped bees zip and zoom.
The farmer with the sober horse
plows furrows in the field,
counting, with a cautious eye,
how well the earth will yield.
The breezes whisper to the rose
that clambers on the well
And drops into it's blushing ear
dreams lovers yearn to tell.
The sunbeams dance within the brook
and dimple in the shade
The grass is greening on the lea
and in the forest glade.
And with a joyous burst of song
the robin red-breasts sing,
the tune in every beating heart:
"Tis sweetest in the Spring!"
Alive are my embers
Alive in great numbers
Taking life from my dreams
Those irreal ones, so it seems
Yet, their motto is to burn and to flare
Even when without an ounce of air
Having their basis in hope
They make me climb every slope
A dream or a sign
To discard, I would never deign!
A mystery brought forth in a temple
When misery and despair came in ample!
Alive are still my embers
A decade later life still clambers
Yet, as long as I breathe and write
My embers shall bring me to my light
Anoucheka Gangabissoon
For the contest Burning Embers
There’s time to forget and try not to remember If it’s the middle of October or December Or at least I will try to not cogitate A date without a date
Where food smells and the air stinks As lips touch and an eyeball winks Chatter clambers clandestine spots As desires turn into secret plots
Well, despite a night would prove great But the hammer smashes and the nail grinds And we sink in the sands of time In a moment that isn’t mine
So then why should I bother to be- A person that’s really not me Crash and burn they say But this time I can’t have it my way And supernova flies the sky and fades away
Well this is quite unfinished like homework And Cinderella deserts the ball and Charming can’t find her glass shoe And Snow White still lies dead Cause that stupid Prince loved himself instead.
As dawn cracks the sky
and yellow light leaks through
The neighbourhood oracle begins her day,
sets out her stall on the corner near the station
"The end is coming"
The newspaper boy in his sister's scarf
snatched in haste too early this morning,
just before dawn,
yawning he peddles past the prophetess.
Her long hair writhes,
arms paddle the air
like a swimmer, only grimmer,
then, grinning at the boy on his bike.
"Ha you! Think you can fly!
Come to Jesus"
Over the Eastern roof tops
the dawn light gleaming
Mabel is born again,
beaming her snaggle tooth smile
"Joy today! The kingdom is come!
Repent!"
She has her reasons,
though parts of her story
her pain, her history, are a mystery
In all seasons, all weathers, every morning
while the sun slowly clambers
into the sky,
Mad Mabel, the local oracle
with twenty seven
assorted bags, eleven teeth,
and three bibles
is born again.
And we are all doomed.
The morning calls hour
has come, as daily it does...
ahead of dawn -
The whistles, the chirps,
the lilts and caws
have come
and filled the empty air;
the air so empty all light has fallen out;
perhaps through the sieve of stars.
Holes of light leaking sight
away into the other next,
or first,
or last.
The clouds drift past;
an ever-offering Eastern sky
dribbles endless puffs of white-stuff
which drift overhead.
Heading toward the light.
Unseen streams of air
both draw and push these yet-to-rains
from beyond the skyline
to beyond the treeline.
A huff-chuffing squirrel is overhead
cavorting and exhorting
in the mulberry-leafed maple
with
leaves so big and profligate
so
as to hide every branch.
There’s an urgency to its gutturality
as it chatter-clambers through the
density of burgundy tree.
I’m in hot water again.
Soaking in the hot wet.
Writing tools all here -
Keyboard.
Tea.
Time...
The cat, important, though not a
tool.
Still, though - pressed into use,
as it were.
But the thoughts do not come.
Unlike the clouds, which we’re taught
are thoughts. Or, is it, “...unlike the thoughts,
which are like the clouds.”?
But I don't have the thoughts, undercloud
(under dark cloud)
though I am.
Only these thoughts
which I very
very do not
like.
A lone goose now.
Also undercloud.
Also, aiming East.
To light. To life.
To next. To new.
Thoughtless.
And not unclouded.
So unlike my thoughts.
Laid out in hot sunshine I drift away
starting to day dream of magical places
I run through sun dappled forests
and come across some unicorns.
They greet me like an old friend
one offers me a ride delighted
I scramble onto her back gripping tight
as she flies up so close to the sun.
then swooping down to mountain tops
nearly unseating me I gasp grab her mane
as she plunges down to meadows full of flowers
awaiting us with bubbling stream flowing through.
She halts and steps in the water up to her back
she plunges and swims I notice fish and frogs
as we head upstream coming to a clearing
She stops and clambers out onto a beach.
Not just any beach it is full of elves and fairies
giant toadstools and atop of them sits a dwarf
smoking from a hubbly bubbly long stemmed pipe
I stare around in wonder as old oaks glide past us.
Each greeting us by name and biding us welcome
I could not member being here before, scratching
my head I went with the flow as if I was in Rome
when a crow flew by cawing as it carried on its way.
I startled awake realising I was still here where I started
it had all been a dream but it felt so real maybe I was there
so many mysteries and hidden things to life when one dreams
it makes me wonder and ponder if Dreams are just dreams?
Riding on a steed of black
Comes the Prince of Dusk
The night navy at his heels
A cheeky smile sweeps across his lips
As pastel paints the sky
Silently he slips off his horse
The night navy on alert
He bids goodnight to all creatures
And tucks them into bed
Now it's playtime for the Prince
Hither and thither the Dusk Prince Skips
Prancing amongst the pines
Then he spies his father rising
And clambers on his steed
He hurries home to supper
The prince's playtime has now ended
Father night and his men have taken charge
The soldiers canter across the land
All chatter ceases when the king arises
His reign has now begun
The sun barbequed the skin, raising a tenderized pink glow
to the cheeks of the children in the ramshackle red barn.
The three story hay loft partly empty was bristling with tikes.
Pincushioned with straw, sharp as needles,
in their hair, tee-shirts and socks
an “itch-o-rama” of gross magnitude.
Hoarse screams of “Geronimo!”
propel a girl child out ward over the abyss;
letting go directly over the haystack on the first floor.
Barn boards groan under the weight of her flailing form.
Sweet, so sticky sweet, was the air with sweat, hayseed, and manure.
Red welts form on errant scratches rising up on the her skinny arms.
The boy plops from the thick dangling rope inches from her.
“Hi-Ho Silver!” he hollers; kissing her cheek with a big wet raspberry,
running deer-like from the barn doors toward the pastures awaiting bossy.
Up the stone tossed rock wall he clambers at ankle breaking pace.
Leaping from stone wall to the cow’s back;
“Come on, chicken!” he yells.
The girl follows more timidly watching out for
the broken, blue-bottle, glass shards
that poke out from between the fieldstones.
Reaching cow side, she blows brown hair from her face.
Hands on her tiny hips, she eyes the cow and rider.
The cow evil eye stares at her from one side of its huge head.
He slaps the cows rump. Sneakers wail into cowside
and with an indignant bellow of disgust rider and cow are off, girless,
toward the saltlick, leaving the kiss
and the red barn, but a memory.
The sun barbequed the skin, raising a tenderized pink glow
to the cheeks of the children in the ramshackle red barn.
The three story hay loft partly empty was bristling with tikes.
Pincushioned with straw, sharp as needles,
in their hair, tee-shirts and socks
an “itch-o-rama” of gross magnitude.
Hoarse screams of “Geronimo!”
propel a girl child out ward, over the abyss;
letting go directly over the haystack on the first floor.
Barn boards groan under the weight of her flailing form.
Sweet, so sticky sweet, was the air with sweat, hayseed, and manure.
Red welts form on errant scratches rising up on the her skinny arms.
The boy plops from the thick dangling rope inches from her.
“Hi-Ho Silver!” he hollers; kissing her cheek with a big wet raspberry,
running deer-like from the barn doors toward the pastures awaiting bossy.
Up the stone tossed rock wall he clambers at ankle breaking pace.
Leaping from stone wall to the cow’s back;
“Come on, chicken!” he yells.
The girl follows more timidly watching out for
the broken, blue-bottle, glass shards
that poke out from between the fieldstones.
Reaching cow side, she blows brown hair from her face.
Hands on her tiny hips, she eyes the cow and rider.
The cow's evil eye stares at her from one side of its huge head.
He slaps the cow's rump. Sneakers wail into cowhide
and with an indignant bellow of disgust rider and cow are off, girless,
toward the saltlick, leaving the kiss
and the red barn, but a memory.
*PS I am the girl LOL, I had a kissin' Cousin!