Red statues bestirring beside sturdy brown
Golden yellow tassels, the talk of the town
Rich green blanket spread as far as meets the eye
The idyllic scene framed under the bluest of skies
Textured white ripples rise and fall in silver pails
Perky, pale curlicues wave, pretty pink tails
A color-splashed canvass greets Mr. Farmer every morn
As he wends his way to and from the faded red, rustic barn
There's a fire out in yonder woods
Blazing orange and crimson red
Bestirring passion in our hearts
Sweet verses in our heads
It races over courtship's trail
Sweeps past each hill and dale,
Consuming every twig and leaf
Nature's timeless tale ...
~ Alas: Love's brilliant, flaming colors
Gray as ashes in their grief
zealous woozily throbbing
quintessentially narcotic
karaoke humble ecstasy bubbling
yawningly vibrantly
singing praises motivates
ineluctable fancy caparisoned
zestfully whooping tellingly
quaking novel kindles
heartfelt essence
blubbering yipping vocalizations
sincerely pronouncing
myriad jubilant gleefulness
describing absolute x2c
unbridled rhapsodic
obeisance loosening
inimitable fabulous communication
zeroing wakened tremendous pleasure
marinating joie de vivre
gurgling dynamically aspiring xylem
unstoppably roiling
overtly liberal fawning calculus
zinging wordy tome
proclaiming motive jangling
glorifying divine adulating
x uber rants obediently liberating
inducing fantastic crowing zestfully
warbling tenderly quiet nursing kingdom
harkening enjoyment bestirring
x unnumbered remarks
outlining linkedin impressiveness
from crocheting zany way
this poet marries juxtaposed grammar
describing atypical xfinity urging requiem
oozing libation inside
fleshly corporeal Zen wordsmith thyself
questioning messenger's (mine) jabbering
gets decoded accurately.
The dawn of a New Year
Another time to meet head on,
Is this a good omen or do I fear
Now my youth has long gone,
Ablaze within the power shone.
Yet I see a light bestirring
Amongst the doom and gloom,
Freedom of one’s pen columnist averring
When of weaving the literary loom,
Idealistic sweeps the new broom.
© Harry J Horsman 2015
A tribute to Joyce Kilmer
I sit under this willow tree.
Its pendulous branchlets swaying
In concinnity around me,
spontaneously bestirring
a soliloquized pleasantry:
No measured words and rhymes I write
Could ever describe your beauty
Because fools never get it right
and” Poems are made by fools like me”
imperfect, conventional lines.
“But only God can make a tree”
creation of perfect design.
So I write down beneath this tree
these feeble lines of poetry.
Truth, tis as a lighthouses emitting or a belfries resounding ~
Penetrating the night and bestirring elixirics Soulful solutions....
A sweetened aroma arising from this reservoir to replenish ones heart
Beyound the scorching deserts through a worlds depleting of their spirits
Oceanic dunes; sailing amid medieval storms in manifestations ever rising
Destructive dry kindling winds, singed and sitting aflame atop the mast!?
Life and love in these their hopes and dreams caught within a swell, to be carried
Unto the edge of fervents spindrift earth; this journey through times
Sea of painfuls enlightenment to arrive at its end and, still holding fast....
***********************************************************************
....“Divinities, `Anchor of Truth`” ~
His manic mind this particular night
Was dulled by the fractured waning moonlight.
Standing alone amongst the monoliths
Of stone and marble, cold and spiritless.
The sky, all black and bleak, nary a star
To behold. Somewhere distant a bizarre
Sounding canine howled its mournful distress.
A black ominous cloud slithered across
The dying lunar orb like a veiled-face
Demon lurking in an unholy place.
Possessed, his unquietness bestirring
Within his tormented soul a craving
For human blood. Someone's vitality
Will be drained to sustain immortality.
The signs of autumn are upon us. Wow!
The Sun is heading south and harvesting
Is ready for a host of crops by now.
In early fall the days are warm as spring.
The leaves are turning yellow, some are red
And few are brown as yet. The oaken tree
Is dropping fruit and squirrels running ahead
Of other squirrels to claim a guarantee
Impending drops are won. The scent of leaves
Is carried by Septembers gentle breeze
Throughout the day bestirring memories
Of seasons past: A time of youth, who seized
The autumn moments with a measured scheme:
To laugh and play; to sing; to love and dream.
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