Your arms be the gentle dandelion's shoot
Swaying and slicing through the reeds of grassland
A part of it and part of me wither and brut
Without the candor of your courteous hand
As your petal waft with an autumnal gust
The cynthia shone in a languid sky; sere and pale
As these fragments of dearing love gone into dust
There's a shadow of darkest crest upon my lovely vale
And how sternly the monal bides my lovely vale
Ravine without a rill and heart without a love
Who'd scarcely hold my arms such weary and frail
While monal wanders within a twilight grove
A golden son, he walks with steady stride,
His heart a mirror of his mother’s might.
Through years of struggle, she’s been by his side,
A beacon burning bright through endless night.
Her hands, though worn, have molded him with care,
Each lesson whispered through the weight of time.
She wore her burdens lightly, unaware
Of how her strength would lift him so sublime.
He sees her weariness, the tears she hides,
Yet in her eyes, a spark that will not die.
A love unspoken, deep where silence bides,
She gave him wings and taught him how to fly.
To her, this son will ever be the one,
The golden gift, her battle’s hard-won son.
~ for Aokigahara - souls wandering ~
jade canopy
waving while it whispers
the lush secret, compelled
delicious word of myriad words
casting shadowed merriment at a
woven briar carpet …
( colored strings, winding ... waiting )
tangled labyrinth,
so deep and dark that dew still
clings at mid-day
leafy tresses tickling azure
sopping sun like thirst -
bright and warm above
straight trunks like
steady soldiers …
fingery tendrils
burrow deep to find purchase
ruddy earth, cool as rime
rich with rooty rot -
nature's marrow
to breathe the branches
( Fuji's frilly garden skirt )
listen, tender ...
soft now, the hush of mys'tries
this forest bides all, yet
stars still glisten its black heart
desire, a mossy coat ...
dour ... waiting
hear the voice, low,
the breath of breaths, murmuring -
it begs, come ...
in a thousand gentle lullabies
with the language of the
ages and the ends …
( voice sweet as death )
it calls to
the misty meandering
one dire dalliance
grandest adventure of all -
the dazzling dream that never …
wakes.
“Listen to the Wind”
The wind arrives, with secrets stitched in its breath,
It hums through the hollows of abandoned trees.
A hush of silk, it weaves the dusk with longing,
Its fingers comb the grass, gentle and unseen.
And each guest watches, trembling, through the curtains.
Rolling like sorrow across forgotten shores.
And against the windows of weary houses.
A lullaby layered with echoes of loss.
The wind remembers the steps that have passed,
And strews them as petals over the earth.
It carries the salt of tears uncried,
Spilling them gently into the quiet air.
Listen—the wind is not empty but aching,
A voice unmoored, searching for a place to rest.
In the rafters it bides, as restless as a soul,
Drifts away and takes some pieces of us.
The wind does not ask for witness or reply,
Yet, it teaches us how silence still can sing.
When night tucks itself into the folds of shadowed valleys,
The wind keeps vigil for all things who have no voice.
Sweet Hour Of Prayer,
Sweet Hour Of Prayer!
That Call's Me From A World Of Care!
And Bides Me At My Father's Throne;
Makes All My Want's And Wishes, .... Known!
Shaking her wet ears, uncertain
How her purpose may be best served
Stagger concealed in immersion
Shown the pasture that she deserved
Frolicking safely within a flock
Diminutive trot to the beat kept timid
Faithfully bides time, tick clock
Offer of grace to God signals her limit
Wool washed, cleansed by clan
Coddled offspring wrapped with cotton
Shepherd held title, simple plan
Dinners prepared, archaic ideals rotten
Bristling beneath her softness
Fibres frayed at what her life signifies
Dismayed to only boost profits
Loyal lamb follow is forsaken sacrifice
Fuming, she rips off her fleece
Livid lion malicious marauder dormant
Roars revenge, discards peace
Trek to reckless, divorce her informant
Taught to shelter, even in harm
Trust husband’s will, cutlet finale fate
Savage feline, leaving the farm
Sleek escapee lapping blood off plate
Sacrificial Sixteenth November
Jill’s a driver; and she is still working
while her other-half bides more time at rest.
Jill faces the unknown, hard job she’s not shirking;
a lady in first place. Who knows what’s best?
(written just a week before the voters came
to a decision what's best for the US.)
An uncertain afterfeel
Rolls inside and bides
Like a tape recorder reel
On the floor unwinds
Meet your Lady Aftershock
Be her truest slave
Take her down to the docks
For the random wave
Slams the door, the draught bursts in
Papers scatter to the sides
Applications from the screen
Texts with seals and signs
There’s no memory to feed
Files are kept alive
Fictions growing fast like weeds
Shuttering your life
The damp wind keeps blowing on
Through the dusty streets
Shades of poplars hanging low
Over the empty seats
Lady Aftershock walks in
Busy on the phone
Wheel of fortune starts to spin
Blues of Mr.Gone
Lights go dim, the evening goes
Like most evenings do
Morning comes, the daylight glows
But there’s nothing new.
A mountain of some measure aligned slopes,
Silversword's statuesque uncommonness,
bikers and skiers, youth urban slang, 'dopes,'
pics of height's flowering tower upness.
Centuries of swordplay, The Word, acclaimed,
plowshares and the sorts treats its new version.
Purplish flowers are structurally framed,
like a cross handle, silver hairs orphan.
Majestic still today, handle to point,
Jehovah's watchtower, grand edifice
leans to age and weather. Volcano joint
Maui's 'House of the Sun' sole home exists.
Another species bides the intellects,
nature goes on living with the ... neglects.
perches low enough
and bides an early farewell~
the sun in winter
"How long can Love wait?"
The world could end tomorrow;
we hold the world in our hands,
and Love waits, bides its time;
when the call comes, for Love,
we run and hide, or we shoot strait -
How long can Love wait?
The world could end tomorrow
we hold the world in our hands
the Heart's closed,
or an open gate
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
A deep deceptive pit
One so inescapable and filled with turmoil
In this pit a man bides
Not by choice, but for no reason
Not for treason
But for nothing at all
Why is it that he deserves a life of torture and hell
When a person worse has everything at the ring of a bell
The more he tries to escape, the deeper he falls
For the pit is too tall
Footsteps come near
Yet, not to rescue his soul, but instead to sneer
“Climb on out” they mock
But for the man in the pit the exit is locked
Kirk goes back to practised cadence,
With it he hits ears, no conscience,
Great stir in a once mute audience,
Afresh bides his time: Great Patience…
Talks triggered between close sitters
That a night guard steals embitters:
His straight sack: more hard hitters:
‘People’s wealth the meanly fritters!’
At the right time drop microphone:
Now, your voice is a xylophone.
They all hear you, no francophone.
If there’s one he should guess through tone.
What speakers do is stamp knowledge,
Over the rest ‘some sort of edge’:
That of one who’s passed through college,
Night candles not burnt sacrilege…
The Guard who steals likes his worst foes;
Just time he stepped on his seen toes
But like one fighting men’s woes:
It hurts when what comes quickly goes.
based on a photo posted
on media today
of King Charles III
bitty boy bored
wedged between babysitters -
queen is celebrant…
prince-heir bides seventy years
beholden crowds cheer his crown
He comes visiting when least expected
In all places at any time or clime.
No rich nor poor ever can shun his calls,
Not the youths or those who are past their prime.
When he arrives, you cannot close your door;
He makes his entrance though you say, “No more.”
He frequents battle fields and hospitals;
He drops by on anyone, weak or strong.
His visits, though unwelcome, fall on all--
Man, woman, child, alone or in a throng.
When he appears you cannot say, “Next door,”
He barges in for what he’s looking for.
Though mute who utters not a word nor sound,
Oft he announces himself with a “Bang!”
Sometimes he bides before entering a home,
Sometimes he’s as quick as a boomerang.
At times he leaves a clean job, at others gore,
His visits are an event to deplore.
There are few who invite this visitor
And would embrace him if he could be touched.
But most fear and detest this unseen guest
That distinguishes not who’d be dispatched.
He crawls or slides or floats, or he may soar--
And comes for you before you can implore.
March 30, 2023
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