it’s too wet, too gloomy, too damp
putting me in a bad mood,
I am too annoyed to write
I wanted to picnic today
this storm has ruined everything!
Dang it! Now the lights have gone out!
Even if I could write, I can’t.
The computer won’t work!
This lament is from Linwood, the "wanna be" writer.
Chet, the real writer, heard the lament of his roommate.
as he was scribbling his thoughts onto a paper plate
using the light from the window
noting impressions in a line
angry gray clouds
thunder’s cymbal crash
resolve of the black oak tree to stand up to the storm
“I will write tomorrow!” yelled Linwood. “I am going back to bed now.”
Chet kept writing….you see,
this weather won’t poison a poets pen
because a real writer can write about….
an electrical outlet
a surprisingly fast mouse
a drop of glue
a tiny piece of tape
a teensy crumb from a pink eraser
or their roommates
that is what writers and poets do.
Form: Free verse
Maple, Elm, .... Black Oak, .. Has Grew!
Perfect Pitch, .... Not's Far From, ... View!
Form: Ballad
My words yield you a calm blue sky.
I shall die, albeit on a spring morning.
It could be a misty frosty time to pray.
Maybe a cold, misty October evening.
A little rain, sun, or haze won't stop you.
I shall die, albeit on a spring morning.
Even so, it will be another quiet view.
A fiction of the memory, a sad joke.
A little rain, sun, or haze won't stop you.
That day, my eyes were alike black oak.
My body was almost as cold as a pebble.
A fiction of the memory, a sad joke.
I'll be whisked away in a deep aisle.
I'm pushing my lucid dreams behind.
My body was almost as cold as a pebble.
Final verse's vibes stuck in my mind.
My words yield you a calm blue sky.
I'm pushing my lucid dreams behind.
It could be a misty frosty time to pray.
( Not for a contest )
Form: Terzanelle
I Have Spun Tapestries Of Golden Words
I have walked paths from dawn's glowing birth
across oceans spanning earth's massive girth,
from mountains scratching on high, heavenly skies
to mysterious realms others oft deny.
A soul wandering, sometimes lost in space.
Eagerly seeking her vanishing face.
I have spun tapestries of golden words
sang ditties with most beautiful songbirds,
swam in wondrous lakes with waters crystal clear
all with impunity, without any fear.
A soul wandering, sometimes lost in space.
Eagerly seeking her vanishing face.
I have prayed under giant black-oak trees
sincere solemn prayers upon bend'ed knees,
as a lost lover once blinded by my greed
sacrificing all, for this love to feed.
A soul wandering, sometimes lost in space.
Eagerly seeking her vanishing face.
I have seen sights breathtaking to behold
heard dark ancient tales so wildly told,
with crestfallen despair, wrote life is not fair
begging for forgiveness, for love to share.
A soul wandering, sometimes lost in space.
Eagerly seeking her vanishing face.
Robert J. Lindley, 12-29-2019
Romanticism
Form: Romanticism
FOREST GIRL
I'd walk down through the forest in the rain
to see the girl in green and feel her pain
uncertain of her life so many ways
yet outwardly she'd laugh throughout the days.
All dressed in greenery of vine and leaves
pine needles for her collars; black oak sleeves,
she'd dance and sing there in our greenery
and though so sad, she never showed to be.
She teased me every morning in her way
that made a sheer delight of every day,
the forest was her home, I know not where
and when I'd ask, she'd tell me--"over there
right next to you but far back in the trees
in just a house of stone, where no one sees,
nor tries to understand what I can't show
the me they never see and do not know."
The images of her are with me yet
as part of me and what I'll not forget
but then one day I blinked and she was gone
I could not ask of her to anyone
for she lived over there--back through the trees
I in a different world, where no one sees.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Form: Iambic Pentameter
FOREST GIRL
I'd walk down through the forest in the rain
to see the girl in green and feel her pain
uncertain of her life so many ways
yet outwardly she'd laugh throughout the days.
All dressed in greenery of vine and leaves
pine needles for her collars; black oak sleeves,
she'd dance and sing there in our greenery
and though so sad, she never showed to be.
She teased me every morning in her way
that made a sheer delight of every day,
the forest was her home, I know not where
and when I'd ask, she'd tell me--"over there
right next to you but far back in the trees
in just a house of stone, where no one sees,
nor tries to understand what I can't show
the me they never see and do not know."
The images of her are with me yet
as part of me and what I'll not forget
but then one day I blinked and she was gone
I could not ask of her to anyone
for she lived over there--back through the trees
I in a different world, where no one sees.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Form: Iambic Pentameter
The black oak is faded
by the continuous skating of drinks:
mugs, snifters, goblets and pint glasses.
They remain stationary in formation,
anticipating the next pair of thirsty lips to arrive.
With every drop that pours
in the glass, reality is put to rest,
existing predicaments
and emotions are directed elsewhere.
A fatigued being sits across from me,
with a comparable physique to mine.
He comes at the same time as I.
I see him day-to-day,
like a shadow, from sun to moon.
I never see him depart; but
he is always in my view.
In his hand, a glass dripping in its sweat.
As he clasps it securely, like a wrench,
he devours his poison
and without a spoken word;
he is detached from this world.
When I catch a glimpse into
his disoriented eyes, I see contempt.
But, a smirk rests delicately on his weary face,
as if he knows who I am, and the reason why
I pick up this glass each day.
He knew I couldn’t bear to look
at my own reflection.
Form: Narrative
FOREST GIRL
I'd walk down through the forest in the rain
to see the girl in green and feel her pain
uncertain of her life so many ways
yet outwardly she'd laugh throughout the days.
All dressed in greenery of vine and leaves
pine needles for her collars; black oak sleeves,
she'd dance and sing there in our greenery
and though so sad, she never showed to be.
She teased me every morning in her way
that made a sheer delight of every day,
the forest was her home, I know not where
and when I'd ask, she'd tell me--"over there
right next to you but far back in the trees
in just a house of stone, where no one sees,
nor tries to understand what I can't show
the me they never see and do not know."
The images of her are with me yet
as part of me and what I'll not forget
but then one day I blinked and she was gone
I could not ask of her to anyone
for she lived over there--back through the trees
I in a different world, where no one sees.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Form: Iambic Pentameter
Three years ago in Éire was the last time I was free,
I used to own a boat there, and roam an Emerald sea,
by the herald of a sunset that made all the shadows flee,
shadows older than the sunset, as old as the black oak tree;
"it's not until the body dies, the soul is bid go free",
the shadows cast by lonliness seemed to whisper, quietly,
the theft of time is sought there, a consensual burglary,
and the moonlight on the darkling water, glistened solemnly,
as the waves lapped round my ankles on the shore of the emerald sea;
Now nothing in this shallow world means anything to me,
Back again on dry land now, bound by lock and key,
left rotting in this dungeon - lost - as though by royal decree,
into those gleaming waters cast, were both the lock and key,
- the shadows cast by lonliness rise up and swallow me -
the theft of time is fought for here, a cruel irony,
where time takes forever and forever, or so it seems to me,
deep hidden in the forest of the past, for at least an eternity,
bound in idleness and darkness - even as the old oak tree.
Form: Rhyme
Across the valley I journeyed far
Upon my heart(my spirit soared in dreams!)
Underneath the glowing day-bright star,
I waded meadows and cool flowing streams.
Beauty spoke from this shining land,
of sky, flowers, birds and bees
Deeper still in the tall black oak stand
and greater still, Nature guided me.
A wanderer in its glory so magnificently set
Painted with critters and deep mysteries
amazing wonders caught in its far flung net
Nature's wonders amassed throughout histories!
Across the valley I journeyed far
Upon my heart(my spirit soared in dreams!)
Underneath the glowing day-bright star,
I waded meadows and cool flowing steams.
Robert J. Lindley
Form: Rhyme
Memories Of Bygone Days
O' yes, how well I remember her still
giant black oak atop big wooded hill
Those treasured days now long flown by
our free spirits flying so very high
Summer days within Nature's fine realm
majestic views that did so overwhelm
Cloudy days in the meadow far below
flowers galore, O' what a great show
My lady and I went up there to park
glorious scene set our hearts to spark
Under canopy of that old massive oak
she sweet words of undying love spoke
Our tree saw our love start to bloom
picture of that oak in our bedroom
Two years it watched our love grow
how was it to ever see or dare know
Life came and flew on us so fast
love came deeply but failed to last
Fate sent us onto far different treks
love destroyed, both lives were wrecks
Now I pass that massive tree on the hill
memory recalls her beauty , what a thrill
Time destroyed the scene it ruled then
O' the love of what should, could have been
JULY 2015
Form: Rhyme
FOREST GIRL
I'd walk down through the forest in the rain
to see the girl in green and feel her pain
uncertain of her life so many ways
yet outwardly she'd laugh throughout the days.
All dressed in greenery of vine and leaves
pine needles for her collars; black oak sleeves,
she'd dance and sing there in our greenery
and though so sad, she never showed to be.
She teased me every morning in her way
that made a sheer delight of every day,
the forest was her home, I know not where
and when I'd ask, she'd tell me--"over there
right next to you but far back in the trees
in just a house of stone, where no one sees,
nor tries to understand what I can't show
the me they never see and do not know."
The images of her are with me yet
as part of me and what I'll not forget
but then one day I blinked and she was gone
I could not ask of her to anyone...
...for she lived over there--back through the trees
I in a different world, where no one sees.
© ron wilson
Form: Iambic Pentameter
In the South New Jersey town of Stratford
grew a southern black oak tree.
It’s now a lifeless stump.
Form: Kimo
FOREST GIRL
I'd walk down through the forest in the rain
to see the girl in green and feel her pain
uncertain of her life so many ways
yet outwardly she'd laugh throughout the days.
All dressed in greenery of vine and leaves
pine needles for her collars; black oak sleeves,
she'd dance and sing there in our greenery
and though so sad, she never showed to be.
She teased me every morning in her way
that made a sheer delight of every day,
the forest was her home, I know not where
and when I'd ask, she'd tell me--"over there
right next to you but far back in the trees
in just a house of stone, where no one sees,
nor tries to understand what I can't show
the me they never see and do not know."
The images of her are with me yet
as part of me and what I'll not forget
but then one day I blinked and she was gone
I could not ask of her to anyone
for she lived over there--back through the trees
I in a different world, where no one sees.
Form: Iambic Pentameter
Beyond the paved two-lane with its solid centerline,
and bounded by NO TRESPASS signs;
beyond the turn-off onto gravel and the last barking dog
who keeps pace with my hubcap;
to a landing where I park my car and walk away:
no signs of ownership, no gate.
Just a path that skirts a swale; up to a clearing
fringed with black-oak blazing green.
I push through underbrush thick
with deadfall leaves, beyond where miners dug
and gouged and left it all behind.
Land no one has tamed.
Abruptly, I’m at the edge of canyon.
Far below, the river churns from upcountry,
down granite, grinding its way west.
No vineyard terraces, no homes with a view.
Just the wild lavender of distance
verging into forest viridian. Land owned by none
and everyone, where, if I watch my step,
I can still walk free.
Form: Free verse
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