When butterflies float downward like a leaf
As air of Autumn dances everywhere
Whispers of wings become a bright motif
Floating, drifting, wandering on blue air.
Scents of cinnamon whisper treats to come
As wondrous woodsmoke warms us from within
At entry doors are straw and flowering mums
Every shape and size of gourd and pumpkin
Fall promises us all its bright enchantment
A whirling, orange world of wind and leaves
Known as a season of mad derangement
Yet of all- it is the one that most appeals
If I were to choose one season to be
I'd sleep until Autumn whispered to me
Once we were a world apart,
we wrote daily,
they were just the usual love letters,
but now I see clearly
they were statements
to affirm we were still here
in this wide world,
still lonely; making time
to physically lift a pen,
to write upon old blue air-mail letters,
sending them
into an unpredictable future.
If we had been truthful to love
we would have admitted
that we knew nothing
except this thing named ‘you’.
We were a mirage,
a hope
we had created of love.
When we arrived at the same place,
we stopped writing and sending.
Years later, after the parting,
we are again sharing e-mails,
again not knowing why.
We need a black shiny piano
a golden Sax,
a smoky mind drinking blue air.
Outside a mythical speak-easy
train wrecks are on a loop.
The green dollar of a once green dream
has become a sickly chihuahua
on life-support.
Here in this jazz club for one
mood songs write themselves;
a dark and comfortable love
poured from a cut-glass reality.
In that other world,
where wars rage, and rage wars
there is nothing but blue news.
Here we are deep velvet,
a slow croon of nocturnal madrigals
reprised under the low light
of an electric moon.
Summer is a different artwork to paint
Lush berries line the pathway
Passion thrives in blue air.
Auburn interspersed with deep dark green
Under skies of China blue, air chilled
Transience now defining feature seen
Unset mellow summer cast distilled
Masks impending season, lulls the mind
Nulling coming darkness, close confined
BITE SIZE POEM no29 Poetry Contest
On the roof top the dandelion grows,
It does not even mater if it snows!
Neither wind, nore rain
Can cause her any pain!
Come all, boys and girls,
Let’s take a breath and blow.
I can promise you this,
It ain’t even going to bow.
You can huff and puff,
But that plant is tuff.
You can do what ever you want,
Even get rough.
But be the ware
That plant is rare.
Do what you must,
It won’t be enough.
You can trust me on this, it is not a bluff!
Up there on that rooftop,
It needs no care,
Bring her down
And she will lose that blue air.
It’s her safety zone,
Out of the cross-hairs.
Never to be seated
Apon her death chair,
Safe and sound in her castle in the air.
By Desi E. Sherman
showery blue air
A big, menacing house flaps
old chicken shadow
covers landscape dawn
rooster stocks crowing out loud
cock-a-doodle-doo
6/7/19
Christmas Hope
I was sitting and thinking how love would be nice
considering this world cold and callous as ice.
Then quite suddenly out of the crystal blue air
came a feeling of warmth as if someone did care.
Someplace down in my heart burned a fire to believe
ignited by embers fueled on joy Christmas Eve.
Beyond all of the doubts folks hold on to their hope
and the promise of Christmas just brightens the scope.
There once was a holy child born in a manger,
who came to a world full of hurt, harm and danger.
As a man he taught us to love one another.
Each one is important. Each one is your brother.
This love is the reason for the season today
not material things and diamonds on display.
Joy and happiness are contagious from their start.
So, let’s try to keep fondness and peace in our hearts.
12/17/17
Wish I was somewhere else today
I ain't partic'lar where
Maybe upon a mountain top
Breathin' that cool blue air
Or I could fish a mountain stream
Catch me a big fat trout
Maybe wander to Galveston
Get a sunburn, no doubt
I had a love in Texas once
Maybe I'll hold her hand
Tell her of all the things I miss
Since I became a man
Wonder if I could kiss her still
'Neath a full Texas moon
Tell her things I have said before -
Listen to Elvis croon
Guess that's askin' a little much -
I'll think it anyway
Don't see the harm in dreamin' that
I'm somewhere else today
6/21/2017
For Brian Strand's Contest no 300
Over the fruitful forests, I saw the trees
I hoofed over sleet, slush, ice, rain n' snow
On my any which way journeys
Wandering kookily at the yearn of heaven's glow
I bear on my back a bodily spirit flow
Whilst traveling in tracks undreamed of
In vasty wind depth visits, so
To kiss the creator's old sod of soil ruff
Many I saw, rip current ocean shores
Sunny and clear, potshot rain sprees
Great stones and rock on steepy cliff floors
Umpteen alpine in the deep forest trees
More than that, wild geese in clean blue air
In elevation over n' under
Heading home across the landscape fair
Hasteningly, avoiding hunter and thunder
In all my travels, I found no answers. Only wonder!
To avoid the pale blue pain hue
I do not visit the river shore any more
If I do sometimes by chance
One by one
Our spent moments
Both closed and open
Come in a long bluish queue
And in the snow of thought grow deep blue sores
Hospital odour
shreds of blue in the air
Prayers seem hollow
Blues inexorably follow
The river-shore blue beauty
Is elegiac and unbearable for me
Do you remember
The blue river shore
Would madden us more and more
The blue air from your hair
That we ecstatically shared
While dissolving our lips in the mutual cups
In the veins
In the blue lanes and bye lanes of our laugh
Would gallop the horses
Now they are dews on forceps
Of the frightening time
In tattered rhymes
All chimes robbed of
As one day all on a sudden you fell
The current went pell-mell in the river
Leaving me sobbing
In those blue myriad cells
Very pale by your sudden departure
Into the ethereal air
Never to return
Time sits in urn
When I come here
The moment broken seemed irreparable
The embracing blue unbearable
____________________________________
2/11/2016
Without words, I wanted
to write a poem. Would you
read it from the moist eyes ?
*
It was a strange thing.
Finding the darkness of whitemoon
in blue air.
*
The wolf was there
in the house, to
molest the moonlight.
Satish Verma
lush blue syringes
filled with caked on pus
she is not a mannequin
nor a living doll
nor dead space ajar.
She likes to stare
at the backs of her hands
as if at any moment
they would mutate into dust.
She can still feel
their presence
as she reaches out for air
one cup of blue air.
An empty yearning,
an empty gesture,
withheld alone.
Fairy kings, dryads
in the labyrinths of nightfall
fill children’s heads with dread.
They walk hushed, their pockets full of bread
Bewitched these children bring
elusive, unthinkable thoughts,
of wings that flitter in aqua tints,
perch a silver instant on nodding fronds
tumble into violet, dew- drop flowers.
Spirits of the blue air,
fragments of a baby’s first laugh
travel to us over centuries of sky
in a boat of glass
On rainbow wings that flutter
among flowered garlands,
sparkle in waterfalls,
shimmer in twisted vedigris woods.
haunting moonlit narratives. Awaken
imagination in ethereal meadow-pinks
Arise from lakes on a pure white horse.
Hide their gold in blossoms of gorse
Reign over deep earth, intervolve,
spells from midnight 'til the cock’s first crow.
Glorious gladness and frivolity.
In the shadowed hours of indigo,
dance in a secret ring.
Spin star shine into fairy dust and sing
nature’s magic.
Suddenly I’ve walked out, into the air…
All bluely about, what am I supposed to do?
Dance! Dance!
Under the willow tree.
Blue air, fresh air, come in….
I welcome your necessity.
Around me.
In me. Through me.
Out.
Invisibly intimate.
Between all and all between, hold me tightly with your weaving winds.
I never knew I lost you, until I found you.
Your thankless endeavors…..existence.
Such is your glory.
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