Bronzed Poems

Ill met One Night

She entered the room and his heart as one
then all before distant time mattered less
he was no innocent, and she no nun
to which, much later, they both would confess.

But, at that instant, neither prisoned, cared
baggage they hid inside their faded trunk
for she, was a vision all golden-haired
and he, he was a sun-bronzed, six-pack-hunk.

He entered the room, in her, something stirred
and all before distant time mattered less;
and long before they had exchanged a word
he was, she well knew, an invited guest.

And in the next morning, as they both lay
they were yet to know the price they would pay.

Heavenly Crush

Lord, please put summer on pause...
everything is bathed in jade and bronzed.
Queen Ann's lac and curbside weeds, 
beatified in the sweet, sautéed sunshine.
Everything is sheened in overabundance-
the aspen leaves are jiving on the breeze.
A cardinal is as plump as an uncut ruby...
for two weeks on- when the sun comes up
it weaves a song with lemon drops
is it taunting me or thanking the good lord

Lord, please put summer on pause
While I'm still enmeshed in bone and flesh
within the golden foothills of a heavenly crush.

Securing the Gate at Dusk

For a long time, the old barn had quite a lean
It was still shocking when it finally fell.
When you came around the bend
it was comforting to see it
blushing in the sunlight.
It was a great loss when it finally succumbed.
 
If it could speak
would it speak of great sacrifice
or hardship and Goodtimes.
Would it converse with antiques and machinery
or the shadow of a barn cat and a frayed tire swing.

The old farmer had quite a lean just before he past...
don't believe he ever retired. 
He bounced up and down those dusty rows for half a century.
There was a lot of wisdom and a sprinkle of secrets in that lean... 
a quiet ferocity coiled in those ancient-bronzed Mits.

He lived through two world wars and fought in one.
He served- fed and cleaned up the messes of the elite.
He prayed over and buried everything that he loved....
The city slag still called him simple and backwards.
There is something noble about an old farmer
securing his gate at dusk.

Its ANZAC day; here in the U K'

I think of those who left their home.' To fight on battlefields
Unknown.' In mud and blight against Gallipolis heights
At Beer Sheba and on Tobruks deadly plains.' Where they
Lay low; and let those tanks, roll over them front and flanks'
Then arose to put to shame.their foe' These Men
Of the the flats..Of wheatfields and cane.' From harbours
And citys made forever a name.' Reknown for igenuity for
Resilience wordwide.' Steadfast our bronzed battlers who
Took all in stride.' As the bugle notes ring out today in the
Dawn.' I remember.. I remember.' In gratitude mixed with awe.! So today as i face the struggles that come I shall
Draw strength, and inspiration at the rising of each sun.'
And it will remind me.' That whatever is to come? the
ANZAC spirit is my mentor, i vow to hold it to my memory all
My days on earth, until my final hours beneath the setting sun'

String of Footles

New year
Big cheer. 

Low gear
Snows here. 

Wind blew
Leaves flew. 

Team scored
Crowd roared. 

Sun tan
Bronzed man.

Warm sun 
Beach fun. 

Beach walk 
Gulls squawk. 

Bright bling 
Gold ring. 

Place bet
Roulette. 

Bells ring
Wedding. 

Trains late
Irate. 

Won race. 
First place. 

Birds fly 
Sky high. 

Flat tire
My ire. 


 Written on 20th January 2025

The Afterlife of Leaves

The parade of endless colors is over, 
all the leaves are dead or dying
scurrying about like frantic crabs
back and forth across an icy-icy land
clinging along the fence line of time
swirling around cul-de-sac and doorways
like gothic teens with little reason to shine
...but unchained from their master's paradise
unchained from the dance of emerald lies.
Soon these bronzed -arthritic children
will wrinkle into oblivion.

The Harmony Tree

My thoughts of this world lie troubled and profound
As I pause drenched in the golden hues of copper fields
Stretched to the limit of the bronzed horizons that crowned
Beaming with the aspiration of assured hope revealed

As the sun wraps reverently all around
Where old familiars have settled to retreat
I have come where tranquility and serenity abound
Looking for a place of peace

I stand uplifted by a fabled tree of legendary rhyme
That laid its roots sublimely patterned in story
To furrow richly in the swelling soil of time
Gently resting within its landscape’s glory

It grew ever so magnificently
Harvesting the goodness of adaptation
In perfect unison with nature's severity
Relinquished in the passing of generations

Strong and textured with roughness and age
From the scars of hardship it dwells
In its simplicity and synchronicity-a musical page
A soothing lullaby-a song of peace and farewell

And in that golden light I am reminded we must
In a world amid calamity, despair and strife
Find ourselves in this place of calmness and trust
Amidst gardens of hope glowing with harmonious life

Autumn Flutter

autumn bronzed 

bubbling trees

sway, sweep, and tilt,

twist, turn, then bow;
 
spawning boughs tossing 

hurricaned dust.

           ~~~~~~~~~

(autumn flutter)

Mother Said

Mother said to carry Dad's little green luggage,
Godzilla my foe, I can do a step not a hundred,
Mother said to put in you--that, it's all bronzed,
Ugh, zip-phew Godzilla you stink your breadth.
Godz I gotta look for Dad Mom I ain't no angel.
Godz I told Mother that I heard the car engine. 
Mom prayed for the car using holy oil, via olive.
It needs that. It'll start with a tad of that liquid.
Mother said Dad knows. He'd already glimpsed
it'll drive that bobbing--pistons Mom--amongst
other something, than cars. Like? Stew borscht
Mom says. I say that's not Russian. Mad, whilst
it'll be Mother's last words said, Russia's worlds
are rightfully theirs, and we own ours. Traipsed
not, glory ste..get-MA, PA, joy go I-run anxious.

Taking On The Best

"Mom." "Back so soon." "Michelangelo sculpt
his heart out--a goddess." "Blasphemy." "Dreamt
you up, he did--and no, it's true." "Your breadth
is solid." "My breath?" "About, pops, your bronzed
god." "No, 'twas an award statue." "That prompts
you to ask him for a date ..." "A swim." "Depth
for many seasons to check out, the eighth
wonder of the world." "John..., Until the twelfth ..."

"Mama, I'm here, Mama" "My son." "Chimney
stack goes off, like pops." "Your dad ... my husband
that you bring back to life, we're all foible."
His messy desk, but he knows it, angry
when I first cleaned HIS mess--divine sanction,
we're blessed ...," "Mom ... (sigh) ... you're also my angel."

Green-Browed Mountains

Seven days in the green-browed mountains
time slowly retreated to the horizon
sun casually took to the foreground
weather was always a foothill or two behind.
moon sighed into its gloaming.

Seven days inhaling green- browed mountains
wildflower sashayed into the veins
no migraine-no chain of cars
no barbed wire news or plastic drama
no carbon monoxide dreaming...
a bumblebee made a path for my eyes.


Seven days devouring green- browed mountains, 
Like a bronzed faced kitten I napped beside a stream.
Didn't see God but I know he saw me.

Seven days fasting in green-browed mountains. 
A spirit Half cleansed in the sheen of brevity.
Tomorrow, I return to the grey-eyed flats 
Into the padded infirmary of puppets and madmen.

Whats the use

chant of a new beginning
first picture of summer
bronzed legs
see the flowers scream their joy
Pretty in pink
she loves to be one of the chosen
loving the stage
she murmur her fledgling ideals
Love is a wonderful colour
by the burning  barricades
through the early thrush rain

The Dance of Dances

For Miranda Hawley's Dance Of...Contest


Cleared from mistakes past ,he greets love reclaimed
His ardor fierce as dreams untethered swing.
Moments of anger, jealousy  now tamed:
Again, night's rhapsodies begin to
sing.

His woman alights, dressed in bridal
lace...
Her lover honoring a misty glance
Petal- kissed within their own world's 
embrace
Where flamed waltz glides...on dips of shadow- dance.

And male fingers cascade down through her
waist
Bronzed hands tracing her every hourglass curve,
Enamored by swaggers of season's wait; 
No other movement , their footsteps could swerve.

It would take whirls of lifetime to explain
This unrehearsed dance beneath moonlit rain.

SL ecphrasis couplet VIII

Marc Quinn's 'Nurseries of El Dorado'*
bronzed still life chromed patina show

The Secret of The Rainbow

Where is the secret of the rainbow?
At the edge of one's own life?
Whence does it come, with those lovely pastel colours?
Is it a heavenly art or a mere human illusion?
Some form of an ancient creative masterpiece?
Perhaps expressionism was reassessed?

The spiritual in natural art is oft-forgotten 
in musty mists, where the soul engages
in confrontations with the deadly reaper.
The appalling midst of winter intensifies in the freeze,
and the psychology of death deepens,
for we are too much attached to worldly cares.
Characteristic emotions in cowardly conflicts.
 
One can say so very few words about 
the astute business of a measured life,
like autumn's falling bronzed leaves,
its face value is not easily perceived;
for dead leaves turn into compost,
no peaceful transition true, but a must 
that leads and helps life's renewal in spring.
 
Forget the troubled dream of dreary life,
let the seasons daub their watercolours bold and free,
the rainbow assigns a variety of mellow hues,
chooses always the brightest.
For the secret of the rainbow
a symbol of new hope lies in its Creator.

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