Onto the high desert of a low-browed world.
Lost in the me of their scratchy egos.
Doll-eyed souls raped by the gears of techno.
How thou hast shaped me, and increased my life,
O Rose! Before, I was a squall, a storm
of melancholy and dark, bitter strife:
a soul already lost like a vile worm
on a dry sidewalk on a hot, sunny day.
Without hope or joy, without faith or God,
I spiraled, and at risk of losing my way,
my hateful heart thought thoughts that none can laud.
But O, dear Rose! Reformed by thee, made whole
once more by thy bottomless love and wide-browed beauty,
I am a new being fashioned by thy sweet soul,
and now transformed through thine unwavering fealty.
Rose, my storm was broken up by thy light,
so that I'm no more a worm in God's sight.
Seven days in the green-browed mountains.
Time retreated to the horizon.
Sun casually took to the foreground.
Moon sighed into its gloaming.
Seven days inhaling green-
wildflower sashaying into the veins
No more migraines-no chain of coughing cars.
No barbed wire news or plastic drama.
A bumblebee made a path for my eyes.
Seven days bathing in green-
Like a bronzed-faced kitten, I napped beside a stream.
Didn't see God but felt him watching over me.
Seven days fasting in green-
A spirit half-cleansed in the sheen of brevity.
Tomorrow, I return to the grey-eyed misery
Into the padded infirmary of puppets, madmen and kings.
“To love, or not to love?” that is the point,
the focus which peers lose beyond disjoint.
To be like gods among men, and unloved,
is woe: even wild beasts are not unmoved
by these fragmented, lone, unearthly souls,
for whom the scroll of history unrolls.
Men, being so much better than feral beasts,
should shun (and despise!) the vile, evil feasts
of their hate: then love these wide-browed seers, men
and women like the wielder of this pen.
Through googly eye's
and a warm-browed telling
I see that summer is fast coming
the panting wind proclaims it.
As contrarily as a dude can get
I wish for a fresher breeze
a knee twinging chill or two
not many
just a pinch of a light blue
mildness.
Lunch will be brunch today,
and then a nap
between cold beers.
Summer days
are as hazy-brained as ever
I remember,
just before
night flips its switch.
When conflicts raise its ugly head real soon,
our nations won’t inevitably swoon;
a time that real détente and peace attune.
Some people still record the slights most ever stored.
Thus escalate discord, their armies can’t be bored.
But bearing painful past in mind, endowed
ensuing loss with angst, so many bowed
with hidden resentment and furrow browed.
In corners hide the past, persistent ghosts which last.
The indiscretions vast: those overboard and fast.
It shan’t depend on inner child if strewn:
‘To never stand against the wisdom roared.’
Do kowtow when rambunctious children vow
t’ ensure revolt replaced by great repast.
I was a clear sky
My expectations on you were too high
You were my bright little Sun
Who just came to have some fun
Your sugar coated words
Flew far away like birds
You pretended to be my light
And turned my life into a dark night
Now, crowded with black browed cloud
I still say that'I love you' crying out aloud
Your presence was treasured in my life
But all that you did was stabbed me like a knife
You showered me with all your love
What made you betray me now?
Sweater and knee socks in May
As around her
All present sweltered
damp browed assuring
She felt just fine
In things unseasonably sheltered
A boundary crossed
The sweater removed
Insult to injury by force
Seeing the reason
And humiliation
Immediately showing remorse
Gently escorted away from
The eyes
that looked on ,and on,it seemed
After the big unveiling
the rest
A nightmarish dream
The role of being
A spokesman unwittingly
given that day
No looking not
Or deciding
to look the other way
We all have an obligation
to the fragile
Or dispossessed
Trying to hide
their battle scars
Each day as their getting dressed
Be the one who says
"Come with Me"
As you guide them out of this mess
Love in action
Love indeed
Not shallow words professed
Spring the magical season of natural splendour,
It's glory brightens and blooms every life,
Birds chirp in meadows and call for their mates;
The tap-tap of the woodpeckers,
And their courtship dances,
Welcome the mating season in cheer.
The bold Ashy prinia with perky tail
Found in thickets, the jungle mynahs
Seen in noisy groups at sunset,
The spotted owlet with a hooting sound,
Seen in banyan and peepal trees,
Are sights of delight after a dreary winter.
The white-browed wagtail,
Scurrying in open spaces wagging its tail,
The pond heron with its yellow eyes,
And the Asian koel singing kik kik,
His mate too joining, singing kuoo kuoo,
Create a symphony of magical melody.
Date: 02/26/2021
Submitted for: Spring Birds Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Gimp and Limp
In Trump style should put a crimp;
We should love those who will limp;
With words fumble;
Forgot about humble;
Trump's body looks like a big blimp.
Jim Horn
About time Trump is always behind,
And the last time we saw his mind
God had delivered,
And Trump quivered;
He gave his back to God in a bind.
Jim Horn
Pink Browed Rose Finch
His pink color with back feathers trim,
Always reminds me so much of him,
Wise men of old,
Have been told;
With gold, seraphim and cherubim.
Jim Horn
Poet Named Kash
With a round face and body thin,
I always can remember when,
Had been caught,
With much thought;
My life had started and did begin.
Jim Horn
God Again Will Bless
CVS must really be a mess,
That you know is my guess;
May be ill;
Prescription fill;
God again I know will bless.
Jim Horn
A Man of Green
(Valentine’s Day)
Blast breathed, bob booted, fiercely tramping, he sweeps down upon the land, hard browed, frozen white, bellowing,
Rude Boreas, the prince of winter, rages, the very rocks withering in his path, his power ultimate, the cold of Satan his liege lord, spent upon the hapless world, in frigid swales, twixt tortured trees, in winter’s scraggle,
midst hilltops bleak, whose hoary frames becrack an icy, kindless sky,
His profound frost’s depth hints that light could lose.
Mortals shudder, birds enclose themselves, becoming smaller still.
All pray this prince shall soon pass.
In earnest fright we take small, guileful hope in his raving’s crystalline wake.
Yet, ‘neath his glacial countenance,
the rime bedecked adamantine glaze,
the polar beard, there glints a hope of green,
A brownish earthen smudge warms at alabaster nape.
Perchance brightening Boreas’ stern eye’s crystal spark of winter,
there now gladly grows a fleck of Sol.
Charles Epps
1863 - 1903
It was I, Charles Epps,
The mustached mason with the triumphant trowel,
The bushy browed benefactor
Of my father’s farm tools.
It was I who laid the cornerstone
Of the Friends College
There on dusty Painter Street and Philadelphia,
There in the stunning summer shadows
There under the blue confluence of God’s amazing mind
His infinite sky of azure mercies.
The smiling ladies made lunch and
The whistling men formed the lines that day!
We worked there, up on that hill,
The hill to the east beyond dusty Painter Street,
Worked there until sunset’s yawn.
With rippling muscles sore
And calloused hands splintered,
We erected the future of this Quaker town
With nails, timber and sweaty brows.
My friends, you must come to Clark Cemetery sometime,
And visit the shadows.
We lie here quite alive!
Alive amongst the perennials
Awaiting as forgotten wisps of spirit,
Awaiting God’s greatest gift-
The body’s resurrection.
Her heart was a watercolor foyer.
Drifting about eddies-beneath fatal falls.
Wishing away the violets,
morning roses and midnight glories.
Fading mist-stained beating.
Her loves inheriting the aromas
percolating from her water garden mind.
Those who thought they knew her,
stood high upon crystal-browed shores.
Slinging burning stones and bits of bone.
Summing up her life in bold font quips...
She was that-she was this.
Green viper bitten -black moon kissed...
As her final palette faded,
blackbirds escaped her brilliant veins.
Time greedily sweeps the gold to gray...
The thrashers scattering her starry soul.
Into the misty orbit of Monet.
There once was a lap dog named Chloe,
Well-groomed and adorned to be showy;
She pranced in the ring,
Applause she did bring,
With her tail and her ears long and flowy.
There once was a schnauzer named Pete,
Bearded and eye-browed so neat;
He wanted to win,
But failed to begin,
For Chloe had gone into heat.
For common folks, I put on a common face
And I am happy,charming and full of grace.
The intelligentsia I meet with deep-browed grin
And we discuss, intelligently,the dilemma we 're in.
I have so many faces that I do not know
In which my "real,"my "true" face starts to show.
And if through revelation divine
Something of myself I find,
I am content and glad to grow
But,oh how I've yet to go
And,oh how much I've yet to know!
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