(for Carol)
Sun was shining and West African kora music playing
As I walked through your open front door
Smiling beauty in apron with dinner aromas wafting
Greeting as one old friend to another
So newly met
Full to overflowing with expectation.
How long ago that winter’s day was
As vivid and fresh today
As the light and sounds, sights and smells
So indelibly impressed.
Now with the first of spring
Busying ourselves loading boxes
For another life-changing move,
Silently we each pray it is our last,
But know it won’t be
As time wears us down
And all the things that gave us meaning
Are replaced by something else.
Someday our hobbies and chores
Gardens and trees, pets, birds and bees
Like our aches and pains will prove too much
And we will retreat again
Seeking solace in ever more simplicity.
Until with senses and memory faded
We will be left
With just the sights and sounds
And the light that still lingers
Through the door you so warmly opened
So long ago.
(3/20/26)
This year autumn is the bugs busying the undergrowth hiding under sodden leaves. It is children playing with and collecting acorns that have scattered the ground sporadically as squirrel’s nourishment for the day. It is the rain that drenches the plants once dried up and wilting in the summer sun. It is the showers that leave the glimpse of a rainbow as if in a distant land. It is the rotting of apples unchosen for apple-pie that blustery night where the log-fire is once again alive.
I’m reminded that now it is autumn as I step into that muddy woodland. It is though someone has shaken the trees of their leaves, the earth an array of colours, nut brown, oranges and golden yellows. Yet, soon the season will pass just as a storm leaves just a breeze and we are left nostalgic for the time we spent in these nature-nurturing months.
The wind rose early with the busying dawn;
And, rushing into the long avenue of beech -
Laid down years ago to accommodate labouring feet -
Began to scatter over neatly cut verge and lawns
With its own inimitable unruly gust, blow and fuss...
Within a cascading maelstrom of vivid bright yellowness.
Against strong trunks, held firm by steadfast roots,
Groans from creaking boughs as they upwardly heaved
Upon frantically thrashing branches showering
rusted, golden leaves;
Carpeting the rough stones below my trampling boots.
A mad kaleidoscope of leaping, swirling, skipping
colour
Where, as a child, I had once rediscovered...
Two green sandstone gate pillars sat well back
That ushered me under this arched, canopied track.
Coming back home, after a long stint south,
I passed the blue sign on the turnpike that reads
“Massachusetts Welcomes You.”
Under the “Welcomes,” some Mayflower blooms,
And a chickadee perches there, under the "You.”
I’d seen this bird busying our woods as a boy,
Seen its black helmet with small streaks of white,
Flitting from thickets to rest on a branch,
Or maybe on mother's stone up on the hill.
From there, it’d cheer the winter woods with a call:
“Chicka DEE DEE DEE!”
Standing as still as a young boy knows how,
I’d see how it puffs out its tiny, tan chest,
Then sends forth the words
It hopes someone might hear:
“Hello!”
“Please be careful!”
“Let’s share what I’ve found!”
Sometimes, my human chest puffs out as well,
Set to deliver my own human calls:
“Hi, there.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, where are you from?”
Still, some calls get stuck on their way to my throat,
And with all of my puffing, I can’t get them out.
Whenever I try, I feel misunderstood,
And the message gets lost from one tree to the next.
Chickadee, have all songs for your feelings been found
Or do some stay inside, never making a sound?
you drape an arm over me,
busying the other with your phone
its screen is hurting my eyes and your chin is hurting my ribs, but i don’t say that
i don’t say a thing
it’s too late, i say
i don’t want to disturb you
i can’t handle another fight today
my mouth is closed
i want to scream
i want to make a noise
that you won’t be able to pick apart and refute
i want to tell you that i’m unhappy,
that i want out
that i want to make it all stop
all the fights, all the tension in my chest,
all the arguments i lose
i want it to be gone;
for us to be okay again,
for your jokes to make me smile
and your lips to make me weak
i don’t want silence
Khaki has never other fabrics liked:
It has even their wearer’s bodies disliked,
Their forgivable flaws, their blunders hyped
And their names and their nicknames mistyped!
Sometimes you hear, “Like onions slice them!”
And begun a solving of what wasn’t a problem;
Bound to uncannily unfold
What Plain Malice does hold …
By then, it would be fanciful
To ask your questions – A roomful:
‘What and what next shall happen?’
And whether or not blades shall sharpen …
It shall have been a busying with fiction
By the time we triggers eschew from ruction
Khaki has seldom The Plain clothes liked
And has, indeed, other fabrics spiked;
Often through insistence on Inaction
And treatment of either as a faction.
Life Is A vapour
By: Miracle Man
1/3/2022
As the sun brushes humanity with its warmth, all seems sublime,
unnoticed, the clock is busying itself whittling away time.
James 4:14 KJV
Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.
I've watched them through the lockdown
busying before my eyes,
they're not in isolation, wearing masks or sanitized.
Bimbling or bumbling, dependent on their mood
they all serve common purpose in their daily hunt for food.
No need for great philosophy, just simply living lives,
no great debates, no wars or hate, all happy in their hives.
But now the Buddleias are brown, sunflowers droop their heads,
no more long hours of Beesyness around the flower beds.
As quickly as they came, they're gone,
before Autumn's first frost,
those simple little creatures, and without them-
we'd be lost.
Just want to wish you Merry Christmas,
And a Happy New Year.
Haven't been on line much,
'Cause I can't see too clear.
I get these awful headaches,
Whene'er I try to read.
It seems I must have surgery,
So my eye sight can be freed,
From these awful cataracts,
That my pleasures do impede,
Of reading and of writing,
And I miss you all, indeed.
They say it will be Spring time;
March or February,
When I will get my surgery,
So I find sanctuary,
In busying my little self,
With other things about.
I still go to work and walk my dogs,
I try hard not to pout.
I miss my writing and the poems,
Of those I've met on site.
But once I\ve had my surgery,
Then things will be alright.
Till then my friends remember,
I miss you one and all.
I miss the fun, comradarie,
Feel the tug of my muse's call.
So Merry Christmas to you,
And a Happy New Year too.
Can't wait till I can read again,
And be back here with you.
Life is a Picnic
Written: by Tom Wright
February 2015
My life,
Has been filled with Gourmet meals,
Which often I’ve left plated.
While, like Ants,
I’ve been content in busying myself,
With warehousing the crumbs,
And occasionally I’ve smiled.
Two days without
The biggest jerk I ever knew
Two days without him
God, what am I gonna do.
I'm lost inside this house
going crazy out of my mind
I don't know what to do with myself
Exasperated for hours at a time.
I'm not spilling tears
Just awaiting his return
I'm not feeling fear
I'm just lonely for his arms.
Out the window
My eyes continue to gaze
Searching for his car
Looking for his face.
Headlights pull in
Flashing at my eyes
My heart beats harder
My spirit lights afire.
My feet moving
of their own accord
Running, leaping
Barreling into his arms.
Smile breaks
Like the light
From clouds
On a sunny day.
Eyes Glow
Fireflies of sapphire
Twinkling in the dark
Like a diamond heart.
Fingers reaching
Touching and rubbing
Pulling closer
Feeling whole at once.
Lips busying themselves
To smother with a kiss
Where does it end
Where does it begin.
Two whole days
Without the biggest Jerk I know
I don't want to do it again
I don't want my love to go.
Warm rain streaming down, shadows lurking in the dark
wishing and dreaming of what could be but never will be
Warm mist rain, sun starting to glow with shadows disappearing
busying myself for the day, I find the time to dream away.
Cuddling up to me making sure I am ok reassuring me everything
will be the same as it always was.
With a clap of a hand I wake up and not everything is the same, where
am I, how did I get here. Your safe. Wrapped up in warm arms
How did I get here? With a gentle touch my husband said, "Everything is ok."
I said, "No, I buried you and raising our son alone"
With a clap of thunder I woke up shivering in the cold
wishing and dreaming that I was never alone.
We never said good-bye
We never looked back
We never cared for how we felt inside we were to busying wondering why it felt so good so
right
We never enjoyed today and left tomorrow alone and this is why tomorrow will never be
known.
As the dew glistens
on the sun drenched grass
And the ducks glide on the soft, cool lake
while viewing their reflection
in nature's mirror
The winds emit a solo of an hearty hello
and delivers an everlasting
kiss on the leaves' lips,
quenching their thirst for a refreshing breeze
We are greeted with a day ostentatious in the beholder's eye
while birds and bees
go about their morning chores
busying themselves with the task of obstinate reverence
I hear nature whisper
an almost inaudible plea
'Please sit in my beauty
and awesome presence
and take a precious moment
to bask in me.'
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