ocean waves drift in
wildflowers bend in soft winds—
with gentle curves
soothing calm natural minds
without demands or burdens
curves of rivers' arcs
fractals etched in snowflake veins
caress weary eyes
while urban straight lines shatter—
reflection splinters apart
concrete towers thrust
the geometry of squares
clawing at the sky
every sharp angle pierces—
minds that shrink from the hardness
billboards blast their glare
sirens rip through noisy streets
ravaging the ear
urban harshness stunts the soul—
as chaos frays attention
forest silence hums
its calming hymn without words
restoring the peace
of treasure trove memories
stored away in its clearings
dawn's blush dusk's ember
are halos in sky above—
colorful milieus
that frames the day in colors
soft cuddly and welcoming
I wandered through the forest felled.
Its stumps arrayed as scars.
Its bird song larks forever quelled,
to axed-silent memoirs.
Remnants of trees are now a maze,
traced by entrails of mists.
Curling up as veils between leaves,
that once held memories.
The moon's face shunned, shamed.
The wind scurried all around,
the graves of trees blatantly maimed,
along paths no feet had ground.
The forest of trees, lost its leaves.
Lost its old trunks of dreams.
Lost all its shade and shadows cast,
to vast bright white clearings.
I saw the ancient remnant dells,
spared of incumbent trees,
get crowded out by death-neath spells,
of clearings, felled down to knees.
There sits along a well traveled road, a house forgotten so long ago
Brown faded logs, bleached from hot Summers seasons
Stand proud against its kindred trees
Its roof top still shelters the memories it holds
As the stack from a chimney serves as anchor below
White linen curtain now tattered and soiled
Snag against each splintered pane
The lattice now gone where roses once thrived
Bountiful garden, now scarcely alive
Cupboards lay claim to a family of six
Nestled and sleeping among their beds wove from sticks
Barn owl now perched, as it waits for the shadows too grow taller
As the daylight grows dimmer with each passing hour
Strong against the test of time, a house is still standing
Very much, Still alive
Standing strong against the clearings
In my lifetime,
I have observed and
witnessed some evil things.
Many were news reports, but
some were eye-witness melees.
One notable travesty was the
implementation of 'A Clearing'.
It was called ethnic cleansing,
but there was absolutely nothing
cleansing about slaughterous murder.
Like so much garbage, being cleared
from our living quarters; one people
claiming to be purer than another.
How despicable of us mortals created
in the image of an awesome and loving God
who through His son said, "There is none good;
no, not one". Clear the air we breathe of poisonous
toxins if you will. Clear the rivers and waterways
of debris and waste. But be very clear about this:
There are multitudes of undesirable things and myriads
of non-mortal despicables in need of mass clearings.
But the clearing out of people by any means deemed
less than another is not one of them. Ethnic cleansing
is mass suicide. Let us love, cherish, and care for one
another and leave human clearings and cleansings to God.
021023PSCtest, 'The Clearing'. Craig Cornish
beyond the thickets
past the clearings
virgin trails
cool
as licks of ice
his retreat...
yet awaits him
God Loves us all the more,
When we put the pain of others before our own,
When we help others out of the forest,
into sunlit clearings.
When we notice less of what others say,
and more of what they do.
When our help has no strings attached.
When we celebrate Christmas more than once a year.
No Adjectives
No adjectives graced skies of dawn
No crimson, mauve or bronze
Only blankets of fog akin to gloom
Blocking sunlight, singing runes.
Winds on gusts rose up in westerlies
Breath like brooms sweep skies majestically
Danced as a smile – heaven cheering -
Mischief on wings – imps twirl in clearings
6-14-21
Contest: Adjectives Deleted
Sponsor: Jack Webster
down the path of broken promises
up the stream’s misguided dreams
shoulders burdened crushed and rounded
by all accounts tallied and squared off
countless breaths and tears held back
while chilling fears explode unhinged
tossed plans and schemes to wispy clouds
deep in marshlands of futility hope lies
armsful of useless forgotten treasure
fistsful of dust cast out to all four winds
tomorrow’s sunrise stretching
over stray clearings of blue skies
but tonight under the canopy of stars
love no longer will be denied
Read on air by invitation ~ April 9, 2021 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 2nd place 2021
POTD - March 30, 2021
Submitted on March 28, 2021 for contest PHOENIX RISING sponsored by UNSEEKING SEEKER - RANKED 4TH
I plant an image
and it comes up a poem
red, yellow and green.
It has leaves and limbs
and phrases never heard.
I walk around it and touch
it on all sides
realizing the body
is greater than the words.
The body is greater than my thoughts,
and late at night it talks to me.
I remember
an early morning drive
silent and still
skies of gold
new growth reaching for the sun
rising, rising from what was scorched
aspiring to be
old growth nearby
that knows no time
but knows all seasons at once.
I remember
telling a friend of the Great North Woods
of passing the passages that led
to campsites and clearings
passing.
I remember
coming back to her.
I tell her our story
unsure of where it begins
where the middle is,
and yet,
I don’t want it to end.
She clears a table
and comes back to refill my drink.
Neon lights in the window shine,
and she smiles at me-
there are stars in her eyes.
~ The Ways of the Forest ~
Beckons the forest
Come follow me
My winding trail
will sure delight thee
Through bush and brambles
thickets and clearings
The sun unnoticed
Earth's horizon nearing
Of a sudden, a chill
raced down the girl's spine
At the howl of the wolf
and the fox's whine
She lay herself down
close by a river
Darkness her blanket
affrighted, she shivered
*****
They say that the ways
of the forest are cruel
To that hoary old adage
this tale may add fuel
August 14, 2020
Strand Completely New (22) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Varieties of spectacular landscapes,
Including mountains, vales, rivers and sea,
Renew their enchantments each season to
Gift the deepest needs of senses in me.
I love her cities, country, clearings and woods.
Natural sites, homes of founding fathers and civil war history
Increase my emotional wherewithal and wisdom.
Adoration flows from me, as this state’s true devotee.
... CayCay
August 18, 2018
black mother
the white of day stains your
painted dress
the black of night turns
razor sharp
feet that wear flaming coals
a soul that bleeds
outside and in
where trees bear crimson fruit
as roots full bore
hypocrisies drill so deep
to dig her earth
still plough the surface
clinging vines of apartheid
how much she suffers
raped and ravaged
again and again
strijdom
malan
verwoerd
names that stain
her southern land
g7 dead zones from 48
and cape town clearings
with
sharpeville apologies
still
segregate
now die
and die
and die
awake
by fate arise
friends of earth
minstrels of life
cast a new play
sing for the future
move for the past
turn now
in loves instance
an old face
a new name
an old shadow
seeds to grow
white sister
black brother
white father
black mother
african
Heart
african
soul
=z=
That Bench
He goes there every day; to that bench in the shade;
Where his shoes have formed small clearings in the gravel;
where his wool sport coat has rubbed smooth the paint.
He goes there every day, to that bench in the shade
where the squirrels eat straight from his hand
as little birds frantically snatch up seeds he's sprinkled about.
He goes there every day, to that bench in the shade
but not today…and not again.
08/30/15
Submission for Contest: The Sense of Touch
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
Sunset, quiet, except
for happy birthday to neighbor's child,
virgo, and all that means, purity
of morality, inability to scheme,
whatever else the stars dictated.
Woodpecker climbs oak, Connecticut.
Not ten years ago this mountain was
completely forested, untouched
since early arrival of Europeans.
Now my parents' home and others stand
in new clearings. The birds
do not seem to mind. Sing,
and deer occasionally visit, from where?
Out of the pre-historic past.
That I must die
is my every third thought.
On my hands and knees, cold sweat,
my own body murdering me.
I meet death with the philosophy
I lived in life. Acceptance
of the loneliness, the unregarding
beauty. There is that shoreline
along the straits to Puget Sound,
in mist, the generations
of sea birds nesting on the water.
Japanese Scout 1942
Oh yer poncing on Kokoda and you see a little Jap,
Like a Rabbit with the Myxo, he dunno where he's at,
So he plonks at you with bullets, per Arisaka gun,
5 shots an he's on empty, now will come the fun,
Bandy legs come staggering, forward at the trot,
His bayonet fixed to score you, the bayonet fighting slot,
So play fair and bayonet fight with old Tom-Tit,
Parry and a butt slap, till death does do it's bit,
Another for the Pigs to eat,
When all are left to rot,
Of jaw bones there were many,
From the Japanese, a lot,
The first to see the other,
Got first shot, 20 yards away,
Another death another,
And the sadness came to stay,
So you never stopped a watching,
In the jungle clearings green,
Let your guard down, bullets costing
Blood n guts, it was obscene,
On the booze and home again,
Keep them white coat guys away,
no leccy shocks to keep me sane,
Behind the green fence isn’t, aint, ok,
Cos it's not, behind the fence of green,
Where I have bloody been,
2 never, never, never bloody stay….
Don Johnson
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