We are the nouns, the mighty tidy nouns
house cat, mouse, bat, zebras, elephants and gowns
you’re nothing without us, the verbs smirk, laugh and say
twirling, whirling, dancing, singing, along the way
the adjectives and adverbs laugh at these arrogant two
You might be the wood and concrete, but we are the glue
without us you cannot be mammoth, tiny, cold or blue
this was from a frustrated adjective named McGrue.
or dance daintily or prettily said an arrogant adverb
thinking you are all that without the others is kind of absurd
a peacekeeping preposition tried to make a pact,looking at each side.
over, under, upside down, around and through, his name was McBride.
It's almost half past three
time to cosy up for tea
kettle's on the boil to brew
tea for two me and you
with egg and cress or
cucumber sandwiches
with nary a single crust
(they were all donated
to the National Trust)
it's after forty to four
shall I be Mother and pour
I know you know Pekoe
the table's set quite daintily
two for tea you and me
and we can sing my song
'Lapsang Souchong'
I LONG
YOU LONG
WE ALL LONG
FOR OOLONG
unless you're feeling more Darjeeling
the blushing bride of summer sunset
dances daintily with the wistful wind
forgetting sorrow brought by bitter winter
drying tears tossed by those who sinned
A sea of roses graced the local park
Swaying to the sweet singing of a lark
Sensual ambience those roses made
Supported by stems of majestic jade.
The roses danced like waves upon the sea
To gentle wind caressing them softly
Enjoying the motion, most daintily
Back and forth, side to side elegantly.
Sunlight glimmered o’er their rosy faces
As they performed with delightful graces
To an audience that was mesmerised
By the scene being played before their eyes.
Roses of every colour one can name
Petals owning their unique claim to fame
Roses, the epitome of romance
Inciting hearts to race and feet to dance.
Every rose has its own special splendour
That is, that was and will be for ever
A sea of roses waving on the breeze
Is a stupendous sight that's sure to please.
I am waxing poetic
And hope I’m not straining
Credulity saying
My talent’s not waning.
It may be eclipsed by
Those poets ascendant
Whose words are celestial,
Deep and resplendent.
Yet tides keep on turning
And orbits expanding,
While moonbeams drift down,
Oh, so daintily landing.
The galaxy’s bursting
With work that amazes
And room for all poets
In all of their phases.
buttery morning
light
licks
there are daintily cupped blooms
small white weeds
that no one can name
the sun has spread its table
green rippled gardens
garner
flecks of gold
an old groundhog
a basket of hedgerow twigs
baby footed clouds
blue dingle
between eggshell
vales
run along
all those that can leap a fence
or skitter under it
go
for the light is everywhere
new arriving
let the rooted behold
even if this domain
stops its clement rolling
even so
feathered …
moony beams daub your lips -
the irregularities
shaping little cornflower thorns
but oh, how supple the
pliant press of those luscious fruits
(savored like honey) …
I touch them delicately with the
back of my finger
then move lower to your
daintily-dimpled chin, and down …
I follow the blue beams
with my fingertips
dancing across your surfaces as
little bumps form and
your flesh jumps here-and-there
telling me I’ve found the
sweetest spots,
though I’m winding my way to
an even dearer dermis
and warmer intent …
what is the enchantment of
these moments -
this magic of moonlight that
makes me want you so?
there is a mad mystery to why such
time stops and waits for us,
and were it not for
the responsibilities of morning,
we would hold this moment forever -
painted in dreamy shafts of blue
trading touches like truths
swimming the rill of each other’s soul
and haunting a wonder-world -
whimsical, immortal
and ours …
alone.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden
In the shadow of sunlight where dreams dance daintily
Forgotten memories flicker and fade into frozen fragments
Slivers of soft light illumine the dappled canopy of leaves
The luminescence of son et lumiere is lavish in its lustre
The phosphorescence of photons creates a phantasmagoria
Scenes of silver silence resurrect sonorous solace
The forest glade flits and flirts with frolicking fading light
Burnished beams of bright sunrays ballet in between birches
In the shade, shafts of sunshine shatter, scatter into sparkling specks
Hazel Helios hovers high up in the heavenly hemisphere
The gigantic globule gleams golden as it gives its greetings to gloaming
Surrounded by surreal saffron setting in the shadow of sunlight
I am wrapped in shame
Like the garden path lined by wilted roses
And their thorny sidekicks.
As I pluck in frustration,
Pulling prickly forgiveness from my dungarees
The garden fence shrinks into the dirt.
But I don’t want the neighbours to see my front lawn,
Not just yet.
At least until the winter is over
And the pruning is done.
What if I were to see shame
As though it were a lady beetle
Even during the peak cold?
She is forgiven for allowing her to express beauty in that present moment.
I am never angry at her for daintily dancing across my arm.
I am angry at myself for not pruning those roses sooner, though.
I have an aversion to prejudice
Judging a pond without sampling its ice
Consorting with others eating large melons
Passersby judged as free men or felons
Women condemned as whores or harlots
While tormenting men turn the air scarlet
Then sit in the pews reserved for the saintly
Ogle the preacher’s wife ever so daintily
For judgement you see is a way to look down
On those, as they pass, on which you may frown
Knowing that god has made you superior
When in truth you couldn’t kiss their posterior
For consciousness doesn’t offer correction
Unless you can make a change of direction
That is, of course, dependent upon
How much of the ice you take from the pond
Misty morn
By Michelle Morris
16/09/2021
The daisies are still asleep
as I embrace the misty morn;
Squirrel hopping a beat
across the dewy lawn.
Butterflies so daintily
visiting each daisy to awaken;
While busy bees and insects
make their way through the garden.
I take a deep breath
and thank God for this lovely morning,
and
Go forth with joy
in my heart and soul forming.
© Michelle Morris, 2021
Moments
By Michelle Morris
13/04/2021
It's in the lonely moments that a single parent has alone in the dark at night,
After another long day of making it through this challenging life;
Of getting kids to school and to jobs to earn a wage;
Of putting food on the table and doing homework for all ages...
It's in the frantic moments of children who have trauma and fevers,
Who skin their knees and hide their pain from bullies and meanies;
Of social minefields in every direction,
Confusion in the media, hurtful intentions...
It's in every way and every day that parents and children go about survival;
Of refugee camps and night time lamps, studying to get educational freedom;
Of moving homes and unsettled norms, and people displaced by war;
So many lives put on hold or destroyed because of human fears...
And then we stop and see a butterfly flit daintily around some dandelions, and instead of seeing a weed in the dirt,
We make a wish on these blessed flowers...
© Michelle Morris, 2021
How daintily she holds her cup
And brings it to her lovely lips!
How light, how gentle, now she takes
Her drink in slow and little sips.
And while her lips are on the cup,
By accident she lifts her eyes;
My eyes meet hers and for a while
I feel like floating in the skies.
She puts the cup back on the dish
And looks at me now with intent.
She gives a little smile, I blush,
I also breathe her subtle scent.
She’s gone. All that’s left is just her cup,
Which she had held so lovingly,
And still has marks of her sweet kiss
That look at me so tauntingly.
March 22, 2023
Rosco usually dives in the ocean right away.
Today he sits on the edge of the sea with a plunk.
Dorothy usually flies into a wave head first.
She follows Rosco’s lead.
Daintily dipping in one toe.
He waits expectantly.
She knows if she plunges, he will too.
Ready to save her at a second’s notice.
He has been her protector since she was a baby.
She takes a dive, and he hits her foot with his nose.
Crabs tip toe along the bottom
daintily picking at morsels
with their crushing claws.
This is an arena for carnivores,
creatures made for tearing flesh,
or picking carcasses clean
with a kiss.
Hinged mouths
engineered for swallowing whole
lay in wait in mud or stalk
weedy hideouts for prey.
Others prowl oceans
fitted with rows of serrated teeth
or have bellies as big as trucks
to house their kill.
Some have arms studded
with vacuum cups
that caress and hide
a deadly beak pouched
just below a brain.
No screams
can be heard here or, if let loose,
find a register in the human ear.
Pain is tapped out in tiny tremors
too subtle for our senses
to feel, death
signaled by a surface splash
or kept out of sight.
The suffering is seismic.
Blake's terrestrial tiger pales
to a pussy-cat compared
to the arrayed instruments
of slaughter that have
a home here. God must love
these killers to witness
the pain of their bite
or else floats anesthetized
in an infinite,
dreamless state.
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