penumbra gathered at the edge of evening,
that quiet border where outlines loosen
and the world seems to reconsider itself.
I walked through it without urgency,
letting the muted light imbue each surface~
a fencepost, a drifting leaf, my own breath~
the dimness offering a wisdom untouched by light.
a quiet drift of air brushed the understory
as if uncapping a bottle of elixir
mixed from resin, cool bark, and the faint
metallic scent of approaching night.
nothing reached out for meaning~
yet the moment felt quietly inhabited,
as if presence itself were enough.
No, No, November
Hoar frost harbinger
Scowling Pumpkin faces
Snarling Halloween hangovers
Empty wrappers
Dancing with
Chocolate faces
Turkey’s plotting an escape
Gather at a rotted fencepost
Isaac Newton’s apples
Hang just out of reach
Choosing their own time
The clocks may change
But time doesn’t
December stalks the trees
Its cold breath
On the back of their neck
Oh, November
You cold coldly lusty lover
Welcome home
Pretty juncos flutter in my backyard.
One sits on a fencepost, clearly on guard.
They wander through the weeds,
eating insects and seeds,
but fly when they hear my big Saint Bernard!
First, remove the eyelids—
they hold too much fiberglass.
Grind streetlight into gunpowder,
cut it with gravel—snort the cocaine dusk.
Take the sidewalk like heretic communion,
metal-flake wine, asphalt host.
She blinks razors.
Stars break in her clavicle.
You don’t touch her—you calibrate.
Banana fingers, bruised and humming,
plucking vapor off the fencepost.
Storm-laced teeth.
Voice as hinge,
breath as cordless vacuum
throat tightrope over a cheap
motel dirty sink.
We lit the penguin rodeo in her Glacial ribcage.
Called the roots collect.
Spoke in wire glyphs.
The cancer slept in our gums,
soft, radiant.
I opened her chest
found an IPhone
still blinking,
still ringing,
with no one left to answer.
First, remove the eyelids—
they hold too much fiberglass.
Grind streetlight into gunpowder,
cut it with gravel—snort the cocaine dusk.
Take the sidewalk like heretic communion,
metal-flake wine, asphalt host.
She blinks razors.
Stars break in her clavicle.
You don’t touch her—you calibrate.
Banana fingers, bruised and humming,
plucking vapor off the fencepost.
Storm-laced teeth.
Voice as hinge,
breath as cordless vacuum
throat tightrope over a cheap
motel dirty sink.
We lit the penguin rodeo in her Glacial ribcage.
Called the roots collect.
Spoke in wire glyphs.
The cancer slept in our gums,
soft, radiant.
I opened her chest
found an IPhone
still blinking,
still ringing,
with no one left to answer.
I’m a fencepost
With barbed wire
Leaning
On the prairie
I don’t know
What I’m keeping in
Or
What I’m keeping out
I’m just a fencepost
With barbed wire
Leaning
On the prairie
Life’s weariness o’ertakes me
Each step demanding more
Calling forth a shivering strength
Leaning on a rickety fencepost
Turning its face from the stinging gale
Whispers of weakness winnowing resolve
Failing flames scorching a yellowed page
Darkness seeping from an idle pen
The ILLUSION of a TIMELESS SILENCE
Drenched the RUSTIC creaking barn
Its tortured wind scarred face
Snarling at the SWIRLING winds
A lonely BLOSSOM sprouts atop a fencepost
Mice scurry about an empty silo
A naked scarecrow dances in a barren field
Dreams carried away on the dust
They had returned, the children’s children
To piece together a family history
To sit and weep while viewing pictures
Of weathered, beaten faces
Twisted, tarnished features
Unable to EMANATE a SYNTHETIC hope
Causing a sadness to consume
The ILLUSION of a TIMELESS SILENCE
I won't leave you Bluebird
Forever I will be
Your troubadour in waiting
Where no one else can see
My heart is yours, it has been
I penned a little note
Then hid it in a fencepost
So many years ago
It started with an inkling
Resisting, still it grew
I wrote this down on paper
"I think that I love you"
I put it in that secret place
Protected and secure
I wrapped it up in plastic
And hoped it would endure
The elements of weather
The rain, the wind, the snow
It was my first endeavor
At telling you, you know?
I state now for the record
You know will never end
Regardless of what happens
You're more than just my friend
“Perching on a fencepost, the meadowlark calls in sweet trilling tones like a solo marimba.” L. Milton Hankins
The meadow lark happily sits along the fencepost singing away
and watches as Milton appears all aglow and here to stay
God’s creatures gather around to watch this beautiful scene
In this heavenly place where it’s forever peaceful and serene
He awoke to the faint sounds of meadowlarks singing under the sun
As peaceful feelings envelope, his pain is gone, realizing he has none
The air is warm and fragrant of fresh summer flowers in bloom
As he smells a familiar scent getting closer, his late wife’s perfume
He hears her voice coming closer and she appears at his side
She tells him he has crossed over and reunited with his bride
He feels tears of joy and peace knowing they're now reunited
and realizes he's crossed over to heaven, so happily delighted
The meadowlark joyfully sings on the fencepost singing his tune
As other birds join in a welcoming serenade to Milt as they croon
Perching on a fencepost, the meadowlark calls
in sweet trilling tones like a solo marimba.
I mimic her voice and watch her curiosity
as I stroll among the goldenrod and yarrow,
the pathway winding through a welcoming maze
of autumn wildflowers wanting to be noticed
before the cold north wind nips their heads
and turns golden brown their long-legged stems.
The sweet scent of summer honeysuckle lingers
though their bright orange blossoms are gone,
but I still faintly hear the rapid fluttering wings
of hummingbirds who overstayed their welcome,
hurriedly fleeing before October’s chilly breath.
Touching the raspy edges of a Queen Anne’s Lace,
I pluck a stem or two for a neglected vase.
My heart smiles contentedly.
I long to see the meadow white with early snow.
Written December 9, 2022
Submitted to "Still-Life Autumn Scene" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
yellow meadowlark
offering sweet melodies
atop a fencepost
my mood suddenly lightened
I stroll toward the woodland
Written May 23, 2022
When morning comes too early in the day,
And I have not yet begun to plan the afternoon
I shall make some time for myself to play.
For such a day leaves room to be the buffoon,
And find the time to do what pleases me most
Perhaps, I shall buy a yellow or a red balloon.
I shall blow it up and tie it to my fencepost
For no reason I shall make my neighbors wonder
About what it is that I am making boast.
Or, I think, it shall give them pause to ponder
What it is that I am celebrating today
They surely have a little time to squander
And if they don’t, they will find a way
To shake their heads and laugh audaciously
At a neighbor who has pranked their day.
BRONZE MEDAL WINNER
written September 23, 2021
submitted to "***ty Poems" poetry contest
All Poetry, December 4, 2021
I lost September somewhere in the sadness
lost track of shadows in the sun
mourned not fading warmth nor shortened days
shivering in a crystal cloak of frost.
Lovers, sated on a Summer’s sweetness
succumbing to the lie – forever’s now
idle in the arms of humid passion
wilting on the vines of plumping lust.
Cold soil covering September
blanketing the joys of milder days
memories slow fading with the season
huddled near the fencepost by the barn.
John G. Lawless
©10/9/2019
Mornings to me
are not an exiting crescent moon
glowing gold in the west,
preparing to retire
below a distant tree line silhouette
Scattered footprints
in the glistening dew
on a lush lawn
still dreaming of the day before
Cantaloupe skies tickling
a sleepy horizon,
restless in vivid ribbons
on a wide eyed sapphire canvas
Yawning morning glories
climbing a silent fencepost,
standing guard in the shadows
of a stately oak
Butterflies floating
on dawn’s cool breeze
quietly touching each blossom
in mosaic laced flight patterns
The enchanting coo
of a stirring mourning dove
spreading its wings amidst
woven branched tapestries
Mornings to me
are always you,
surrendered in first blush beauty,
a breath of every sunrise’s promise,
awakening all that my heart desires
Good morning Soupers
I posted this earlier in the week but took it down. Here goes round 2. : )
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