A covered bridge once spanned across
this deep, dividing stream
and anxious reverence filled the thoughts
of all to trek its way.
Wrought iron bolts held taught and fast
this might of chiseled beam
as shingled roof and clapboard wall
held brevity at bay.
It stood the days when horses drew
their harvests to the mill
that lay beyond the river’s weir,
along the channel stride.
Its wooden slats were burnished clean
by spindled wagon wheels
and planks would whimper hallowed moans
as wind and stream collide.
Its stalwart strength held stoic
as a darker day encroached
and bore this Nation’s burden when
Her war was in its prime.
And some still hear the cannon wheels
engrave as they approached,
and Brogans pounding cadence as
formations march in time.
As time will do its passing drew
the strength from timbered bone,
and soon it came to call upon
this faithful trodden friend.
Two hundred years of lumbered toil
gave way to man-made stone
so, generations still to come
could bridge divides again.
Don’t clip my wings
My paintbrush has traced many lines
My feathers have flown in many formations
A commander of confidence
I am flying
My heart is racing
I know I am alive
Am I living?
These talons need to be removed.
Where are my wings?
What happened to my art?
I remember a paintbrush.
Why am I naked?
Did I doubt it?
Did I clip my wings?
~Reborn
Mejiro Garden
far away in Tokyo
koi swim in a pond...
seemingly in formations
aquatic show photo-ops
As the sun set, I wander around to find a place to sleep for the night,
clear dark skies allow me to see the different lights that follows me
It look as though they are the astrology constellations in the sky, but I
only can make out Cancer (Y). I don't believe in stars. Hoping this is my protection as I sleep in this cold unsafe world of hate and war. Lights in different formations, while flashing of green and red of the drones follow
the lights; watching the lights watch me.
I notice drones everywhere I am during the sunset through early sunrise;
can be frightening at times. Being alone all of my time makes me feel like a project of some kind. Watched by what/who is the question. Distances approximately 30-50 feet high. Living alone they always came around the outside of my home at late night hours. I would always hear the hovering of
the buzzing winged propellers outside my bedroom windows. Then I could of thought stalker, but what about now, I'm homeless.
I'm really concern, but no one to get answers from unfortunately.
Surveillance or protection?
The whistle blows, the chugging starts -
A steam train ride in France -
For those who like to try things
From the past, this is your chance.
Since when it’s time to turn around,
The leading car’s unlatched
And driven to a turntable
Before it’s reattached.
The locomotive then gets cranked,
By hand! one circle ‘round.
The engineer next drives to where
The once-caboose is found.
The train is reconnected
And goes back the way it came,
Passing trees and giant rock formations,
Looking all the same.
An aqueduct appears and there’s
An eagle in the sky,
But what impresses most on board
As we go zipping by
Is a trio by the river,
Down below and quickly viewed,
Being very French, relaxing
Near the water, in the nude.
waterfalls gurgle
to hanging ice formations
surprises in March
Heidi Sands
3/22/24
(C)opyright
Thought
Active waves within us..
People decide what they want..
Continuous formation of active waves at every moment..
We select the names in the transfer.
To follow the waves in the words we name.
In moments that gather, disperse and fluctuate..
Biological fluid values may have values in the same method.
Using the past of time when thinking.
We cannot see the merging of active waves.
Formations resulting from brain functions.
With the acceleration of accumulated knowledge..
Thinking in terms of things being understood.
low constant rumble
ignorant breath of the night -
lightning formations
Waterways, red cliffs,
ancient underwater caves,
back to the Pangea age,
continents fused as one.
I stand in the stardust
of a million-year-old memory,
a flutter of songbirds,
a bouquet of warblers,
the wild swoop of blue jays.
Hummingbirds check me out.
My breath hovers over crimson wildflowers.
Long before the idea of a kiss,
when love was mystery,
the earth entered it’s quaternary period,
the age of humans.
A time of gestation, anticipation,
the Great Lakes birthing,
hawks soaring, the first migration.
All we see of that coded mapping
are faint skeletal imprints,
visible in glacial rock formations.
The stone I cradle, a mountain remnant,
honors the ancestral presence
and my encounter with raw existence
The lake shivers as falcons dive,
beaks and talons fisted and footed.
A drop of water touches my face.
Profound. As much as a human caress.
(A combination of Sijo, tanka and haiku)
When beige and snow-white clouds collide and coalesce in the sky.
When wild geese high in the air make V formations and fly away
My imagination beckons me to pen down my thoughts.
sweet music fills me.
unable to contain it,
it spills forth in verse.
into paper, flows my whims,
cloaked in lovely rhyme and rhythm.
consummated thoughts,
the rapture of soul in art~
poetree yields sweet fruits!
I raised my sight towards the heavens,
and stared deep into the night.
There is no sound but the sound of silence,
or maybe the sound of space out of sight.
On earth I have seen many wonders,
but none like the sky when alight.
Scattered stars into the black glitter,
some fairly dim and some glow too bright.
Some for the naked eye are clear,
to saddened hearts they bring delight.
In some you can see formations,
but others are too far apart.
To man the universe may seem simple,
or just a display of celestial art.
A vast knowledge beyond our comprehension,
Godly creation that we can’t explain.
Some knowledge mankind has mastered,
but what lies beyond will drive you insane.
I see a shooting star there in the distance,
in silence a humble servant I remain.
Close up,
Beautiful golds and yellows erupt,
As I look through the microscope,
Be careful on the stope,
Don't trip, or the fools will mistake,
And betake,
It's beautiful crystal formations,
All in one station,
Packed together as one,
Glittery, golden, crystal sun,
Tricking all and pretending to be another,
I bet it wants to be more important, if it had its druthers,
Lines everywhere,
A mix of colors making me stare,
Eyes have to dart around to find the different shades of gold,
Small or big specks of yellow, so bold,
It fools everyone, making them question,
Whoever holds possession,
Look closely at its setup,
Close up.
The teal peels as it submits to gloaming,
and a round lucidity exposed abroad.
As the alien brilliance shines far away,
the maneuvered view is being cast.
'Tis dormancy that exacts dark period of tenure,
countdown from the zero hour.
Distant silhouettes grow versus fawning growth,
dipped in Luna's balm.
The etching of profiled naturalness acquiesces,
constant figurines masquerading the expanse.
Subtle contours architecturally restructured,
split seconds surrender serene scenes.
The solid realm maintained lifeless postures,
as the teeming formations made idle trims.
Mimicry traces the bestilled in passing,
perfect copies render mockeries silence.
Heights claim their surroundings,
as the tight-lipped verdant statuesque frames.
Depths summon intimate intrigue,
whilst burgeoning burrowed bedrock bound.
Exchanging brightness extremely bold,
lilt ventures its routine as the subject of Sol.
More or less defining shadows...
there's no difference that a day would make.
Somewhere partially due east
Of Hunching Cliff
On the Jurassic coast
Where the Old Lighthouse
Used to stand it's ground
Battered intermittently minutely
Against the wave's and constant tide
With only the steeple rock formations
As any form of barrier or protection
Without it's blinking search light
Now sleep's ever more come
The darkness under cover of solent night
It no longer greets any ships or shoals
All it does and is left to do now is
Rot and crumble away and be covered in
Crustacean shell's and a wreaking scent
Of salty thick white sea mist
That serves simply as to keep the
occasionally passing odd
1 or 2 trophy hunter or ghoulish
collector
From further quickening it's imminent
demise
I need a change,
like the wind changing direction
New seeds to be blown
New flowers to be grown
Like the cloud formations,
trying to show a story
Waiting for people to look up to see
To recognize what truly is,
and face the truth of reality
Why such denial?
Why hide from what is real?
How does anyone unite?
As facts are blown by the wind,
because people choose to ignore
and let them go somewhere else?
As if they were never real at all
All the while, people continue to suffer
Then others ask, why oh why?
When it all stems from a choice,
to close eyes and pretend, nothing is happening
When it is my friend....it is!
Heidi Sands
8/6/23
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