In solitude with eyes
closed, a bell flashes with a
little girl chuckling, chasing it.
In stillness, silence, the bell starts
tolling and the girl intently stares at it,
eyes beaming with glee and a radiant smile
expressing delight. I opened my eyes, shook my
head, thought of the childlike innocence, the display
of honesty, freedom, enthusiasm and suddenly remembered
my own childhood always excited hearing the church bells tolling
for they meant fun, cheers, good times. Hearing the bell at six o’ clock
in the evening for worship or Angelus prayer at our altar, meant having dinner
with my favorite dish or dessert for dinner was served after our prayers. Hearing
the bells after the morning Easter Sunday procession meant fun in the beach
for everybody went there for fun and lunch to celebrate the Resurrection.
Hearing the bells after the four o’ clock morning masses during the
Christmas season, from December sixteen through
twenty four meant eating delicious
rice cakes at the church
kiosk.
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Country comfort and camera in hand
Orange, yellow, red, brown, pumpkins all around
The hues, the colors, a feast for the eyes
Hot coffee, creamy and smooth, warm to the bones
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Apple picking, pumpkin pie, eating snacks
Trick or treat candy galore in my sack
Cornstalks, corn mazes, hot apple cider
A cornucopia of many things
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Sharing your bounty, a time to give thanks
Thanksgiving harvest, gratitude abounds
Sweaters, scarves, flannel shirts, warm cozy socks
Crocheting blankets and hats and mittens
The golden light of four o' clock comes fast
Rays of golden sun, at orange dawn, I enjoy...!
I wake up, hearing chirps of birds at four O’ clock;
At fifties! Yet, I feel, as though a little boy...!
The earth and the heavens celebrate springtime-joy,
Timely changes in weather never my glee block;
Rays of golden sun, at orange dawn, I enjoy...!
Newborn baby animals race around in cloy,
In ponds around, bullfrogs in chorus gaily croak;
At fifties! Yet, I feel, as though a little boy...!
Breeze, as though touch me not, feels me and fades in coy,
Within feelings, like salsa, to xylophones, rock;
Rays of golden sun, at orange dawn, I enjoy...!
Seed drowsing, spring up and shoot up fresh green savoy,
Migratory birds to their homelands fly in flock;
At fifties! Yet, I feel, as though, a little boy...!
Sunshine! Shower! Wedding of foxes! Dogs convoy!
Ducks and geese and swans and swamps display their catwalk;
Rays of golden sun, at orange dawn, I enjoy...!
At fifties! Yet, I feel, as though a little boy...!
15 April 2022
Springtime Villanelle Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
Memories all seem like just yesterday
As time brings you another birthday
Where does time go, you want to know
You look around it's the big four O
The seconds are passing, the minutes move on
Night slips away to a brand new dawn
Where does time go, you want to know
You look around, and you've turned five O!
Each year that passes, the decades that chime
Moves life forward in the passage of time
Your yesteryears have gone, your tomorrows will go
Where has time gone, you want to know
You then realize you're on a roll
Time keeps on moving and taking its toll
Where does time go, you want to know
It seemed like just yesterday you had a youthful glow
Your vision gets blurry, your movement gets slow
Where has time gone, you wish you did know
But you keep writing in verse and in rhyme
As another birthday is lost in, time....
6-8-2020
Time Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Whatever happened
To afternoon tea
Served around four o-clock
It used to be a daily ceremony
Out came a pretty cloth
From an old sideboard drawer
To put on a small table
Used many times before
On to this table
Doylies and napkins placed
Precisely and carefully
There was no need to race
Then came the china
A person's very best
Teapot and cosy
And an antique spoon rest
Fairy cubes of sugar
Along with bowl and tongs
Wireless playing softly
To the now old-fashioned songs
Now to the best part, the spread
Oh! the spread
Everything home-made
Especially the bread
Assorted sandwiches, sometimes ham
Mostly it was scones with cream and jam
Nothing elaborate just wholesome fare
Loving-kindness sprinkled there
Not a Macdonalds to be seen long ago
And preservatives were not so prevalent
So, most grew their own vegetables
And had gardens with fruit trees
Used old-fashioned methods
To nurture these
They grew organic without realising
Healthy, rewarding and very enterprising
Four o´clock in the morning.
Cold, alone and trying to sleep.
The bench at the railroad ticket office serves as the old boy cradle,
covered just by all the whole dreams of his life as a cooing blanket.
There lies The Drifter
The humidity of July makes sweat drip,
the unbearable heat frustrates everyone,
they stay cool and avoid the scorching sun.
The fire hydrants are open and kids
love the cold water splashing on their bodies;
grandmother sits in the shade of the ember tree
and wipes her wrinkled forehead and nags...
her wish might be realized as stormy clouds arrive.
" My roses are dying, and the grass
is turning yellow!" she complains...
" If it only rained steady for an hour! "
is her wish and it that might be realized.
Arounf four o' clock, a whirlwind wind
blows off her straw hat, grandma realises
a storm is coming soon and warning
her grandchildren, " Get out of the water! "
The playful kids hesitate to leave but obeying
they go inside, jim shouted," It's getting awfully dark! "
a loud thunder shakes the entire house, kids
get closr to grandma fearing the fury of the storm.
Written on 9/2/2017
The rose unfurls its petals to drink the morning dew,
warblers sharpen their trills, granting the Son his due.
Mother bat folds her wings, hangs upside down to rest,
baby clings to mother's fur, hidden in their leafy nest.
Four-o-clocks hide their faces against the dawning light,
morning glories open wide, only to wilt and die at night.
Leaves on lavish branches with baited breath, await
lilting notes of day-wind sighing through the garden gate.
Deep within the forest glen, where fox hides and owl hoots,
the hidden world changes pace, each creature to its own pursuits.
A world without change would soon grow dull and invisible,
if all were night or all were day, diversity might be impossible.
Ah, the joys of summer
delightful sights that
lift our spirits
feed our souls
Chickadees frolic
in the sprinkler, bathe
in puddles on the patio
The arched trellis, encased
in delicate cardinal vines
bright red star-shapes
sing hummingbird's song
Trees in full regalia
absorb the heat, offer
shade and gentle breezes
Four o' clocks present their colors
reveal cheerful faces
only at night
Melon vines "taking over"
redeem themselves with
promise of tasty treat
Sweet Peas cling
to the aged oak
wearing lush pink ornaments
We enjoy these summer pleasures
stockpiling in memory
moments to treasure
in winter's freeze
bees in the four-o-clocks
sucking up the nectar
as the sun sets
are they really happy
i often wonder
Where Have All The Flowers Gone
Yes Yes Yes, Spring is here
Lillies, Hummingbirds, Bees are near
Time to remember the old and the new
Days pass by too fast for me and you
The lillies my mother -in -law grew so pretty
Now grow in my yard, for eternity
My grand-daughters smell and pick the flowers
The flowers renew just like the rain showers
The hummingbirds love my "Four O Clocks"
Yearly they come and find their docks
Stories, Smells, and Memories are made
Just like the life lessons, they last for decades
The Flowers haven't gone too far
Their here today, tomorrow just like the stars**
Written by: Debra M. Falgout
It is so easy at four o clock
in the morning,
under a starry sky,
surrounded by redwoods
and pines,
centered and breathing
clear air and watching
the sky travelers
make their rounds.
Buddha nature is a piece of cake
until Six PM in the dining hall
with wife and children,
a bloody bore on your right,
who's elbow's in your food,
as he shakes your hand,
and moves into your table.
Now, lets see your Buddha Nature!
TIME FOR A VACATION
It is my wife’s lifelong dream, a fairytale place a magic land :
The small village of Rye in Sussex , in southern England.
This is the heart of England, its bosom -
Filled with peaceful smells of blossom :
Like a Dickens scene on christmas cards -
Steep streets with cobblestones - no cars.
Smoking chimneys, bow windows, roofs with thatches,
Hanging baskets of alyssum and lobelia in batches -
Her favorite colours white and dark blue:
I wanted to make her dream come true.
Tea and hot crumpets and warm butter oozing
By the fire in the sitting room with grandad snoozing
At four o’ clock by the chimes of the grandfather
Clock which fascinates - it’s like theatre to her.
Soft beds you sink into deeper and deeper;
Little bedrooms with floral wallpaper
She’s only seen in movies about Sherlock Holmes;
And small windows recalling our childhood homes.
We feel at ease, content like birds flown home to their loft.
View to cherry orchard trees in blossom soft
And to France on the distant sea horizon:
She gazes and thinks and daydreams on and on.
Almost four-o-clock in the afternoon
and not a single tambourine in sight
you should have jumped over the moon
hours ago, until
secret alien creatures on the surface
said the autopsy was inconclusive
which explains for me why
icicles drip from your heart, as the sun
warms the memory of your embrace, like
moonflowers, gently unfolding at night
reveal the mysteries of love
the bandleader, wearing a feathered pompadour
signals a final formation
somewhere in time
your tune marches into the distance
marches
.......into the distance
01/02/11
four o' clock in the morning,
i'm feeling like a slob;
the alarm says that i must go,
to face this horrid job!
the weekend's all a tease,
just when i'm good and lax;
monday beheads my shallow pride,
like an executioner's axe!
my eyes are swollen crusty,
my breath's a putrid stench;
saliva soaks a beaten pillow,
my energy lies in a trench!
i dread each day of monday,
as i drag myself to the shower;
my nerves are like an itchy rash,
my attitude's vague and sour!
out the door i go,
to battle a huddled freeway;
monday is just the beginning,
where in the hell is friday?!!
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