Fringed Poems | Examples

The Passing Bell

Not living
longer
but dying
slower
The chemo
dripping
death’s shadow
appears

Each moment
fringed
with a joy
ill censored
The countdown
has started
whose bell
— is near 

(Dreamsleep: August, 2025)

Emerging From The Woods Onto A High Prominence

The trees crowd in along the broken trail,
sunlight tries to push through, but mostly fails,
straight trunks spread out and obscure distant gaze,
there’s eyes out there, watching, afraid they’re prey.
Ahead a break grows larger with each step,
cerulean against the forest depth,
the summit rock cresting half of the peak,
this vantage sought by many weary feet.
Red squirrels chitter and dash as I emerge,
I want to shout, but I restrain the urge,
swellings of peaks spread out like tapestries,
their secrets hid beneath the endless trees,
a slash of gray where earth cuts through in stone,
Mother Nature is lost without her bones,
then rips of blue, a ribbon swaggers slow
to wild ponds saved by being remote,
marsh meadows near sometimes reveal a moose,
but today only mallards are in view.
Beyond this lies a scar, a bigger lake,
fringed by cabins and docks, stretching out straight,
above it all vultures fly on the breeze,
their slow circles effortless and lazy,
to think such birds get this view every day…
Who knows if again I will pass this way.

Denizens Of Her Domain

Mother Nature, divine and yet so whimsical
Her flowing streams fall warm, healing and abiding   
A darkened blue-green sea, maroon and sapphire shores,  
cradle us asleep, with your gentle waves 
harboring the dour rude awakenings
when eddying rapids currented by the tide
Consume the uncertainty and the lies of the day tearing the heart apart
Suspend judgment and attain tranquility of mind                                   
White light and red, filters a pink-tint, nebulous fringed rose gold
I’m graced in your stellar light, a cosmic pearl


Garnered from my poems:

Mother Me
Weeping Nude
The Ocean Beckons
Human Nature
Lissa Marie
Strayed Sheep
Tell It Like It Is
Self-Existent Light
Woven Worlds Of Alice Lidell
The Pursuit of Contentment

Season Change

The house is colder now
  as autumn sheds its leaves
  the push-pull  falls wildly beneath the plows
  along the edges of the gutters and eaves.
perhaps because the house is emptied
  of all the faded color hues
  when your heart lit the entryways
  to the lifetimes shared, here
with you.

I watch the color palette change
  chlorophylls leaking out in the icy cool
  carotenoids producing yellow, orange, and brown 
  the corn mazes shriveling in dry stalked spools,
the old weathered maple blushing to scarlet red frowns,
  the great oak in its russet brown undress
  the aspen and poplar shaking yellow fringed gowns,
  autumn chill alive and stirring north and west
within the colors spilled down.

I feel it in my body
  my bones and muscle ache with each step
  closing door and window with revelry
  to the change to which I become adept,
holding the season's lost memories
  tight upon my face of laughter and tears wept
  a last embrace within the season's pace
  and final goodbye
to the magic had. with all its grace.

Bone Beach

Relentless yearning tints unrestrained
the spectral edge of the halcyon horizon,
where the nascent scarlet sun unveils 
the facade of the decorous dawn,
brings to me across the million miles 
of dreaming detour corridor,
the sparkle of the sapphire sea, 
shining with the tinge of avid allure.

I stand whelmed at the finite fringe 
of the primordial vastness vista.
Its ceaseless vigor coiling 
the collapsing crests of the swelling waves,
once had brought the relics 
of the drowned mariners to the shore,
returned with their memory 
to the fathomless serenity of oblivion.

The embrace of the silver sheet washes 
your bone-fringed footprints on the beach.
As the melancholic waves sing 
to the moonbeam ballet of the blue night, 
I search for my lost mermaid, 
floating away on the stardust trail,
and sets sail on the serenading winds 
to where my heart is.

A rolling pebble tossing lonesome 
with the rhythm of the tides of time,
I’m submerged in the sea of sanguinity 
of the rapturous reverie.
Through my fingers I don’t let 
the golden fervent sands slip,
for I turn the bones to ivory, 
design a dainty diadem for you.

memories of my youth

we wore fringed vests, the love beads
the long hair, the hair bands, the granny glasses
the flowing clothes, the bell bottoms
a fantastic time, the memories of my youth

Air

As the day dawns on the flaming canvas of the sky,
aureate fringed wispy cloud convoy glides slowly away. 
On the cobalt sea they shower the spectrum of color,
silver-streaked waves spread pearl strings on the shore.

The sunburst horizon of daybreak drips sequins on the sea,
golden garlands glow with rhapsody on the rolling waves.
The ancient mariner in me sails on the wind of ecstasy,
across the seamless expanse of dancing sapphire shine.

After the agonizing night the sparkling new day dawns,
and as the yonder gloomy horizon brightens to entice,
I discover euphoria trinkets hidden in the mist of despair,
find within me a serene sea to swim to the bay of bliss.

The sun of the cyan sky shines on emerald forest canopy,
strips of light and shade saunter around whispering trees,
make nature’s ethereal lattice of mystique design I marvel, 
as I wander mesmerized in the entrancing wilderness. 

I feel the melodic touch of serenading breeze of the wild,
as I waft in its wake to the halcyon horizon of delight.
I reach the mesmeric meadow blossoming in my mind,
as I float breathing rapture in the ambience of aromatic air.

Woven Worlds Of Alice Liddell

She finds the pink planet, musing Alice Liddell's Imagination is the only weapon in war with reality.  Sky's canvas, brushed cotton candy clouds where marshmallow mountains peak and the seventh sun rides low 'til the man in the moon awakens. White light and red, filters a pink-tint, nebulous fringed rose gold.  Pearlescent beams lap at her legs, silhouettes blossom as silky waves of jasmine kiss, spiral, and envelop her
open-mindness to 
       embrace the unexpected
                  Alice would be proud
                       realization pink planet
                               a bountiful life journey

JONQUIL

JONQUIL

You may know me as Jonquil
My cousins are daffodil and narcissus
A fringed cup surrounded by petals 
Each combining white with yellow
The latter, a hue with my own name
And I’m perfumed, but they are not
Distinctive yet I shouldn’t be proud
As amaryllis, we are all still family

straight out of the fifties

This frog is straight out of the fifties
How can you tell?
He is a beatnik.
How so?
He plays bongo drums.

He has a lava lamp.
I think they were from the sixties.
And fringed vest jacket.
The seventies, honey

We stared at each other.
How old do you think this frog is?
Unsure, but he is dancing under a disco ball.
Eighties I think.

A well-rounded frog if you ask me.

Unloved 2 expanded

UNLOVED 2 (EXPANDED)
                                                           
The stinging is particularly painful today, 
Needles of sharp cold burning blood stab and sear my heart
The jabbing jagged thousand little holes stay
And begin again tomorrow to flay each part.

Rejection is a drowning drunk
Gasping with each mouthful of pride 
Another trophy now lies lifeless and sunk
Another screaming day that died.

For all the steaming dreaming part
I played in the capture of my choice
Flat failure is the guide of my loveless dart
And a choking silence is my only voice.

When the punished pillows murder cry
Silent clocks and secret swish
Of thick dark failing falling curtains fringed with notoriety
Rip the seams of a ragged wish

Until the spleen sheds its poison deep below
Swimming into the fathom of night and day
Where no tender fingers reach my depth
And only the claw grasps its prey.

Liar lord of loyalty the infidel of opera cloak
Sweep and cover a collapsing shroud
Leaving only the tomb and the weeping womb
For the remnants of the uncertain crowd.

Song of The White Egret Orchid No 5: ABBA

Flowers have that novel effect on schism,
where the uniqueness of its design forms
compare that White Egret Orchid performs
like its namesake, chicken or the egg, ism
being afloat plume or the blooming grews.
Soggy-bottom boys and girls 'tis they want
of this bit of a ground-hugger-like haunt.
Sophistication hails for untamed shrews
attracts from up or a transferred potter,
with a metal device tool like a pick,
the gifted angular, pruning, technique,
lauds the fringed orchid, White Egret Flower.
Monkey Face Orchid, to Yulan Pink Birds,
venture advances, the future ... occurs.

The Grandeur of Fall

The fleet of silver fringed cloud floats away 
across ashen sea of end-summer sky. 
The beguiled birds bathe in the blue of bay, 
as fall arrives with hued pace on the sly.
 
The meadow wears the crown of diamond dew, 
flickers with the finesse of dawn’s dream glow. 
Lining the cinnabar garden path new,
the tawny trees shed bronze leaves rustling slow.

The setting sun sets fire in serene sky, 
makes cosmic collage of red ember bright. 
In its shimmer my spirit ascends high,
the gleam of golden milieu wraps my sight.

In autumn night the sprouting stars I see 
drizzle silver dust with aura of glee.

Landscape Laced With Snow

Summer wearily sighed then softly closed her door.
For three months she lingered, and now she'd slumber
while Fall lays a carpet of leaves upon the forest floor.
Her swirling wind gathers them in abundant number,
bronze, russet and crimson, all fringed in burnt umber.

In a cloudless sky, the cry of migrating birds is heard,
flying to a warmer climate as Autumn begins to unfold.
When Nature births a new season, changes are spurred.
A saffron sun warms the Earth with fingers of gold,
and a harvest moon ascends; glorious sights to behold.

Autumn days are emblazoned with dazzling coloration,
painting vibrant scenes like no other season can bestow.
I welcome her annual arrival with joyous acclamation,
knowing the nights will be filled with starlight aglow
before Winter laces the landscape with crystals of snow.

Summer To Fall

Life is great for a few short months
leaves shade us from the sultry heat
but at the end of Summer's season
they get crushed beneath our feet.

But time takes its inescapable toll
leaves wither once they take the fall
overlooked and simply swept away
because they must answer Autumn's call

Cruel North winds age them quickly
Golden leaves become fringed in rust
wrinkled and brittle, tumbling to the ground
they lay crushed beneath the earth as dust

They're ever granted a burial plot
just raked into pyres, and burned in heaps
problems for the weekend gardener
and for their sad death, no one weeps

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