white snow pushed aside
gravel leaves its greying mark
dirty snowman stands
Constance La France's The Pensive Poet's Contest
Reminiscences are yet revived by the glory
of Now mirroring slivers of past traces' ~ by poet
This thinning pen lays on a shed
of damp grasses where there are
no flowers to daringly explore---
A gasping star wanes
into the ash of light;
emptiness raking its only shape -
neutral as dunked rays greying the skyline.
Dreary as a poet's last whimper,
unfinished phrases gather
to rest... anticipating
drooped wake of winter petals,
as blots of ink
trace the calligraphy of langour,
the shadow play from past revelries
and adult slow- burn despair : how pensive
sighs offer their chánts
to a rising moon--- and buds of waving lime,
of the sky cascading
all the hums of vintage music evanesce ,
soft sheen of paper crumpling thoughts
so darn mellow , gathering on thé barks
of yesteryears where pages
of innocence and grief múst now
be rendered to memorials' grave...
When your two bright eyes look at me,
I wonder what they seek to see,
when your face hosts mystery smile,
it lingers on for quite a while.
those whisks of greying in black hair
speak of stacks of wisdom to share,
face serene fresh as of a child,
hiding a prank, yet joyous mild.
when you share your deep thoughts with me,
you knock me down on to my knee,
wonder should I admire your charms,
or be enriched by words, be calm.
whatever is has to be love,
more powerful than God above,
i love the warmth of your being,
gives my world a whole new meaning,
Stop smiling at me from that photograph,
Join me in my life, let’s live, love and laugh.
Stealing the sun’s moment
a Jonquil peeks
over the greying snow
Bathed in liquid buttery sunshine
Feeder cloistered with the ferns
Wrapped around green tendrils
Caressed as mellow winds
Wildflowers blowing lace
An alter
Pink flowers in every pew
Tilted to the sun
Some are brand new
Drying grass
Greying and fading from the top
Curviest leaves standing alone
Waiting to drop
There is a pine or two
Thrusting up
To get the first view
Of spring all new
This leaf an arm from its tree
Which reached out for
But wasn’t freed
It fell, like she fell
Down two more floors
Then the one where she was supposed to stand
Wind raked through a blush of veins
And spread like hair on her face
A hand like her had fallen short
Of holding on and holding fort
Eyes that look upon blurry face
witness it fall
With sunflower grace of movement
Forever slow
She witnesses as host of all
This loss of glow
Finally, a pull of gaunt
Dragging vestige pulled her forth
She had fallen she had fell
Now she stands among herself
Hand in her own hair she pulls it to her own
And eye of tree which does not see witnesses
The hand which held it had been long gone
And forgotten pulse had forsworn host
So ghostly death of amber leaf
Looked down upon its image
And dragged its hands through dying veins
As rotting wood and greying hands
Took visage of a rotting home
From eye of wood detached from hand
And so therefore detached from soul
Witness grace from separate brains
And witness that grace die
Life’s canyon narrows
Its walls grow steep
Age walks slowly
A date to keep
Old shadows waver
On ancient winds
O’er paths that neither
Begin nor end
For here is here
And now is won
A future calls
A past is done
A greying moon’s
Soft light dims dreams
A sigh is heard
‘mid unseen streams
A twisting breeze
Hums an eerie tune
For time is not
A silent rune
Buoyed up by the syntheses of the past,
idyllic murals of green hills open paths
to a healing truth.
What say the brown camels of Casablanca
to assassins nursing festered wounds of
new Karma?
Yesteryears recline on the shoulders of
a greying age, chanting songs to a
departing future — quicker on the heels of potentates.
Drums fade atop lonesome, hollow-crested
landscapes, accompanied by the invoked,
naked past.
Feeder cloistered in ferns
Wrapped with new green tendrils
Caressed in mellow winds
Bring the birds to snuggle in
Wildflowers bowing in grace
Some tilted to the sun
Some are brand new
Greying grass
Drying from the top
Waiting for a wisp of wind
So they can drop
A pine tree or two
Thrusting up
To get a view
skies of sapphire s
t o
r m s
s u s
p
e n
d
e d in bruised glass blues ~
the greying grief g l
i n
t
s
The sun homes scars and flames of dusk,
drizzling a rain of illusion,
and you, the muse of angst~
tracing the cold rush of desires,
to sear my tongue,
to undress the silk of life,
spilling sweet poison upon the lens of lies,
in the afterglow of faded flora~
I taste copper and ashes
of a wistful love, blurred with tears,
amidst this heart, a wilderness of mirrors,
mimicking skies, restless and clouded~
with pale promises and silent sighs,
illustrating ghosts of reveries,
as fingers of the moon, greying yet tender,
like dying winds carrying crisp memories,
press on the keys of a hazy harmony.
But will a broken soul wade through glass-soiled sands?
I feel nothing but the wilt of wild roses,
the flow of rhymes, aching within my ink...
Talked to a star one night
It whispered
From behind a greying cloud
“I’m lonely”
It seems stars are so busy shining
They have little time to chat
They find it ironic that we humans
Write so much about them
Attribute to them strange powers
Of auric ascendancy.
I whispered back
Lest I be thought mad
By other star gazers
“I am lonely also”
It seems that we humans are so busy
Gazing at the stars
We lose track of one another
Stand alone wondering
Why the moonlight is so cold
And the stars seem so sad.
We decided to shine together
And whisper
“Come join us any starry night”
To all of my loves, I'm nothing but a greying power station.
They're not interested in me or my well-being.
I'm not sure if they ever were.
They come at me with endless barbed babble.
Having little need for dialogue or advice.
When their confusion evolves into a vice.
I'm just a chew toy for their mental mice.
They have their apps for advice and distraction.
My loves are leaving now -only half charged up.
They're well into their next power station to get topped off.
I'm completely drained and completely happy that they're gone.
When my brother was fading away,
black chimes signaled for the demons to play.
They attacked all sides of my hobbled mind.
Treating the heart like an orphaned marble
They were rabid and had brackish intentions
Hope chipped away like a crowbar to cement.
In a dream, one of them took me into its sky
I clung tight to its undercarriage
begging for it to release me
It promised that it would if I said
that I loved it...I relented
It didn't keep its promise as expected
and we wrecked together.
I coddled a little amber cross....
(a field mouse in an owl's greying claw).
I was dismissed into a pillow of tranquility
The demons slowly drifting away...
as did my brother the very next day.
Sun setting can I see nor a moonrise,
Tall towers nor let me see smiling stars,
Nor with sunrise, how moon melts from my eyes,
The dazzling light my eyesight always mars.
Smoke and dust make things much dimmer than are,
Greens greying are, flowers so rare to see,
Birds save pigeons from towns are driven far,
How in commune with Nature can I be?
I’ve to trace steps and watch wither I walk,
No more can I marvel heavenly art,
For, stare and stalk the unpaved stones that flock
Whilst potholes pry and raise beats of my heart.
How can I in touch with Nature e’er be,
Oh, when my mind must always be in me.
____________________________
Sonnet |10.03.2017, revised October 2024| nature
Poet’s note: A man in touch with nature remains in touch with his inherent goodness. But what if city dwelling deprives him of Nature?
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