The Magic Of The Oak (Part 1 of 4)
A Green and White Production
The tree near my wall
has a door, very small
When I'm flat on my tummy I see
A handgrip in brown
A mailbox with crown
But the whole is too tiny for me
A window frame blue
That they can look through
When checking for rain from the sky
With a curtain of red
A sill for fresh bread
And sometimes a raspberry pie
A kettle all black
Small plates on a rack
All painted with herbs in bright green
Five bowls with a spoon
That know, very soon
Some soup will be served made of beans
The tree tends to smile
When after a while
An elf peeks his head out the door
A plump little fellow
His hat colored yellow
The brown one he already wore
His voice roars: "There's food!"
And all in good mood
Four lean elfs come tumbling in
They're all dressed in tights
Impeccably white
With small beards adorning their chins
(to be continued.....)
***
July 11, 2017
Copyright © Chris Green and Darren White
EXISTENCE is compatible with chaos.
The chaos’ time is never to be lost
whilst being an unconscious step towards more steps.
It fits extremely with tiredness,
while a wild fantasy drives body and spirit
across the unknown brighten jungles,
a coercion without handgrip.
...
She was walking naked
On the river bank
And in her hand holds the revenge dagger for honor
Ah! If she knows
How this dagger screams?
In her pregnant hand with ignominy
But what is the avail of that?
Dagger stays a dagger
Dagger is the color of blood
In her handgrip
Becomes a rose
Dagger becomes a greater saint
My lady
Don’t care
Life is naked trees
And naked mountains
And naked tears
And naked hearts
In a naked night
But are there dumb eyes?
Are there blind feelings?
Are there deaf birds?
And is there an Honorable dagger?
Revenge for a prostitute devil
She was walking naked
On the river bank
And in her hand holds the revenge dagger for honor
Ah! If she knows
How this dagger screams?
In her pregnant hand with ignominy
But what is the avail of that?
Dagger stays a dagger
Dagger is the color of blood
In her handgrip
Becomes a rose
Dagger becomes a greater saint
My lady
Don’t care
Life is naked trees
And naked mountains
And naked tears
And naked hearts
In a naked night
But are there dumb eyes?
Are there blind feelings?
Are there deaf birds?
And is there an Honorable dagger?
Revenge for a prostitute devil
CLEAR VISION
In a distant crowd innumerable
Our friends - like stars - look rather similar.
Their very sameness seems immutable:
Bland and unused days on our calendar.
Some dimly fill the nightly ocular
With colors varied. Small or large, although
As dwarfs or giants in vernacular.
Darkly far, stars and men but poorly glow.
But closer yet, all make a richer show:
A mother’s eyes unique, a husband’s handgrip tight:
We need their special soft attention so --
And life, as given by the Sun -- our right.
Our blessings true are always close at hand.
We do not see them in some distant band.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Spenserian sonnet in iambic pentameter)
Written by Sydney Peck
Entered in Debbie Guzzi ‘s Contest “Debbie and Cyndi's Sonneteers”
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