Let them fall
Let the leaves
Alone
After putting one between
Two sheets
Of paper
Grab a crayon
Not black
I suggest orange
Or Sunny Yellow
Not boring green
Go over
The bumpy road
Scribble scribble scribble
To your hearts content
Hold
The paper to the light
Look how your crayon flew
Put down
Another sheet
Over
A different shape
And shimmy shimmy shimmy
Shake
That lively crayon
It’s on fire
Be friends
With the Autumn wind
Gifts sent as the branches
become naked
Cold
Warm
Your fingers
Probably your toes
Twinkle
Next up?
Pinecones
Glue, paint, glitter
O what wonder!
Clock Humming
Clocks hands moving slowly
In no hurry
With no worries
Content and humming
Clocks chiming
Time wondering
With no company
Some people are the same
Parallel reminiscing
Color’s fading
Time crawling
No complaints
Hearts content
No burdens
Take it easy
Just out of curiosity
Eyes are glazed
In a haze
Delirium sometimes
Clock humming
An ordinary day
Time passing by
Time chasing no one
Coffee early morning sun
A lonely life
Birds fling
Clocks tell time
Through the widow, light shine
Just enough to get by
Syria’s Christians and Haiti
The first Christian church was built in Syrian, as I write this the horror is killing them the new death cult regime in Syria, a cult we give money to, and not mentioned by Western media as Israel continues to bomb Gaza to their hearts content This is only possible when the bombs are free of charge courtesy of the USA
On the home front, we read about erectile dysfunction, no they are telling me who thought
my own problems were caused by the old age
Haiti, the sad state is in the news again, last time
I was there, Papa Doc, was in power he employed
Thugs, sunglasses, and sports shirts to keep order
but they harassed shopkeepers to hand over money, when Papa died his son took over, he was an idiot and any resembles of order fell apart
Port-au-Prince was a beautiful city, but now it is a vast criminalized slum, Haiti has always been poor and met resistance from other countries who were against a black sovereign state. It never got the help needed from white societies who said slaves could not a country make
Shines the season brimming with grandeur, rich
In winter... frills of ice and snow bewitch
My pine trees capped with tinsels evergreen :
Comes spring-- dizzy where buds' hues turn to sheen
While air minty weaves on glens to unfurl
My trail scenting walks on plush lanes...hours whirl.
Then summer calls, hundred moths blaze cloud's fire,
Red-hot nights flaming, sizzling moon's desire
To entice a June love I bring to shore,
Till fall chants... boughs spilling lace on damp floor
Relishing life's harvest...true hearts content
When I trace cycles blooming but not spent;
For this spirit thrives on stars, earth,
' neath clay...
I am life that begins and ends each day
Between seasons, time pauses for a while,
As hands nourish solstices that beguile.
For I, God's nature child, could grant relief
Bringing hope for man's journey...root to leaf
Music is a therapy It is good for the soul
And it works for me.
It calms me down and let's me unwind
The stressful day behind.
Classical , jazz ,RnB, Soul, Grime
There are so many to choose .
Dance , sing or tap your feet to the beat.
Sing along to your hearts content be it in
Private or with friends.
I used to sing until I lost my voice
Now I hardly have one
A bad habit of waiting to make a choice
I still have never made one
I don't need lyrics to sing to my hearts content
Seldom do I sing, though
I didn't know I had to listen for the bell to ring
I had to know it would ring
I ran everytime, until I forgot the sound
What was the tune I used to sing ?
Bermudiana
In spring, I would romp about untethered
Across the expanse, knee-deep in blue-eyed grass
Like a filly in the field with spirit
Among the purple Bermudiana.
Longtails and cahows would swoop o’er the waves
Of the majestic Atlantic briny air intake,
And I would run on the pink sands of Horseshoe Bay
And wear the skin off my feet on so gorgeous a day.
And from the hills where cedar and palmettos bend,
I’d hear vireos singing to their hearts’ content.
On the islands of Bermuda, where Bermudiana flourish,
From the Royal Naval Dockyard to Fort St. Catherine.
***
Note:
The Bermudiana (Sisyrinchium bermudiana) is a perennial spring bloomer endemic to Bermuda and is the country’s national flower.
The best waakye in the community is sold by the gutter,
Gutter choked with rubbish and litter,
Litter that stops the flow of water,
Water, contaminated as it is, the breeding grounds for mosquitoes,
Mosquitoes that cause malaria,
They hover around the food that we love,
And so we eat,
Eat to our hearts’ content,
And we enjoy every single bit of it,
And we fall sick; we get treated for cholera or diarrhoea,
And we still run back to the gutter-side,
We run back for more, more of our destruction,
Because that is the home of our favorite food, the gutter-side.
Detailing leaves of golden spiff
I lean up close to take a whiff
of turmeric colored leaves sublime
and skies of ruby reds sweet wine
Engaged upon the breeze my touch
awaits the pinnacle's non such;
Sharing space with a painters brush
I sketch a new horizon's rush
on a canvass virgin without blotch
envisioned scenes of yellow scotch
while up above the skylark soars
on sweet November's wing adore
Inhaling salt and sea I breathe
the very things of me that seethe
embroiled in art to hearts content
I hear falls bitter sweet lament
she doesn't want to touch the snow,
nor lose her natural bronzing glow.
November 26, 2020
Lay November Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Eight syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
Wow great couples tetra
In vintage portrait of an inn spectra
Letting hair down amiably
Grooming too amicably
Socializing to the hearts’ content
Seems their mutual intent
With their perfect mate
Relish the quality moment
After painting the town red
Now chilling on sofa spread
Vibrance oozes from their mien
As they share their bonds umpteen
For the four super couples
My verse here makes ripples..!!
There is nothing to be done by us here
Enjoy and make merry in the sunshine
Feel, oh hermit, throb of bliss as it spears
Nothing to be done, except to align
Playfully dance on to your hearts content
Feel, oh hermit, blessings of the divine
Innocence is our native element
Ever entwined with the supreme being
Feel, oh hermit, rapturous bliss current
Free of fear, in an aspect allowing
Feel, oh hermit, ecstasy unending
22-November-2020
A Sunday morning
Basking in glory
At the Farmers Market
Is a Sunday well spent
I breath in the air with excitement
As I take in all the sites and sound
Sounds of a fellow singing
And strumming his guitar
To his hearts content
Bring a smile to my face
Feeling uplifted
I
Begin to browse the many stalls of fresh fruit
Fresh vegetables
And baked good
Pumpkins
So glorious
Catch my eye
And dreams of pumpkin carving and baking pumpkin pie
Begin to swirl through my mind
In another stall
My eyes
Fancy tomatoes
So juicy looking
It makes me think of candy
So much health and creativity
Surrounds me at the farmers market
The farmers market
It’s the perfect place
To spend my time
On a Sunday morning
Browsing the library
It’s my favorite thing to do
Breathing in the air of books and paper
Picking up a book and examining the book from the cover to the back
Staring at title after title
All I’m doing is looking for a few good books to read
And soon enough in the mystery section I end up with mystery book after mystery book to devour
All I’m doing is looking for a few good books at the library to devour to my hearts content
At the epicentre
within our heart
as love canters
ignition restarts
As the cogniser
of the current
soma we savour
to hearts content
Throb of silence
one hand clapping
yawn in innocence
electricity vivifying
Ceasing to resist
in total surrender
we as a bliss mist
at ourself wonder
06-September-2020
I wish I was back there, winter’s chill gone
with the sun and my coconut curry
soup. Breathing bready smells, gazing down on
the Dogwood trees on West Paces Ferry.
My dad: I think he and I have the same
soul. We went by ourselves for a whole day,
Wand’ring around the museum that became
my favorite spot. Every display.
Where we read labels to our hearts’ content –
Civil war battles covered in dust, from
the lies that followed wherever they went.
German painter Wilhelm Heine spoke to us:
“Remember what I’ve put on this canvas
and don’t ever let it happen again.”
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