A crisp brown leaf from the sycamore tree
Silently fell to the ground
It gently lay down amidst more of its kind
Having landed with no hint of sound
How could it know of the silence required
To survive through the night in these woods
I’d crunched one such leaf underfoot in my haste
And fell prey to the people in hoods
The moon though dim, waxing gibbous, I think
Throws monochrome shades in the night
Against this old oak I am helpless and tied
There’s no escape, try as I might
What did they mean, “That’s her gluttony sated”?
No woman I see hereabout
My knees feel weak as shrivelled leaves crunch
And they fail as that dull moon…… goes out
Santa could you help me out, I’m in a dozen shades of doubt
Half the world is ‘weapons out’, all the rest just scream and shout
“Don’t do this and don’t do that, would you kindly pause your spat?”
Arms dealers are getting fat… I can’t afford to heat my flat
Grain and fuel are pricing high, body bags in short supply
And thousands duck yet thousands die
But Santa it’s the time of year to spread a little Christmas cheer
And let those that wont listen hear the guns fall silent far and near
So Santa could you help me out and sprinkle your goodwill about
To link the arms of atheist, agnostic and devout
For whilst so many gods abound at every compass point around
Can there not be a middle ground
But all the world says, “We’re the good,” or, “You’re the villain in the hood,”
Or, “You will soon be gone for good.” And diplomats are blocks of wood.
So Santa can you clarify the who, the what, the where, the why
For far away the people cry and one man says that nukes may fly
So war may soon be hereabout, I hope we have sufficient clout
Hey, Santa, could you help us out?
A football memory
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
Stale milk sky,
traffic is trawling for any surfacing light.
Rubber squeaks on the smeared blacktops.
No hills to climb in this part of town
we are flat earth
and mostly just tilted into our daydreams.
Corner shops are damp and derelict
or heaving with low class crime.
Shadows pounce if you drop a dime.
Its a crawl through a gauntlet
no one runs here unless they flee.
The car radio is set to Fox News
we haven't seen a fox hereabout in years
only concrete cemeteries,
islands of amnesia
sprinkled with stone angels,
hidey-holes
where daytime hookers gather
to pray for better weather.
Sunlight sifts through shimmering aspens
Casting ghost-like shadows on the forest floor
Camouflaging the smaller critters shyly
Skittering among the drying brown leaves
Protecting their well-hidden burrows
Sometimes I hear them chattering warning
In sharp squeaky voices so charming,
Not unlike the chirping of the nesting birds
When strangers invade their territories.
Stray sunbeams scamper across carpeted floor
Capturing a hidden hungry hog snake stalking
A chipmunk with leering, beady black eyes
Menacingly, when all else is tranquil hereabout.
Suddenly all is dark, the sun dips behind a cloud,
The snake lunges at the unsuspecting creature
As a crow abruptly caws loudly thrice overhead.
Written May 17, 2022
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October 22, 2022
Where the sandhill cranes gather,
I stand and watch the swans preen
In the morning sun near the bridge
Alone, except for a circling vulture
All denizens of the lowland culture,
Passing high over the flanking ridge
A red-tail hawk hereabout rarely seen
Above the warm, crystal blue water.
written February 19, 2022
(Using the reverse rhyme scheme
which I have discovered in so many
of my poems: abcddcba)
A football *memory
Just like this sport I am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
Masterful!
lordly framed
picturesque rain stain
ing icy cap summit’s height,
vaulting off grassy green
pediplain’s sloping foothills,
impinging azure sky’s obscur
ing clouds.
blazing sunbeam painted
freshet rush to where river-rocks
are the fairest.
rosy-finch, gray-crowned,
bathe cross-winds breeze clink
ing conifers lazing at the frost rich shore,
river flow, embolden splendor.
the poetics surrendered?
ingest’d without disturbance,— by us,
graylings are of abound... thus!
The first monarch butterfly,
Just flitted by.
Lazily drifting through stark spring sunlight,
Seeking any blooms to alight.
Daffodils cheerily glow before front fence,
Oval ridged petals in breezes wave thence.
A dense carpet of creeping phlox, its tiny pink flowers,
By front door, were awakened by showers.
Self seeded petite pansies already in bloom,
Peek out between roses, making room.
Surveying my thorny ones, finding none to replace,
Among 350 planted, a rare fact to embrace!
Three classic garden statues returned to front yard beds,
Welcome passersby while ruling my homestead.
Wooden whirligig birds and small figurines still to set out,
Along with birdbaths hereabout.
Of slight interest, the annual lawncare routine,
But necessary before dreaded crabgrass is seen,
That mars gardens’ lush green frame,
So reluctantly, I’ll engage in that game.
mrt/4-9-21
With no one hereabout
As above streetlight shone
“Hello beautiful”
Endurance rules you flout
Daintily peeping out
Flourishing with aplomb
By each gainful degree
Amid detritus flows
Purple petunia grows
If only all could see
Limpet tenacity
Hidden in the shadows
Survival rates are slim
In mind you never dim
Name and Sponsor Hexsonnetta
3/15/21 Emile Pinet
A football memory
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2011
Before me lies the ocean, with its shore,
maintaining varied limits day and night;
at times, beyond its border, reaching more
than ever, thrashing out in wild delight.
At other times, so docile, ebbing low
with timid ripples that creep on the sand.
With highs and lows, the tides reshape its flow,
by rhythms that obey the moon's command.
And here, I'm like an ocean at low tide,
in quiet stillness, feeling down and out-
no energy, I let my high waves slide
and merge with the calm seascape hereabout.
But like this ocean, soon my tides will turn-
as waves roll in and stretch along the beach,
and thrashing out in wild delight, return
to grasp the joy of everything in reach.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Standard, End of 2018
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 12/29/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Tell Me A Story 2
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
Judged: 11/08/2018
repost inspired by Phil contest
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
the Magi travels on the web
deftly legging at the lines
crawling around like tide and ebb
leaving gifts brushing those confines
there is wonder there, to partake
there are sightings, so exquisite
things seen clearly, or opaque
discerning is the only requisite
information and loaded emotion
moving images of hate and love
surfing past advertised promotions
the trick is just to take hold of
what the Magi drop in plain sight
secrets both known, and obscure
love can be heard in sound bites
but hate, nearby will always allure
just ignore hate that always shouts
listening only for quiet whispers
the Magi's magic is now and hereabout
imagining images of peace in pictures
magnetically pulled positive or naught
what is sought, so will be found
love you, others, too love free thought
surf linked web without going aground
gifted fob to keep your time clasped
as you give freely of your own time
the Magi's link finally is grasped
love for each other, sweetly sublime
© Goode Guy 2011-11-20
Just like football* i am very old
so if I may be so bold
this memory I'll unfold
each day,when school was out
off to a green,hereabout-
the teams often numbered seventeen!
with our jumpers as posts,
no boots ,referee or
coaches ,you'd see
back and forth we'd be
'til tired out,and ready for tea
*you call it soccer over the pond
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