The tines of the rake
comb through a dispersing tumble.
Ocher clumps form random hillocks,
most slip through the iron teeth
dancing drunkenly away.
I was called into the rushing air.
Physical work with the dead and dying
is a ‘calling’ isn’t it?
The newly deceased keep falling.
Maple leaf bones crackle underfoot.
I scoop their remains,
brush an autumnal cerecloth,
shake the dead into swirls of afterlife.
Today, I fancy I am a caretaker
for the changing seasons,
yet an autumnal age divests me.
the years turn
and I am more exposed.
Next year I will buy a leaf blower,
my wife may need it
when I fall.
Red dawn spreads above the range of hillocks.
A soft breeze scatters the dandelion seeds around.
A soft zephyr, clean and furry, flows like a hymn,
I feel elated, happy to be far from the city’s dust.
The meadow hums, a mild cacophony of sounds.
Bees hover over wild flowers that grow profusely
Beneath the two rows of rough stone walls.
As the sun rays rise up, and petals glow in such a grace.
Larks fly copiously here and there, sometimes resting
On a dark mulberry tree, so full of black berries
A delight for the birds that love the sweet fruit.
A delight for me since I too love the sweet mulberries.
So I sit down on a smooth stone, back to the wall.
I close my eyes just happy to hear nature’s song
No other being will disturb my profound meditation.
All around the meadow, silence reigns in peace.
This woodland stream could be a small English river,
it dibbles and dabbles, it meanders, and has the air
of an old water way, one that never saw the need
to rush or gush.
The small ripples pace themselves; a sepia rivulet
that tugs at a nutrient silt, carrying it down gently
to green pastures.
In autumn the fallen leaves add ocher flotillas
that sail into valley mists, never to return.
April showers refresh the brook,
it waltzes between tufted hillocks,
glides almost giddily between sky and earth.
If the path of the water flow has a name
it is known only to grazing cattle,
that drink of it,
and the meadow lark
that hovers high above the little beck
to sing of its native wandering ways.
Desert Carnival
Yoga Phenomenal
Camel Fair
Valor Prayer
Harvest Festivals
Sea Surfing Technicals…
?
Winter starts
With ice, fine arts
Sunshine days blaze
With atmospheric haze...
?
Rainbow-colors poured
On earth-sky canvas as an accord
All five elements glitter.
As though no counterfeiter
Hillocks in immodest green
Present an ecologically rich scene
?
Thrill fills the zeitgeist
In the earth-weather tryst
?
Xing
Xanadu
Aspen leaves flutter like birds
as a breeze ponders the lake's surface
and I brush away a willow leaf of cold jade.
Soon there will be a face in the moon
with its familiar brow arched
over what should be cornflowers
now residing beyond the lambent braids
of feral rye and muscled hillocks.
A miracle in cerulean sprouts in distant concrete,
a bluebell behind a sheet of glass,
unaware of the secret I share with wildflowers,
nor a memory of snow where appeared
an epiphany of morning glories.
I stumbled a dandelion kiss
to be blown on one's lashes, but it disappeared
in a gust of diesel smoke, the shriek of pads
on brash steel.
The rings of felled dogwoods measure seasons
cyan skies ignore. Each spring revealed the promise
of lapis daisies, the rush of violets.
Late summer left barren spikes of amaryllis.
It's been many thaws since I awaited the shy crocus.
Posted 10/3/23
Between the reaching shades of tall trees
copper-leafed hillocks’ catch fire,
ghost flames
burnish the slow stealth of evening.
A translucent straw-light
seen only through the thumb hole
of a painter’s pallet,
or in that late sunlit wash, that blooms
so openly that eyes miss it.
Redolent are the long shadows
dipped as they are in rich earthy scents.
The flaxen hay is layered between
timbered silhouettes,
where gossamer ribbons of vapor
hazes-over honeyed acers.
Softly a lambent buoyancy of evening
blends amber and russet wisps
with hues of sorrel and orange.
A mellowing sky drapes over the fields
a chiffon fan of muted rays.
The tawny straws turn slowly,
all unclear to daylight eyes,
but by this eventide
we will view this ebbing day
through a golden glass.
Stubbs Park is decorously rampant,
its paths scamper here and there
like unruly children.
The original landscapers ran riot,
for they planted arching spans
between and over
many of its grassy hillocks,
its trickling brooks.
If you are in meditative mood,
these diminutive bridges
can lead you away and home again
in the compact unwinding
of a few gardened acres.
Catwalks may connect you
to gaps in your life
ones yet uncrossed for want of a bridge’
They can lead you astray also
until you figure out the right questions
to ask of yourself.
Perhaps more to the point
folks can leisurely pass over
some idle hours
between breakfast and lunch.
On a summer evening
your long shadow
can walk over the park
in a few strides.
You may recall then that all your steps
have been
bridges over time,
a landscaping of a life -
and just a walk in the park.
Limpid sprinting waters of burbling brooks
Rows of flamboyant and swishing dark green pines
Embellished with glowing verdure on sidelines
Tender and flushed buds aglow with rich looks
The dense clouds have descended on the earth
Little fluffy white wisps of dreamy visions
Natural splendour with divine collisions
What a splendid mountain view, beyond worth!
Craggy hillocks covered with the snow quark
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever!"
Hark back locale to recall for whomever
A lovely photograph of nature park!
Placed : 1st
Collab with Jo Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joanna Daniel
Date: 01-05-2023
Syllable count: 10.11.11.10
My horse's haunches sway,
Saunter up hillocks and down a valley path,
Above a ridge off and on: a village where some people fish,
Phosphorescent flotsam washed ashore.
Green embers breathe as if through shriveled lungs.
Wax in contrast to the gloaming dark that's coming on.
Shrubbery shadows lengthen, enlarging blacknesses.
Crickets ratchet down their temperatures.
The earth cools in wan mirage.
Time lapsed, the stars make
A slow, quiet carousel of lights.
It circles far above us disengaged.
Wings of crows scoop pools of air,
Then dive down open maws
On tiny, furred crawlers shocked stock still.
Crows chalk their caws across the night.
A copse will grow into a stand of oaks.
The vintage children like to climb.
Gnarled limbs reminding them of fiction sailing ships.
Hand over fist to where the topmost rigging is.
For now, people and trees are bottled tiny on a shelf.
At dry dock like some whittled models are.
Until the oak is christened keel and frame
And of agers live lives and make their livelihoods at sea. (9/18/22)
Drive at any season gives me immense fun,
I cannot afford many cars; yet, I've good one;
Drive during Fall, indeed, is very enchanting,
Especially, if through village roads, it's joy-granting...
From black-mud surface, dust, like fog arises,
Road seem unclear; yet, adventure provides surprises;
Muddy hillocks both the sides stand in welcome poses,
Bend tree-branches with twigs show-off their stiff noses;
Leaves, in multi-colors, are spread like fancy-carpets,
Grasses, peeping between leaves, seem to scatter in tit-bits;
Silk-cottons, bottle-brushes and fountain-trees exhibit red,
The Indian laburnum and golden bells seem gold-yellow-spread;
Magnolia, crape myrtle and crab-apples shine in pink,
While Rhododendrons and Wisteria stand dipped in blue-ink...
My car Air Conditioner is jobless as cool breeze all round blow,
End of colorful meadows, I could see clear streams flow;
With variety signatures of sun, the sky is magnificent,
I wish my drive could go on for years and eras without end...!
09 September 2022
Rabbit Hill
We ramble
In the evening
Killing time before
The storm
When we stumble
Through a gateway
To a field
Or someone's lawn.
There are hillocks
Giving flashes
Of bobtails
Hopping by
And with burrows
Peppered neatly
And so pleasing
To the eye
So my daughter
Is in heaven
And her mind
Begins to scheme
As her favourite
Creature flickers
In some
Bunny-laden dream
I guess
We'll be returning
As the daughter-pleasing
Pledge
Tumbles from my lips
A promise:
"To this kingdom of the rabbit;
We will furnish them with veg."
Jinjagoliath
19th August 2022
I've searched nearby hillocks and sand.
They've gone missing sooner than late:
no wildflowers to perk barren land,
gypsy flowers by garden gate.
Where are those tiny violets
that snuggled closely to the ground;
yellows that smiled to all they met,
iris-hued daisies always found?
Blossoms dipped in a sunset's peach
once caressed my garden's rock wall.
And, tangled beside, in their reach
trumpet vines, crimson-red and tall.
Drought escorted seasons' changing,
yet we missed blossoms' frantic call.
This summer passed rearranging
joy with no wildflowers at all.
August 10, 2022
Slowly descends pall of death
And dies the old faith,
Life gasps for last of life-breath,
Where a green meadow
Once was, rules death’s dark shadow.
______________________________
Tanka |31.05.2021|
Poet’s note: After a long, long time I had visited my old village. And what I saw caused me a shock. The green hillocks around had turned barren showing grey rocks. What ere a verdant valley was had nigh but gone, nearby meadows no less grey. Like all Tanka poems, this one has five lines, but the syllables are in different order: 7/5/7/5/7 in place of the usual 5/7/5/7/7.
A trip to Wales
I was driving among hillocks; the landscape was green
it was spring and sheep-dipped in coal dust, grazed
with their offspring
Parked near a pub in a hamlet, it had a name
I could not get my tongue around it and enter
into a dark interior.
The few customers ignored me yet eyed me
perhaps they thought I was English looking to buy a cottage.
I drank powder coffee in a sea of Welshness
my foreignness disturbed me
and the locals.
I left.
I
Teeth sparkle, need care
Green hillocks under speckled sky
Profile picture dazzles
II
Weekend morn, but at dawn
I see brighter reds, rising hues
She sleeps: shalom rest
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