One among many, a leaf in a wood
All together forming a verdant shade
Where lovers meet to be gently wooed
Sweetened by birdsong in that leafy glade
One among many ,a tree in a forest
All together providing for wildlife
Where its creatures can find food and take rest
Their calm pierced by infrequent bouts of strife
All among so many , they breathe out joy
For those who revel in their wholesome scent
Such is the great pleasure of those so coy
Forests are intended to be so meant
Those palaces of nature formed by God
Are places where we should worship our Lord
April rain comes hastily,
unexpectedly, like the fleeing rogues of
flaming, crackling farms, clattering on the
roofs of waylaid shelters on
the roads of banishment —
uncompromised,
singing light songs from a
heavy-storming sky band, grey and grieving.
Follow in the footsteps of April rain —
so light, so infrequent, and cautious,
though it rains down thin spikes of
frazzled water, young and ravenous,
for the initiation of roaming soils.
Avoiding the girl-scouts
I hasten out of the store
trying hard not to see the people
huddled in their thin coats
as they wait for an infrequent bus.
This ice-chilled evening
with its stark revelations
is like the nag of an irregular heartbeat
sheathed like a thorn in my shoe.
Later, by a warm fire
sitting in an upholstered armchair,
a despondency chews at my breastbone,
it is a reaction hard to pin down,
to objectify,
a lingering presence.
My mind shifts through a symbolic iconography
effigies depicting:
a lost and hungry dog,
an ill-treated child,
a stranger I refuse to call brother,
places long deserted,
places found far too late.
A love unpicked from a now withering vine.
That same presence
sets a table and chair before me
that I may write, try to explain
this tumbleweed of unnamable sorrows,
a phantom, that even in happier times,
I recognize it as a coarse impression
akin to a grating scar
beneath a tender tongue.
Tomorrow may emerge as a frail old lady,
struggling with full shopping bags,
head bent to a cold uncaring wind.
Many might offer her a lift
but in my present brittle mood
I probably would frighten her,
so,
I don’t.
Old means sudden pain of unknown origin.
Fluency of mind becomes like a foreigner.
Old means the circle has shrunk to a point.
Old is ignored, like a newly minted orphan.
Old is when the glitter of friendships fades away.
The aloofness of acquaintance retreats into its haze.
Old is a black-veiled wolf cooing like a virgin sage.
Old is the white crow cawing down the final days.
Old is dusty gray and a mountain lake so cold...
The crippled myth is that it's crafted out of gold.
Old is infinite goodbyes and infrequent hellos.
Old inhales its ashes, then is etched onto stone...
Old is both a satin blessing and a burlap curse.
After all, we could have perished well before our birth.
Old is not for the thinly veined nor the pastel-hearted.
Old recalls that wide-eyed child curled up inside the dark.
I was as a tree seedling
Trying to grow on a steep, stony mountainside
Very little soil or moisture
Sometimes the harsh wind blew in some dirt
Infrequent rain barely quenched my thirst
I grew no bigger than a bonsai
Each day a struggle to keep my spirit alive
I tried to help the creatures that came near me
But I had too few leaves to give much shelter
And I could not produce enough food
So they moved on
Leaving me lonely
Then came a time that someone saw me
With true love and compassion
He understood my potential
That I longed to be a sheltering home
To others who struggled with life
So he dug me out of the strangling rocks
He took me home and planted me
In a beautiful lush garden
Fed and nourished me
I never lacked for water
I grew and learnt to love myself
As I was loved by him
I was able to nurture so many
Because I had become
That which I was meant to be
A tall and stately tree
Giving shade and shelter to all
No longer a tiny, tortured bonsai
She blossoms when she's rising
Her heart and soul coloured
Complexities many, yet distant
Embracing each moment, briefly
Infrequent and often entwined
Talking minds not hearts
How she yearned for chance
Shielding under full exposure
No light there to guide
On her knees took day down
Grey shadows made seen
An epiphany never forgotten
History circles the mind image
Chess board askew the table
Turns, run out and resigns
As the cold light of day hits
Darkness falls once more
Rejected body and wholeness
Directions to future plans void
Living her life on life's terms
Acceptance...her only answer
My mind is infrequent
Not eloquent... I guess.
Your mind is a bottle
Amused at the thrill of what?
Smoke clouds unused..
Problems askewed.
Deep wrenching can't stand me's
And nothing to lose.
It's fire?
It's yours?
I try to unbox?
I'm amused
In a sense of collapse.
You're standing with a new shot. It's a bone...
Severed.
Unusually brittle.
A stone skipped on water.
Exciting, but belittled
Ready, 3...2..1
A secret.. treasured.
The lure of the sea
is a mixed bag for sure;
when you’ve got the bug,
there’s simply no cure.
On a rough day, when it’s stormy,
like a magical spell,
but watch out on those warm days,
with the long, rolling swells.
With the wind in your hair
and the spray in your face,
the whitecaps keep you busy
at a frenetic pace.
But when you hit the doldrums,
with a glassy, calm sheen,
it’s those infrequent rollers
that will turn your face green.
----------
H/T to Gershon Wolf for his poem by the same name which got me reminiscing about sailing with my father...
Cherishing The Triumphs of others,
Ready for their suicidal orders:
Spellbound by their Astonishing Peaks,
These discussing for tireless weeks:
The Tall Mountains France has ascended,
In their praises lowly descended …
Marvelous ideas of US Tribes,
Whereas they can challenge their own scribes;
World Bests’ become their Third Cousins,
Only last week with them tasty cuisines
New Types Good Morning at 6:00am
Man City shall Chelsea serve Bad Yam
Or, it has not been The Infrequent:
BARCA has huge faith that doesn’t faint!
And it has been a commendation:
The Gooks’ Breakthrough and Mediation,
Their Steadfast Wondrous Technology
And luck with Global Synergy;
A mockery of their own delays
In the running of The Spread-out Relays
Their own strides hurting with crossed fingers ...
Improvement on Hand-Made Bombs lingers.
Every defeat and sorrow takes a chunk of heart
Time spent bridging cracks-soothing scars.
Infrequent visits to overgrown graves
cackling to a God that never answers back
navigating secondhand soulmates- third-rate jobs
dusting off old habits to fill lonely days.
Eventually we'll shuffle around this cold world
toting heavy- cauliflower hearts.
Deformed from many-many blows
The heart boat inherits many cracks.
Needs constant bailing and patching.
Salt water always wins in the end.
Where strong and sturdy currents flowed
In rhythms like the march,
There stood majestic girders
In a towering silver arch.
With pride, the span was erected
Above the swollen run,
Where it caught infrequent glances
From a feeble winter sun.
The currents seldom paused below
To give the bridge a care;
But through the years they granted
Its lumbering presence there.
It shuddered at the heavy loads
That strained its cabled line;
It trembled when the monstrous rigs
Crept hard across its spine.
Then pushed to utter exhaustion
By the crowded holiday,
The bridge exhaled its final sigh
And vanished clean away.
The river moans a painful dirge
For cold and still and dead
Beneath the phantom silver bridge,
The gushing flood is red.
Gurgling, whimpering, lapping near
The feet of those who wait;
The waters pen a ballad on
The cruelty of fate.
You're my Knight and I'm you're Lady
a medieval flash in time not maybe
your nobility conquers any quest
with armor and sword dressed
Remove all apparel you need it not
for you've won the battle you have fought
leave your saber in the stone
magic comes from inside hence thrown
And the ruler will also disarm
to you I'd never harm
defenseless you are to exalt
cavalier without assault
Our virtue exposes all infrequent prosperity
excluding obnoxious barbarity
Your lord and vassal can retreat to isolation
drop coif and shield and leave all avocation
sensitive awareness
being there
showing concern
in a voice of love
rooted in scripture
oracles
episodic or
infrequent
divine interventions
on His initiative
Spirit inspired
words undistilled
heaven-sent
then spoken
this voice of the Lord
an essence
to take in
dwell upon
assimulate
&
then
remember
a perfect revelation
a simple word
foundations of truth
a process
made manifest
visibly expressed
a continuity
of personhood
in recognisable form
a body remade
transformed
recreated
sealed clothes
washed linen
in
heavenly wear
a perfect robe
in readiness
face-to-face
with passing moments
of loving concern
as wisdom finds a solution
for the flowers
of the seed
As the years where long, the wind a wild howl, for as sweet nature smelled, she was the wicked within the storm, then the cause of the calm. She breathed in loneliness and exhaled the truth of it, absolution, she bore the mark proudly.
To be limitless as the untamed, feral in nature.
To be as bitterly sweet as Belladonna, the alluring beauty deadly.
To be as nefarious as the sinful, yet wholesome and intact.
Desire, a plaguing reminder.
Humanity itself unwelcoming and hostile.
She preferred the isolation of clattering thunderstorms, wicked thrashes from rain clouds, the hammer of belting thunder and the fury of flashing lighting. Her preference was all things unearthly.
Kindred spirits infrequent, perhaps enjoying the same seclusion she experienced daily, in a wondering mind of magnificent tales, untold by sealed lips forever bound with secrecy in a smile.
As infrequent a visitor
hayrides through haunted woods are
to the segregate’s prison of elm and oak
is the sliver of Ray-ban hope
I used to count on
for steady supplies of vegetation
on my salad plate,
overgrown now with yellow seed
blossoming dollops of strawberry preservative.
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