My mind wanders into an idyllic realm
Pristine rosebuds are waiting for sunshine
Within the zen of a dawning magenta meadow
In the midst of our stressful, cheerful lives
At the moon's outermost rim of silvery light.
Spring blooms adorned the rusty fabric of fall
A willow tree forms a cherry blossom labyrinth
Jasmine-scented breezes blow across the park.
A sweet prayer was as flimsy as a rose in a dream
Starlight berry flavors arranged for the dawn crack
Glide into a rosy lacework of delicate undertones
In dreams, unite my slinky and tallied soul.
Written: May 1st, 2023
Rose Meadow Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
A stroll down Paris city's wet streets.
So, romantic as the Eiffel Tower comes to view.
Vendors line up selling their wares out of carts.
Some shouting, "one euro, one euro only.
The aroma and vibrant colors of seasonal flowers
In buckets, reds, blues, pinks and orange sherbet.
Colorful umbrellas tower
For shade of passer-buyers
In the youthful sunny hours
And the cool refreshing showers.
Evergreen trees so green and proud.
Other trees, bare limbs, leaves dangle tight,
While others drift from the wind thief,
And crunched beneath passerby feet.
Streetlamps a lite as the moon starts to rise,
Still the city streets are full of busy activity.
The sound of the trotting horses
Pulling carriages up and down the main road.
Dizzying lacework of simplicity of life.
10/11/2022
PS, never have been out of the United States.
My soul is torn in two,
in this tangled web of chaos,
trapped in this tomb's spiders lacework
in anguish and despair.
Dare I run,
hide in shadowed alleys?
If, my soul will just assent
to a haven of order?
11/18/2021
Soul Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
She marks another birthday
by planting a flowering annual in a pot,
a forget-me-not for her forgetful mind.
Nowadays she primes herself
using visuals to clarify memories.
If at dawn, a pale moon lingers long enough
to marry a rising sun, she will dance alone,
a slow crazy dance, up in her high tower,
from there she can look across the rooftops
imagining routes and paths taken
the dwellings and bygone times, the loves,
that bloomed and wilted in that city
where she lived out her story.
Wide boulevards and dank back alleys
are stitched into a lacework of recollections;
some structures no longer there
return as landscapes printed on tissue paper.
She sees herself as a girl, a younger woman,
never as she is now.
If a bloom wilts before the years end,
she will sit by her upper window
looking for the morning sun to ignite
the pale moon of her eyes.
Then only does she dance -
her slow potted flower dance.
Gracious old stone homes, lofty rooms full of nooks and crannies
Snoe-white linen and antimacassars embroidered by our grannies
Cool wide verandahs, wrought-iron lacework draped with wisteria
Old fashioned cooking smells wafting from the kitchen, the hub of the interior
A grandfather clock ticking in the hall
Horses hooves on cobblestones, at each house they used to call
Sweetly perfumed gardens, fruit trees, shrubs, and fragrant flowers
Winding paths that lead to nowhere and a swing to while away the hours
Old stone laundry where the weekly wash was done
Spotless clothes and billowing sheets bleached by the summer sun
Sounds of a piano, or a wireless
Children playing in a nearby lane, seemingly tireless
Neighbours in their gardens, chatting over the fence
Everything in Grandma's day had an air of innocence
I feel so nostalgic now in this age of technology
If I could have a choice, I know where I should love to be
In a gracious old stone home
With rooms full of nooks and crannies
Cool wide verandahs and fragrant garden,
Exactly like my Grannies
FOREST LOVE
As a melody felt in its first notes,
I caught the perfume of her soul pouring
Through the lacework of snow-covered branches.
The beats of my heart played a measure
Among the tapestry of the gods -
Spirit freeing semibreves
In the arms of white decoration.
Wherever the moonlight touches
Meadow or oft tread dale
Little, grey rabbits and birds
Each morning tell the tale
Of how, during the long night
The land took on a softer shade,
And even the humble mushrooms
Seemed to shine within the glade;
Silken lacework of each web
Glistened with strands, dewy-pearled;
And a faint, cool, bluish mist
Around trees slowly swirled
Just before the warm sunshine
Chased the moonlight away.
So, if you listen quite carefully
You might hear those birds say
Praiseworthy things to rabbits
About what happened over night,
Excited at what had resulted
From the softest touch of moonlight.
In this tangled web of chaos,
trying to untangle my being
of this spider's lacework;
if my soul will just assent
to a haven of order.
11/2/2014
The master weaver weaves his web
Immune to weather’s flow and ebb.
Unseen for nine months of the year
This diamond-studded lacework here
No tasty morsel trapped, I think,
But dainty dewdrops sweet to drink;
Condensed from early Autumn mist
The wondrous web with moisture, kissed,
Like beads of mercury, perfect spheres
In which a micro-world appears.
O Spider with your legs so thin,
Who, may I ask, taught you to spin
Such a delicate and light affair
Suspended in the morning air ?
A microscopic arachnid
tinier than a poppy seed
spins diminutive filaments
barely visible to the eye;
a spiral silk lacework deathtrap
for infinitesimal prey
strung high between white cornered walls
in a microcosmical world.
Is its existence more trifling
than mine that occupies more space?
Perhaps not, in the scheme of things:
my universe among the stars
is imperceptibly smaller
than this occupants’ in my room.
Wherever the moonlight touches
Meadow or oft tread dale
Little, grey rabbits and birds
Each morning tell the tale
Of how, during the long night
The land took on a softer shade,
And even the humble mushrooms
Seemed to shine within the glade;
Silken lacework of each web
Glistened with strands, dewy-pearled;
And a faint, cool, bluish mist
Around trees slowly swirled
Just before the warm sunshine
Chased the moonlight away.
So, if you listen quite carefully
You might hear those birds say
Praiseworthy things to rabbits
About what happened over night,
Excited at what had resulted
From the softest touch of moonlight.
Wherever the moonlight touches
Meadow or oft tread dale
Little, grey rabbits and birds
Each morning tell the tale
Of how, during the long night
The land took on a softer shade,
And even the humble mushrooms
Seemed to shine within the glade;
Silken lacework of each web
Glistened with strands, dewy-pearled;
And a faint, cool, bluish mist
Around trees slowly swirled
Just before the warm sunshine
Chased the moonlight away.
So, if you listen quite carefully
You might hear those birds say
Praiseworthy things to rabbits
About what happened over night,
Excited at what had resulted
From the softest touch of moonlight.
Wonder, is love of
snowflake transience?
As delicate as ice
webbed of lacework elegance?
To breathe upon it's
fragile body essence,
to melt it in micro seconds.
To hold it in a palm,
glimpse the complexity,
dissolving almost instantly.
And yet the memory
perfect and pristine.
Held in the heart of hearts,
of all there's ever been.
For love and snowflakes
share a common theme.
Neither one forgotten
once either has been seen.
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