We often take for granted
What’s familiar in our world,
Without the need to wave the flag
We rarely have unfurled.
Yet tourists sometimes help us see
How fortunate we are.
By looking through their eyes we know
How high we’ve set the bar.
I spent the day in Central Park,
New York’s most precious jewel,
Though many locals get there
Not too often, as a rule.
Our visitor from out of town,
Amazed at all the trees,
Made me recognize the beauty
Landscaped perfectly to please.
The shady walks, musicians
And the turtles in the pond,
Plus the people-watching chances
Took us to a place beyond
All the urban sights we pass each day,
Infusing them with magic.
Taking Central Park for granted
Is not very short of tragic.
Autumn is gilded with bucolic hues.
Fawn feathered birds wing in indigo skies.
Burnished umbers and rusts imbued with blues
on a landscaped palette, my eyes apprise.
Nature's artistry paints without a brush,
Autumn skies imbued with landscaped artistry.
Inspired by 'The Gilded Season' posted 11/10/23.
Yesteryear, dreams as promises perched on my pillow. Faithscapes
were landscaped with dream manifestations. Yet, arrival was aloof
to youthful years when I lacked fears and my strength was of infinite,
eager length. Now, in my winter, I often sight dream chances. How
cruel time is to deliver dream possibility slivers in winter when one's
vitality is history and old age, a reality!
229.
My 38th Leaf
Got thee at toe high
While newly arrived
Ornamental plant
Small and violet
This one I don't know!
Owned by academe
UP Visayas
Of town of Miagao
I'm still with students
Who are on field trip
Just been oriented
Then picture-taking
About nine-fifty
Day twenty-seventh
Of month September
At the very front
Of the Oblation
At the New Admin.
Of UP Miagao
A landscaped area
This I must get too
‘Coz it's a token
From where I was once
Everyday in life
I feel very glad!
-09/27/2013
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection
228.
My 37th Leaf
Got thee at breast high
While newly arrived
A flowering plant
But has no odor
It's a “yellow bell”!
Owned by religious
The Catholic Church
Of town of Miagao
I'm with Vet. Med. II
And BEEd II
Just finished raining
A cloudy morning
About nine-fifteen
Day twenty-seventh
Of month September
Right facing the front
Of quaint Miagao Church
A landscaped area
Near the tall pillar
With yellow flowers
Of course I must get
A leaf from a place
Where I was once part
When I'm in college
Oh how my heart jumps?!
-09/27/2013
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection
CONTEMPLATION OF NATURE-:-
reflective
mirrors66
explore
encoded
illusions
in SUBTLE HINTS
relative
gloom
contrasts
initiated
elements
where IMPELLED MEASURES
landscaped
intense
dramatic
fringe
spectaculars
Rock salted fields hard-by thwacking sea's
shorelines of wave-shaved boulders
a fluidity that mimics an oceans alien speech.
The fractured artifacts of tribal migrations
roll in the surf as grains of an ancient sand,
there are hints and a sense of raw faiths,
of the obscure paint of submerged visages,
facets only visible
through the eroded lens of a former doom.
On these shifting margins,
insipient nations as naked as any roaming wind
declined amidst their own young bones,
laying down to wither away in exhausted camps.
Rinsed by a ceaseless ebb and flow,
the stonewashed threads of the bygone
suggest landscaped formations
of humanity.
We have seen the rise and fall of the scattered,
their cultures a supposition of burnt offerings,
yet we should also
confess to a towering significance:
one that we estranged settlers
will eventually leave as a jigsaw of watermarks,
or as further innocent signs
of our own barbaric existence.
An anonymous artist had named the painting:
'Bertram Crumm'
it was simply a depiction of a man
trudging over a blank Landscape.
No one had heard of this man,
but this enigmatic fact alone was intriguing,
and now he was perfectly framed.
After many years
an art critic tracked him down.
Crumm claimed to be a meatpacker
who worked in Allen Town,
yet no one could see him as a meatpacker
working in Allen Town.
Some saw nobility in his gait and posture,
some saw a furtive mindset, most declared
emphatically that Crumm was definitely
a poet!
If we had known
that Crumm had often confessed to his family
that he loathed poetry and was indifferent
to art in general
then that landscaped/portrait
would still be gathering dust in a Goodwill shop.
However, a billionaire owns it now,
and ironically,
he also can't write a lick of poetry either.
I step outside, a world of beauty greets me
landscaped gardens, lush leaves on each tree
Yet my stomach feels so queasy
a vague sense of doom leaves me uneasy...
Sans freedom of speech, life is hell
afraid to break a single eggshell
It started with a blank canvas-
just another mid-spring day;
no sun nor rain, or gentle breeze-
an atmosphere so still and gray.
A day in May- a fresh-mowed lawn;
leaf-laden trees, soft velvet green.
Yet, at my window, looking out
no birds or squirrels on the scene.
Then came that rush! The canvas filled
with fear and horror- in one stroke!
Six trees were downed- the roots exposed;
outdoors, unreal- our hearts then broke.
A strong tornado- with wide brush,
painted a jungle at our home;
blocking our house and driveway too-
we felt so trapped, nowhere to roam.
The twisted limbs and branches lay
like pythons in the throes of war.
And splintered tree trunks stood in shock
as landscaped beauty was no more.
Stretched out, a canvas of distress;
strewn damaged trunks and tangled limbs.
How one tornado- wild and free,
repainted life at nature's whims.
In parts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire
there are still pit-valleys,
where industry and nature collide,
marry, and have their natural born children.
The earth once gouged, raped and laid desolate,
is landscaped by those who once despoiled.
Time plays its part, plants its seeds,
it up-roots high piled slagheaps,
softens broken mountains of concrete.
I have walked these valleys,
in some I had to stumble over the fractured bones
of abandoned and rusting machinery;
the fire scorched detritus of coal mines.
I have also strolled through resurrected Eden's,
vales recreated out of the unspeakable
into the bright eloquence of beauty.
The hands of men
and the wings of gardening angels
have covered-up all self-made wounds,
have put to bed the deeply trammeled.
The Lord of daisies and daffodils
strolls unmolested once more,
through the worst and the best
that good intentions can do.
Summer's green vistas sang a farewell tune
as bare limbs gently swayed in a chill wind.
It swept o'er hills, beneath a harvest moon,
filching leaves; a theft it could not rescind.
Autumn is gilded with bucolic hues.
Fawn feathered birds wing in indigo skies.
Burnished umbers and rusts imbued with blues
on a landscaped palette, my eyes apprise.
Nature's artistry paints without a brush,
picturesque valleys in ginger and gold.
Rouged in the season of red crimson blush.
Fall's grandeur provides bright scenes to behold.
Vivid, the months when from mountain to sea,
they're washed in beauty's prismatic esprit.
OUTLOOKS
A shifting
play of angles
multilayered
that morph
into
landscaped
abstractions
already
enmeshed
about to
embark
the density
dissipates time
with
lights
&sounds
flickering
thr awake
hushed
&enshrined
by the curious
white seeps
through
from underneath
a blossoming
light from memory
that glimpse
of nature
blurs
the boundary
between
temporarlilty
& the transient
becomes
the frame
to inhabits it
to savour
every
fleeting
element
Midst those the second viewed heaven;
Blue based white clouds drifting floating;
Pageantry of coral blues hues;
Greenery trees stance tall seven;
Waves of curling flows waves boating;
Early morning viewing grounds dew;
Those breeze pushes waters session;
Toward my mind heart eyes coding;
So esthetic blue, whites, green view;
Rushing to me stream waves weapon;
Eye gate viewed scene brilliant growing’
Mountain ranged background hangs down dew;
Picturesque, flowing painted earth;
Sculpturesque, landscaped visage worth;
6/24/23
Trilonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Picture #2.
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 8 8 8 0 8 8 8 0 8 8 8 0 8 8 8 0 8 8
Total # Syllables: 112
Total # Lines: 18 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 76
Today, all is landscaped by mist.
North, South, East, and West
all are one floating sea.
The hedgerows are reefs,
a familiar tree-line
seems like a gray cliff face.
My own face
feels as if swept over
by a tidal spume.
Now a kitchen radio is turned on,
a truck blasts its air-horn, a child shouts,
and as if the sun were only now roused
to scatter ocean dreams
with a newly rinsed
and blotting wind.
Sub Categories
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