Long Meadow Poems
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The rain speaks softly of forgotten dreams.
Those grand plans that are quietly put away.
People become busy waiting for their ship to come in.
The time passes like greased lightning, and still no ship.
Did we waste our time, waiting for something better?
Maybe we killed a little bit more time than we meant to.
What of all the hours observing the ethereal beauty here?
The draping of the sunset, the early drama of the dawn.
Wildflowers in a meadow, the silence of the high desert.
We never found our fortune, yet we changed the world.
A world lived in that ten miles from where you were born.
Yes, and we too are changed, for each day we live anew.
Until we stand as giants in the measure of what we know.
This is the mind set of the brave, and of those who are free.
For many are the lives that fought for our liberty, dear souls.
let us revere the hero's who died that we might have more.
That we might prove a single person can change the world.
Once I looked up and the stars said, "soon you too will shine!"
As Leaves of papered gold fall from the trees of autumn.
A great spirit dreams of children, falling softly to the earth!
date: 1/12/2019
DIRT FROM THE CORNERS OF THE CASTLE
WERE SAID TO BE MAGIC
PIXIEDUST AND PUSSYWILLOW POLLEN COULD
BE REMEDY FOR LONILNESS
THEY MADE BROOMS FROM THE SAGES AMONG THE FEILDS
THE MEADOW GRASS WHERE BOUND TOGETHER
AND USED TO
REMOVE THE DUST FROM THESE EDGES
AND GATHER POLLEN FROM THE PUSSYWILLOW TREES
THEN THEY PLACED IN BAGS AND SOLD TO
PEOPLE WHO WANTED LOVE
THEY'D PUT IT BEHIND THE EARS
OF THERE CHOSEN LOVER
AND THEN THE MAGIC WOULD
CAUSE THEM TO LOVE.
THE PUSSYWILLOW POLLEN WOULD
AND THE DUST COULD ONLY BE MAGIC
IF THE CREATER USED A FEILDSAGE BROOM, AND
A TUSK OF A WALRUS,
THEY CARVED SPOONS FROM THE
TUSK AND THESE SPOONS HAD MAGICAL POWERS!
A clamorous stream of jar fly voices punctuates the dusky air,
their timbale orchestra madly vibrating raucous sound.
Hand brushing hand, we stand in the garden’s waning light,
where fall’s pungent, spicy extracts flick from curling dry-leaf tongues,
needling tears that veil your tender gaze.
We are burning the nightshade garden, clearing summer’s fading feast,
our fires lanterns on a hallowed meadow eve;
sharp scented, sinewy tomato plants pitched to hungry flames hiss like snakes,
the stray fruits sizzling, then exploding in bursts of juicy seed.
You lean toward me and shadowed silhouettes twine together like old vines.
Copyright, September 15, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
Worshipping in Nature's Sanctuary
by L. Milton Hankins
Johnny-Jump-Ups nestle into the forest floor mosses,
Along with dainty Jack-in-the-Pulpits hiding beneath
The larger fronds of swampy ferns soaking up moisture
From the dew-laden flowering branches of laurel
Where I find myself dreaming in the verdant woodland,
Edging the meadow beyond the cluttered beaver stand.
A canopy of vine-entangled branches, a vault-like nave,
Provides a sanctuary of sacred candles dimmed for mass
A pew-less haven for wounded souls, and tiny chipmunks,
Who scurry to find isolated spots for quiet meditation
While grebes and gallinules make up the choir ensemble;
A purple swamphen takes up the guttural baritone line.
The late morning is mine, sitting along the narrow trail
In a cross-legged yoga pose with arms across my knees,
Soaking up the faint sweet smells of sassafras and pine
And slipping into what I sometimes call my “blue funk”
Where nothing on earth matters outside this quiet shelter,
Dozing softly, I dream of a utopian sweet, elusive peace.
Submitted to the In Honor Of Milt - An Un-Contest Poetry Contest
sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
Of the many poems composed by Milt, this one remains one of my favorites. Milt was a spiritual man, and this side of him often came out in his poems. Here he impresses upon the reader the haven of peace that nature can provide, in this case likened to a church sanctuary. He carefully weaves the imagery of one into the other with his word choices: nave, sanctuary, sacred candles, pew-less haven, meditation, and the choir references. His influence upon my writing is to seek images and metaphors from nature to help describe spiritual concepts in language that is readily accessible. I am grateful for Milt's life, poetry, and encouragement, and he will long be remembered.
They told me stories about this field
They said that even facing defeat the warriors would not yield
The meadow bank and the low land grass
Where men with swords faced up to the attack
Where green soon turned to a crimson ooze
Where birdsong was lost in the screaming music
The field holds an echo to a lost time in the past
Where men would kill or die, walk away or remain here to last
A still fear is in the air, a wet sludge on dry grass!
Out of the corner of your eye, a glimpse of heavily armed men on horseback!
Even now as the moon light sees the end of a day
Sounds are still heard, blades still scrape, thunder charges through the ground where dead spirits lay.
He is truly divine,
This heart of mine!
He's my oldest friend,
And a friend to the end.
The Master of glory;
And the bible's story.
One of peace and love,
And blessing from above.
The rose petals open,
To let the sun pour in;
And all nature awakes,
To the joy He makes!
The love that He brings,
Makes church bells ring!
Radiant Mr. Sunshine,
You are on my mind.
He is peace in turmoil;
And makes evil recoil.
Only goodness in the love,
That heaven's made of!
We live by His Word,
For His word we heard.
He lights up the soul,
When heaven's the goal!
No need to ever worry,
He lately comes early;
And His miracle once sent,
Can alter every event.
Merciful Mr. Sunshine,
You shine all the time!
And are a friend in need
And help me to succeed.
A true lover of hearts,
And where beauty starts.
Also a lover of nature,
With its wonders so pure.
Grand destiny's doer and-
The Man with the plan.
Consequential Mr. Sunshine,
You are on my mind.
A soul's steady seeker,
And earth shaking teacher.
A love when so flowering,
Must become overpowering!
Gracious Mr. Sunshine,
Brightest light of mine,
With whose helping hand,
I am ever able to stand.
He is in the dawn meadow,
And the hued sunset glow,
And knows love's passion,
And endless compassion!
Such a heavenly radiance,
Is the benevolent advance,
And so unearthly bright,
When we are in His sight.
Though troubles may call,
I stumble and do not fall;
For He solely has the power,
To resolve any unhappy hour.
By His grace, a love supreme,
And birdsong in the ravine,
And green gardens all around,
Alluring to sight and sound!
The necter of Gods garden
is the essence of our love
come let us inhale deeply
of her perfume
let us cultivate together
the colors
of its bed
In unity plant its seedlings
and tend her germinations
let us extract the fragrances
and robe our lives
in the sweetness of her care
kissed with her fruits
and her bouquet
how comely are her furrows
whose plantings are of love
a balm and ointment to sooth
her place of rest for all the
weary
ambrosia is her drink
and incense is her prayer
she supplies our chalices with joy
as does a spring meadow
gather her blossoms
and decorate your halls
and banquet together
in the produce of her fields
for she brings forth richly
from the storehouses of her wealth
Come pluck her fruit
and drink of her presses
her cistern flows saps of maples
and within her the tastes are sweet
source Song of Solomon
COPYRIGHT © 2011
On a gleaming evening in mid-July
You run in the flushing meadow
As the south winds blow threads of silk
Swirling in your disheveled hair softly
Stray strands on your face
Design glowing lattice of grace
Capturing the colors of the chromatic sky
Flushed face caresses the floating leaves as they fly
That’s when love weaves mystique motif.
You glisten in the golden gleam of twilight
Your smile a slender sliver
Of cloud’s lines of silver
Flushing the sky before the fall of drizzling night
When in the storm surge of yearning
From the longing dust you emerge
Billion drops of rain drip down your crimson cheek
The embrace of your flooded face the fallen leaves seek
That’s when love weaves mystique motif.
You waft with the storm to my halcyon horizon
My window open to the visage of your trail
See you dance in the rhapsody of rain
Your face shines in the azuure lightning before it’s gone
Riding the waves of beguiled gale
Across my fervent sea you sail
Come under the blooming magnolia tree on the shore
Drenched in rains of melted heart it swings in ecstasy
Leaves fall grazing your lips, sweet warmth they carry
That’s when love weaves mystique motif
And I turn into a leaf.
Written : May 17, 2018.
May 29, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice Z
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Faint,
spark,
smothered,
frail flicker,
doused by wanton strafe,
of bogus blitz on firefly swarm,
whose sintered flecks luminous once a mint meadow rash,
fetid stench on sombre marsh morgue deathly plummet in wet woodland, squelching plot interred,
winsome wing glow worm surreal,
larval lantern love, a spring twilight trail flash mate signal in mid-flight flare, haphazard helix of red flame,
lightning mimicry from maiden whose passion quest quenched querulous by nightmarish callous earthling hand clamped coffin dull click, twilight yellow, blue ghost, witching hour green tint spectaclenow grave entombment, mourning planet sheds tears
Oh crushed the buttercups beneath our feet
Hand in hand to walk the sweet green meadow
To hear the lark and nightingale so sweet
Side by side, sit on the stile in shadow
To sing with the tinkle of the small stream
To laugh as the bees fall, sweet nectar filled
Here with you it is more than life’s true dream
A touch of hand, a thigh, leaves me thrilled.
An angel does touch your most loving face
To take you for their own I do believe
But no, not then and yet by who’s good grace
Twas not the time to go or time to grieve
In love a gentle kiss upon the lips.
E’er more the fight to grasp at life he grips
© GG 16/01/2014