Long Sky blue Poems
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Pondering cromulent forms of love
I look around; down, then up combined, as
Scintillia of hope soothes my spine
Supine on mighty force of faith, for
My mine is snug in cool dark chocolate, and
Ethereal lights; sweet solitude and bliss, I have kissed -
Warm canopy of night reminds me of this, as
I celebrate blues... blue sky, blue sea, blues melody.
You may weld primordial walls, but I'll sing, cause
My history is rich beyond slave ships
Rich beyond white houses, white picket fence;
Oh, I'm rich beyond this skin I'm in
Go ahead! weld primordial words; I'd rather sing
I'll warm your walls with nightingale's wit, so
Won't you put asunder aged fears?
Freedom flows from heaven's ineffable joy within,
Won't you share in its dynamism?
*
Entry for C.T. "Four Walls' contest
Ink blue/black clouds
Striated with pink
One hole with sky blue
Invites one to just come on
In right here
Crickets singing their songs of the night
Out of tune and out of time
Roosters start up letting me know day is approaching
See the fire ball of sun on the horizon
Shadowed by the trees
The sun is working miracles
Casting its rays onto the clouds
Coloring the clouds with dog tongue pink
One area has sandy beige like the sand on the beach
Inviting come walk on me dig your toes in
The sun rise today is just a tiny amount
Further south than yesterday
Telling me winter is approaching
Some birds come forth with their early morn chirping
The pines stately lift their arms in praise
This greeting makes today my day
"Fresh rain a gift it leaves, a blending of primary colors on a canvas of blue background. God's blessing." Quote by poet
Fall wind gradually moves beneath eaves,
lacing in one side and out trees and leaves.
Nesting season kindles in the treetops,
bright vivid hues excess of sugars drops.
Outdoor ambient and kind in its spell
crisp breeze tousling foliage pleasant smell.
Gray stout clouds slowly gently mender through
like forceful bullies smothering sky blue.
Shower droplets fall to wet the ground's sleeves;
sun rays weave a rainbow as the rain leaves.
Fill your cup
with the first color you think of
For some, the world is gray
... mine is sky blue
The light you see
when you are in the right state of mind
Mighty mountains
and high up there is the star to find
The freedom to think about a future
with days of different colors
Open the nature's pandora box -
And you will shine stronger and stronger
A new awakening, with values and norms
You will see the magic with your own eyes
Love and happiness is in your heart
08.07.2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Poetically ME THIS PICTURE WHAT CHA SEE
Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
picture # 2
4th place in the contest
The still, early morning crawl
The minutes tick, the hours tock
Hands of Time, marching on
Past the fences, past the farms
Put the mists before my eyes
Put the cobwebs in my mind
Climb the hill at glacial speed
Move with me – deceptively
Reel the line in steadily
So I think it’s you, not me –
Don’t look back, as I am wont
Upon the tapestry you’ve wrought
Painted on vermillion skies
Slowly, slowly passing by
Leaving but a parting trace
Lost in lines upon my face
---
Oh, Hands of Time! Marching on
Your masterpiece is but a con
Disengage – impassively
Even disingenuously
Let the light and landscape fade
As fade they will at close of day
Come for me before the dawn
Before I wake to find you gone
Taking from the blue sky blue
The breath I once had held for you
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
On a Michigan farmer Saturday
in August,
anticipating tomorrow's evangelical Sabbath,
When late summer vacations
invoke house cleaning chores
unusually light,
Heading outside after lunch
into this spectacularly breezy
billowing cumulus clouds
in-between radiant sky blue
infinite wonder
Into this awesomely long leisurely afternoon
becoming one of those farm kids
sent out to rediscover solitary play
while Mom clears HER kitchen
to fill grateful mouths and noses
with impossible fragrance
of Sunday dinner rhubarb pie
or fresh strawberry shortcake,
whipping vanilla or banana cream
while boiling sweet yellow corn,
baking mac and ancient cheddar cheese
for this evening's pre-dusk compline dinner.
On this first summer celebrating Saturday
of low humidity
and temperatures predicting September seventies
Out past our red barn
past its barnyard lily pond
into golden stubbled hay fields
sheared sexy contoured place
of my temporarily uncloseted gay imaginings
hoping for God's grace face
smiling sabbath of sensually healthy return
Continuing on
to private green cool woodland
to nakedly climb a favorite tree
skin to naked bark,
full-bodied embrace
of this fabulous shared EarthLife
transparent
open
strong
yet breezy free flexibility
with inclusive messianic hope.
Out to play,
and pray
this day
and final month
of vacation re-creation
will never end
Or end,
if time must continue,
in moonlit radiant peace,
night dreams
restoring righteousness
into perfect summer Sabbath.
To all my friends and family
Gathered ‘round this earth;
Words cannot contain these thoughts
Of all your love and worth.
From sky to ground and all around
From birth to dust and ash;
I wish we had more time together
As in our felicitous, by-gone past.
Such as the days we laughed and played
And danced in the wild, wild breeze;
Flying kites and taking hikes
From high hills to the sea.
When grass was green as any dream
And the trees we climbed were tall;
Touching sky-blue I can still see you
And hear the whippoorwill’s call.
While those of you who hardly knew
The man that I became;
The fault’s all mine throughout the time
I played such foolish games.
From sunup to sundown again
Through countless nights and days;
Despite the endless miles between us
There’s little left to say.
To bring back time lost long ago
Like water in a mountain stream;
I wish that I could turn it ‘round
And bring you back to me.
But time’s now gone as if a song
Sung once by birds that flew;
Pointing us back home again
To that place we all once knew.
And I pray we find again some when
In this world or just beyond;
Until then, God keep you safe and warm
Cradled, in His loving arms.
One never knows how far we’ll go
Today, tomorrow, next year;
As memories of those we love and miss
Become immeasurably more dear.
she often appears in his dreams
wearing pink carnations and other flowers
those sky blue eyes staring through him
he cannot stop looking at her pink red lips
she is prettier in death than she had ever been in life
a woman who is forever twenty-two
he stares at her alabaster skin
those eyes stare back and tear into his soul
I am sorry, he tells her, I should have never been driving drunk.
the blame has stolen his life for the past twenty years
she puts her pointer finger to her lips
Reassures him, tells him to release his guilt
You are an angel, he whispers, but I am to blame
I need to focus on this, I need to suffer
A soft hand strokes him on the shoulder
She lets him know that she is where she wants to be
She was a marvelous friend, a great co-worker
A terrific listener, and now she is his guardian angel
Release the guilt! She tells him.
This was meant to be.
He has no other choice.
Tears overtake him, he sobs until he feels exo
Beyond the imposing and the high iron gate
The picturesque setting of the Oxford University
Situates the hedonistic oriented Bullingdon Club
Founded more than 200 years ago.
The socially exclusive students get the invitation
To join the Club as its elite members
Many of whom have attained prominence
And position of power in Britain’s political arena.
The ill-famed Club is known for
Its wealthy members and their notorious behavior
Partaking in the boisterous rituals such as
Vandalizing restaurants and students’ rooms.
The Club’s colors are sky blue and shining ivory
Seen on the tailcoats the members wear
For the annual dinner where the drunken revelers
Greet each other chanting “buller, buller, buller”.
The Club has survived the roller-coaster ride
Lurching between frequent recruitment crises
And nearly facing the shut down
But the buller has a way of bouncing back.
The distinctiveness of its haughty members
Reflected in their one-upmanship attitude
Took them to eminence along the tough tracks
The outside world is skeptic about their dubious traits.
____________
April 7, 2023
Contest : Bullingdon Boys
Spoinsored by : Joe Maverick