Long Sun rose Poems
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I was a successful, fashionable florist, in mild green days of elegant gardens,
When an orange sun beamed its pleasure, like locales where lavender begins.
I formed arrangements for many occasions, drawing beauty lovers from afar,
As pretty planets arrange for a meeting, after wild rumors of the newest star.
And crowded hours were filled with summer, like pearly dews crowd morning,
Until ruby butterflies are playing tag, and gemmed damselflies are swarming.
Friends felt I might always be found, in some area of flush bloom fragrancies,
Like raven midnight's march to daybreak, with its warm, varicolored agencies.
Fond family held festive feasts, in fading hours of sparkly, fuchsia sun falling,
As whippoorwill songs clashed with red robin's, midst magenta stars gawking.
I lived in the house of tangy, saturated noon, when flowers were in full glory,
Like the most beautiful day of a woman's life, when a bride she's come to be.
Scarlet, saffron and other hues glittered, within the soulful sector of summer,
As starlings sang songs along my street, and sun rose and retired, a stunner!
Neighbors were nomadized at times, as honeydew moon nestles in new night,
When visiting me on eves of silk and satin, when fresh June was at its height.
Silver clouds were saddled with summer sun, in suddenly days of sweet rose,
Like grey encumbering smoke from autumn fires, when in plum mists it flows.
Raven noon was in green treetops, as the inarticulate ravens were squawking,
And fading time seemed to stand still, but ephemeral moments kept walking.
One day I woke to a gorgeous view from my window, daisies pink and yellow,
In the wide field right next to my house, glowing in the rich, sunshine mellow!
It put such a smile on my face, oh my! Like flocks of pretty blue jays going by,
And I kept seeing daisies everywhere I went, like a pearlescent moon on high!
I beheld African daisies and shasta, and pom pom-like chrysanthemum ones;
Along with fine lustrous gerberas, in all colors found, in wild green kingdoms.
I wondered at my strange, good fortune, in seeing beloved blooms anywhere;
Like the young, butterscotch days when Mother said, 'We're going to the fair!'
For awhile, I saw sweet daisies by day, and it seems I dreamt daisies at night;
Like a brief mystic spell of rapture, when hidden beauty's freed from its plight.
[A classic example of a tale that wouldn’t
Behave itself]
Pilchard the penguin shed icicle tears
He cries at the movies as Christmas time nears
While watching ‘The Snowman’ he claps and he cheers
But cries when the friendly snowman disappears
This year he vows to make one of his own
Although he knows that when it melts he will groan
He hopes he can make one just like in the movie
He’d found a green hat which he thought would be groovy
*
Pilchard the penguin has raked up some snow
He rolled it and that made a big snowball grow
He needed another to make up a head
Round, like the body, but smaller instead
It took quite some time but when he was done
He’d made something quite like the TV boy’s one
Penguin the pilchard said, “That green hat’s magic,
But will he just melt which would be rather tragic?”
Pilchard said, “Penguin, I’ve made him with care,
And magic or not he’ll always be there.
Our new frozen friend may not fly in the air,
But melting away I just couldn’t bare.
“From that TV crew when they beat their retreat,
I’ve used diver’s flippers to act as his feet.
An old plastic funnel will serve as his beak,
This snowman’s a penguin… so to speak.”
Pilchard’s mum called him, “It’s time for your bed,
So get magic penguins right out of your head,
For you’ve seen the movie and that’s a fair warning,
Your big frozen friend could be gone in the morning.”
He told her, “I wanted to fly in the air,
With that frozen penguin I’ve made over there.”
She sent him to bed but she asked one thing more,
“Did you get that hat from my underwear drawer?”
*
But when the sun rose for a chilly new day
The penguin snowman now faced the other way
Penguin the pilchard asked, “Well, did he play?”
Pilchard the penguin said, “I couldn’t say.
“I do know that when the sky turned out the light,
I heard my mum wander down here in the night.
I asked where she went, she was cagey alright,
But somehow, this morning she seems really bright.
“When I made the penguin he wore the green hat,
The TV snowman had a hat just like that.
I can’t figure out why it’s not on his head,
But I saw it this morning near my mother’s bed.”
*
Penguin the Pilchard tried not to guffaw,
“Why has your mum got an underwear drawer?”
Hot Is The Wind
One night can change things forever. Like the night the Americans came. One survivor went through hell to live. When the sirens went off, people pulled blankets over their heads rather than go to the freezing shelters. Then the bombers arrived overhead. They didn't miss.
It was a hauntingly beautiful sight. The city, Tokyo, on fire. Glowing red in the night. Being destroyed by fire bombs. No mercy on the exhausted inhabitants, for it was total war to the death, that cold winter's day.
Those who were quick ran for their lives. They had a chance to live. Taking themselves, a few possessions and fleeing their homes. Traditional Japanese homes of wood and paper, amongst which was small factories. All were targets hit without mercy. That night changed everything. Worst air raid of the entire war. It was justifiable then. And now?
One survivor remembers and fears Japan will fight future wars. Will it be like back then? People treated as 'weeds' with a divine wind saving them? Make the nation strong, don't appease China or anyone else. Arming Japan, new laws to allow war, repressing the population. Step by step to Armageddon.
Saotome remembers the night on fire, a hideous wind, running by the train track as bombs fell. He wanted only to live.
Before dawn they reached the river. When the sun rose, their city was gone. What did being taught to hate, that killing their enemy was right and the 'kamikaze' divine wind would annihilate all before them, achieve? That war was a thief, stealing Saotome's childhood and killing his friends that night.
Japan had to win that war or it would be death and dishonour. When the war was over, the Emperor spoke on the radio. Something unheard of. Would he ask us all to die? Saotome knew their divine wind had forsaken them.
It was March 10 1945. 100,000 people died. Fire bombed by the B-29s. Will politicians who avoid talking about the past lead to apathy and war today?
As Saotome said: "I didn't know if I was really running or if I was in a dream, if I was flying through space. It still gives me goosebumps."
"Those of us who survived have a duty to become a voice for the voiceless."
"If I'm quiet, it means I've accepted the situation. If we don't speak up, the past will be made to disappear."
To The God of Poetry, Gift Thy Loving Kiss
To the God of Poetry, I this beg
extend thy helping hand, reclaim my pen
should we fail, falling to break racing legs
from Poet's heart forgive we mortal men.
Cast thy immense shadow upon mind's thought
We poets know, thy love can not be bought!
To the God of Poetry, this I plead
look deeper into our soul-searching hearts
for there hides, rose-red in the ink we bleed
and beautiful melody in verse we impart.
Cast thy immense shadow upon mind's thought
We poets know, thy love can not be bought!
To the God of Poetry, this I ask
should we weaken, in writing lose our way
shine brighter lights, in love's warmth, let us bask
even if our words are weak, let us stay.
Cast thy immense shadow upon mind's thought
We poets know, thy love can not be bought!
To the God of Poetry, this I know
thy power is in thy mercy and love
forgive us each and every low blow
grant us each, angelic muse from above.
Cast thy immense shadow upon mind's thought
We poets know, thy love can not be bought!
To the God of Poetry, this I need
wisdom from thy spirit, its great power
harvested crops of thy beautiful seed
in thy Light live, not in the dark cower.
Cast thy immense shadow upon mind's thought
We poets know, thy love can not be bought!
To the God of Poetry, this I give
devotion, from mind and my busy hands
blessings returned, from joy which I live
heart's sweeter songs, across thy golden lands.
Cast thy immense shadow upon mind's thought
We poets know, thy love can not be bought!
Robert J. Lindley, 5-07-2019
Rhyme, (Replying to Panagiota Romios's-- finely woven and deeply inspiring, poem titled- "To The God Of Poetry")
I composed this piece early this morn, before the sun rose to gift the day its brilliant hues, promised blessings and sweet
hours to love and be loved..
Note: To poets, poetry is far more than just writing- it is the act of joining.
Joining in communicating, sharing, creating, singing, dancing, loving, living
and many other beautiful blessings/emotions. The more communication/sharing the better for us all. The more gifting verse, words for future generations the better for us all..
Inspired by your superbly crafted poem my great friend..
That be cold sun rose yonder, our heads be hot, I'd declare,
I'll get Whitey my critter, worked all night, best she nicker.
'Bout saddlin' her real tight, or I'll headlong out of sight,
I want movin' nice and fast, cause just--nice--ends up a mess.
Must keep thin's dry 'round Whitey ... traps, she'll stir if caught any,
though we burn the breeze git near, passed two hoops long's a holler,
the homestead bout five miles back should see the first trap I set.
Nope, trap's clean and good to go, next, ain't whistle earshot. Whoa!
Need to slow time -- like disarm, well, no sense singin' to 'em,
come on girl, traps a waitin', ain't no worth to Dallas spin!
Good girl, now just o'er that rise--Whoa! Rattler!--Where, is mascque-eyes?
I'm unshucked and up a tree! Hair in the butter, for me.
French leave, or hang fire--no wait--either fish or cut the bait?
Oh there! 'Neath the brush ahead. Steady girl--a rattler's head!
(BANG/Whinning neighs)
Where's my Arkansas toothpick? Then be trapped, you won't get nicked.
(Talking to the rattler)
Well, done checking all the traps, I knew it'd fill up two packs.
(Resting a bit before anything else)
Be back--stay drink, water's clean--up, I'd never drink downstream.
"Howdy," well, whaddya know? That is one among the willows.
(Passing rider nods and head on...)
All hands and the cook--don't need ... California collar--tree.
(Wanted rider drifts out of sight)
I'll start a fire real quick, then the rattler on the spit.
That was quick and good eatin', look like that sun 'bout settin',
Methinks the night out in town, whaddya think, how does that sound?
Toss belly wash on the fire, where's my comb and the mirror,
cowboys don't bathe, they dust off, come on it's late, let's head off.
You be good, hear, and wait right here, this stallion needs his mare.
That there'd square dance a bit more, must be rattlers on that floor,
My left-handed wife, sidekick. Lookin' for a dog to kick!
There's no call for that ... You mean ... two packs, tied up on Whitey.
Fire 'em up, boys, R O S I E ' S . R O A S T E D . R A T T L E R ' S time!
I have not seen my mother in a while.
I have these dreams where she comes back.
when she comes back it feels as if I'm in a fairy tale.
It's like there can be no wrong.
It's as if God made us perfect.
All I lost I found.
The sun rose over the empty sky and made where there was a forever lasting
cold night a warm bright day.
An emotional nuclear bomb wiped out all hate. Breaking down the barriers of
insecurity to bring out the harbored bitterness stored deep inside releasing all
feelings, and there was nothing but understanding and love left.
All this happened the day she came back.
Then i woke from my dream to my nightmare, and I realized what i felt was like a
fairy tale was just that a tale.
When I woke: I could find no right, but wrong was all around.
When I woke: I was no longer in Gods world of perfection, yet I found myself in
the devils world of corruption.
When I woke: There was no sun to bring day just cold darkness in the sky of the
everlasting night.
When I woke: There were many unspoken words, bottled up feelings, and
bitterness stored deep in the middle of my soul.
Even when I was awake she came back, but she didn’t stay and every time i
waited for her when she left.
When she did come back i pleaded with her to take care of my brother and sister.
I let her know we needed her guidance, wisdom, love, and compassion.
I weep every time she leaves, but it seems she shows no sympathy toward these
needs or me because she yet keeps leaving.
I get angry so angry I feel my mother is some what of a black widow, but the
sorrow she caused me and my sister and brother. I would sometimes call her
Queen of Black Widows.
She earns this title by loving and caring for you where you can’t live without her.
When I sleep i have dreams about her. Then she leaves and you can’t stop
thinking about her. It overwhelms me so much I can’t breathe without her. It feels
as if you die inside slowly leaving nothing but sorrow so all I can do is cry.
I would go on but there’s nothing else to tell , so i wait till she comes back if she
has not died i hope she took my advice and gave her life to god so she wont go
to hell.
This is how I felt before my mom got well.
When the final curtain softly descends, and the echoes of my days retreat,
I want to whisper to the wind that all my life, I was a bride betrothed to amazement,
In the silent embrace of dawn's first light and the whispered secrets of twilight.
I was the bridegroom, holding the world in my eager arms, feeling its heartbeat in my own.
Each breath, a vow to wonder, each heartbeat a promise to the extraordinary,
For in the tapestry of existence, I wove dreams with threads of stardust and sighs.
As the sun rose and set, its golden rays caressed the earth, so did my love for the marvels of this world unfold,
With eyes wide open in the innocence of eternal curiosity, heart open to the embrace of mystery.
When the journey reaches its final bend, I don’t want to wonder if my life bore significance,
But to know, in the marrow of my being, that I was in constant communion with the sublime.
I walked through gardens of amazement, each flower a testament to the fire within,
For I did not merely traverse; I danced, I sang, I wept, I rejoiced with every fiber of my soul.
I do not want to end this symphony of existence with a sigh of regret or a tremor of fear,
Nor do I want to be caught in the web of endless arguments, a mind at war with itself.
Instead, let my spirit rise with the dawn, unburdened and weightless, free as the first breath of spring,
Having lived not as a mere visitor to this world, but as an integral note in its eternal song.
When it’s over, let me be a testament to the beauty of living fully, of loving passionately,
For I was the bride to amazement, wed to the miracles both mundane and profound.
I was the bridegroom, embracing the world with unwavering devotion,
Let my legacy be one of soulful engagement, where every moment was kissed by the lips of wonder.
In the twilight of reflection, amidst the gathering shadows of memory,
Let me know that I did not squander the gift of existence, nor did I shy away from its relentless grace.
Let the stars write my story on the celestial dome, a tale of passion and serene acceptance,
For I was here, not as a passerby, but as one who lived, truly lived, in the arms of amazement.
Look at Me
I don't feel sick,
Yet something inside is twisted
Not in body, but in the sap that shivers within.
Are these petals not what you envisioned?
Look at me.
What did I do wrong?
I sing the songs you taught me,
My voice trembling a whisper against the wind
Does its fragile tune echo your hidden sorrow?
I grew as you grew,
Reaching upward, seeking light,
Only to find emptiness and solitude.
I swayed as you swayed,
But the rhythm felt foreign.
They said life is tough,
Yet there's enough rain in this puddle that never seems to want to dry.
Look at me.
There are flowers beside me now.
I'm sad, but they look up to me,
Wearing petals that resemble yours.
Perhaps the sun touched me more than I realized.
Maybe your love was present
A warmth I never noticed,
Too busy seeking shade that mirrored your shadow,
Waiting for you to bloom beside me,
Blind to your own petals struggling to hold on.
You were a flower too,
Worn thin by relentless winds,
Roots torn by unseen storms.
Maybe you gave all you had,
Even if it didn't feel like love.
Now I stand where you once stood,
In the same garden,
Soil dry in familiar ways,
Loneliness whispering through my leaves.
And I see you
Truly for the first time.
But this realization feels almost wrong.
The child I was still waters his pain,
Still wonders why the sun rose for everyone but him,
Still lies awake under stars you never pointed out.
If I reach toward you now,
Unfold my petals,
Am I denying him?
Pretending he didn't cry in silence,
Or bend under the weight of being unseen?
That's the ache
The conflict
The bloom caught in between.
Now I know what it takes to grow alone,
To carry generations of broken stems,
And still try to blossom for others.
But my pain is real.
It doesn't wither just because I understand.
And I'm scared that if I reach back,
I'll be plucking out the parts of me
That survived without you.
So I stay rooted in this confusion,
A flower still trying to face the sun,
Still holding petals that remember you,
Still wondering
If love that's too late
Still counts.
Look at me.
I never want to forget what fall time feels like when I was able to spend it with you. It's a feeling, an emotion, that I will never be able to replicate. An emotion that has no name, I couldn't pin it down if I tried. Just a weightlessness found in a state of pure serenity. And all it took was two cups of coffee, a blanket, and somewhere we could both sit together. And the smell of the crisp Autumn air just tied it all together. I've decided to mark the days I spent feeling this way as "The Autumn Times".
What a perfect state of being. Feeling so safe next to you, but also feeling as free as the whisps of wind that blew through the strands of my hair. On the colder days, well, I can still feel our warm lips and cold noses pressed against each other while the sun rose up in the sky. And oh, the sunrises. So many sunrises have been spent with you. As a matter of fact, I can confidently say that I've never spent more sunrises with anyone but you.
I can remember countless mornings that I'd spend leaning into your warmth while watching the Sunlight spill into the clouds in warm neon reds and oranges. I can remember seeing colors I've never seen before in those skies. Feeling things I had never felt before. But just as I couldn't name the colors bleeding through the clouds, I still cannot begin to describe how you made me feel in The Autumn Times. And for that, I'll forever be grateful.
In the darkest of times, you were my light. A fire that burned just for me, and a flame I could have to hold and keep me warm on the coldest of nights. I didn't know how, but I knew in my heart that somehow, someway, that everything would be okay. If I'm being honest? For once in my life I didn't need the answers as to how things would get better. I didn't need a plan, or a clear cut path, or a diagram to prove to me that things would be okay. All I needed was my head on your shoulder, or your head on mine. And that was enough for me.
But the Autumn leaves, they crumble and they fall to the earths surface eventually. Lost and forgotten altogether. But you? I could never forget you...
//See Part 2//
Heliotrome
by Stark Hunter
A fly with green translucent scales
Is bothering me to the brink of insanity!
This irksome beast buzzes around my ears,
My mouth and my nose, and I know,
As I know this old quiver of mine,
That this beast must die!
What haven’t the authorities swatted it down prior to today?
Do I not pay some form of tax to rid these abominations from my life?
“Hello Honey. Would you care for some veal?
I like your pearl necklace there. ..
it reminds me of an afternoon at your house…”
“And what afternoon was that Gilbert?”
“Oh I’m sure you remember Mercedes.Think about it.
I still have your… garment, in my desk drawer.”
“Not at all Gilbert, I am sure. But I will have the veal.”
The flies!
There are millions of flies dominating my house!
Please do you have any suggestions, any advice,
As to what I should do about these pests?
She enters. She is naked.
Her figure is of a greek goddess.
Her breasts are firm and full, and her nipples
Are hardened as she speaks… shhh.
“There was once a beautiful woman who sat in a tree.
She always watched when the day began
And when the day ended.
When the sun rose, she cried, and when it set, she laughed.
She had a dog named Catharsis.
At night the dog slept in the garden by the tree,
Amidst the “dead man’s fingers” there.
The woman hooted like an owl as she sat there
In that tree, and ate raspberries.
She was never seen by anyone, except me.
She told me, actually told me I had deep eyes.
She said my soul was like a river, a deep,
Swiftly-flowing river with a tower there,
A little ways down, on the muddy bank.
And up on top of the tower, there are little boys
Spitting into the river below.”
“Enjoying the view.
I enjoy it indeed when a beautiful woman wears a short skirt
And artfully shows off her appendages.
But Mercedes, please, it pains me too much
To see your amazingly sexy legs over there,
And not be able to do anything about it!
Please spare me!”
“Naughty boy! Then stop looking at them.
Besides, I have nothing to hide from you.”
“Evidently not miss."