Long Vernal Poems
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Written: November 12, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Woody
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If granted the power to time-slip back—
not a scale of edits, just one clean crack
in the epoch’s obstreperous spine—
What would I convert? What moment, what line?
Would I sieve the tumult of history’s breath,
undo a war, a plague, a death?
Or would I vilify my own dwarfish past,
pluck one thread from the tapestry vast?
I considered Napoleon’s umbrella,
or whispering sense to a gin-soaked fella
who discern “Titanic” meant unsinkable fate—
But the glitch was mine, not the ship’s mistake.
I’d fly to the day I didn’t say “stay,”
when love was a lissome, vivacious ballet,
and I, a moribund, wan little rabbit,
Let fear swindle my healthier habit.
She stood in a nimbus of vernal light,
a pioneer of pleasure, a rotund delight.
I was a hayseed with embryonic grace,
a virtuoso of silence, an evocative face.
I’d evolve that. Just that. No replay.
No sesquipedalian excuses or rhapsodic decay.
Just one word spoken, one velvet touch—
not humdrum, not blithe, but just enough.
Let the empyrean writhe with ululation,
let the rubble of regret find its station.
I’d be her possessor of time,
a zoetic glitch in fate’s design.
And if the Nereids complain against me,
If the metaphor of kismet tries to unfree
My choice, I’ll redeem my soul with song—
a mellifluous farewell to what went wrong.
Rubbing it's eyes, the year wakes in yawn.
Hibernating winter shade.....at last it's gone.
'Hello, my dear Spring', "Good Morning".. c'mon.
Advent of the vignette....embraces the dawn.
Look!..A child has just learned to walk..
His fortune.... new life....is excited to knock.
March and April date...dance and roll and rock.
Woodpeckers make home.....patient round the clock.
Clothes of Primrose, Lilies .....Daffodils and Tulips.
Petals unfold blushing buds....hiding in eclipse.
Burgeoning vibes of love.... nature in partnerships..
Orange Yellow Honey.....in Green and Purple drips.
In vernal color of wild music, ....nature is a gypsy.
The hymns of hummingbirds.... cuckoo chirps.... crispy.
Cadence of bass and treble ....the breeze ..soft and tipsy.
Oh Sensuous Spring ! ......"I Love Thee"...
Won't you now kiss me?
Dated 6th November 2018
Seasonal or Unseasonal Poetry Contest
Sponsor Kim Rodrigues
.
‘Twuz uh hot
Spring
Mine door’s gong
Rapped
‘twuz the welcomed
the
pretty box
the surreptitiously delivered
All rapped up
In my favorite
Colour
‘glint’
Such the
turgid sweet
package
From mine front stoop
into
mine grateful room’s
Imagine
vernal fever
on uh
(shhhh)
sun burst'n
breezy
morn
*packtage spelled correctly
artistic license
;)
DIE THE DEATH!
(Dona eis requiem sempiternam)
Die the death and transcend vanity
O poor vernal flesh and bone,
Waned out of this primal valley
And sink like the moon beyond the coast.
All expectations, ‘tis the greatest
Reclined at the backdrop of the heart’s throb,
Relegated by mortal necessities in crest
Clouded by mist as the shrouding robe round a knob.
Farewell thee, to vanish from eyes.
Fear not, minds still shall keep thee
Though a while, less a bother to human plight,
The dire need for yen, companion and spree.
The undertakers trades fare supreme
And mourners sonorous rhymes are music prime;
Downing the lees of wine to spike faces grim
With throbbing drums, jigging feet and chime.
Great the awaited moment to close the eyes
And farewell the world with all her bother.
A descendance is paramount than to rise,
To die to live than live to die is best order.
Great ease is the last prize to pay
And refund the muck to its source beneath
Nothing else abide but merry mongers sway
Over nourished ordure, once a breath.
Why not sadness at the joyful tale of birth
And merriment at the woeful news of death?
Onward would be to the backyard of earth,
From incubi, toil and deformed breath.
Night veil drawn over our visibility,
In twinkle the pupil dilate a life span’s knell
Wedge in limbo, shrouded by mystery,
Knowledge only worms and flies can tell.
What need of life, fun, food or friendship?
All but a three episode script of dharma:
Ignorance precedes pain and then comes sorrow,
As circadian sculptor pruned our feature.
No mint can purchase back days gone by,
Neither riches to reverse a twinkle;
For a lifelong tie earn a profound sigh,
A spot on shoreline washed by sprinkles.
Poison, sickness, circadian effect and accident
Are final returns wherein all expectations lie.
Rather in life, in death is its fulfillment
And no further businesses have I but to die!
When spring is like the dawning sun
through frosted panes anticipate
the morning after winter's done.
In vernal womb where life's begun
the anxious babes of summer wait
when spring is like the dawning sun.
Another lace of frost is spun,
the doily art, so brief, abates
the morning after winter's done.
So weary of cold winter fun
and melting paths of ski and skate
when spring is like the dawning sun.
Then off to blossom's orchards run
to challenge life while tempting fate!
The morning after winter's done.
We sip rewards, a race now won -
a yellow hug of warmth awaits,
when spring is like the dawning sun
the morning after winter's done.
bohemian rhapsody parades
amidst greensward moored
erupting profusely toward cerulean skies
ushered with invisible rip cord
this Earthling self assigned to an (elder)
box office catbird seat - hoard
ding a secluded nook
upon premises of Highland (highly adored)
Manor Apartments nestled
within bucolic (cost wise, a ford
double) Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
(40.2562° N, 75.4638° W) explored,
sans (founded in 1684)
pleasantly assaultive stimuli
conducted brake upon metaphysical ratiocination,
where sunshine poured
upon variegated mother nature
arrangement, viz spectacular
vernal suite scored
a top ten hit orchestrating
exquisite (August) May day presentation,
which mutely roared
bedazzling this sensate
being overwriting gourd
fully stocked, when brittle
winter snowy firmament forced accord,
asper overlaying habitat
palimpsest akin to (sic) ward
before an a may zing exuberant poly
chromatic onset splashed vibrant
brilliantly colored palette, toward
this captive observer,
where choral symphony courtesy of flora
and fauna sensational
encore performance
(day at the) opera captivated ensured
fixated this tethered primate royally
impressed and allured
by aural and visual
regalia fit for a lord
and tailor, while solar orbitz
directed by Helios,
whose journey across
deep purple celestial sea deplored
noiselessly casting lengthened shadows
signaling luminous hued dusk
chariots of fire earthly domed ceiling ablaze
pearl jam disappearance,
when daylight blinks adieu
til the morrow, when dawn
betakes the reins to reign cosmos chose
zing emergent rays announcing
morning haz broken
nudging, prodding, rousing from doze
well rested body electric,
where energy flows
as attested from me noggin glows
nsync, sans panoply
of soundgarden crescendo propose
zing ideal material sharing circadian rhythm
thru the time stream yours truly rows.
—Lingers in Nerves—
Thou say’st that less is more; I bow thereto—
yet silence, once begotten, will not cease;
for what thy lips deny returns anew,
and what was once a hush devours my peace;
till what was but the little hush of breath
outgrows the tongue, and speaks beyond all death.
My cedar-born quill, once quick with vernal flame,
could summon dawn from darkness at my hand;
now grey comes creeping where the colours came,
and leaves no kingdom bright enough to stand;
yet, bleeding inwardly, it makes no plea—
but spends my briny blue obediently.
The page once opened like a sovereign gate,
and every letter entered it like song;
now whiteness guards an inviolate state
where even light seems trespass all day long;
and every stroke that falters on its skin
seems less a word than silence entering in.
Still do I write—for love, when answer’s fled,
becomes the hand that writes against the void;
one syllable survives where ten lie dead,
and one more follows, though the first’s destroyed;
for what returns is neither thine nor mine,
but silence wearing language as a sign.
Thou hast but said be still—and stillness grew
until it filled the empire of my speech;
it drank the names by which I summoned you,
and drew their buried meanings out of reach;
till less, which seemed so little when begun,
hath so consumed the word that none is one.
Now watch the cedar yield—not unto age,
nor grief, nor any wound the years can heal,
but to the dark beyond the final page
where nothing waits that it is sworn to feel;
the last stroke stills the worlds it might have sung—
and unborn songs die wordless on the tongue.
February is a love song
composed on the mood of spring
in the tempo of a Christmas waltz,
modulating to estival embraces—
recapitulating vernal feelings
when autumn falls.
February is a pulsing heartbeat,
a twinkling eye,
a bold susurration,
here and gone in twenty-eight days—
an interrupted cadence.
The whole world would be stoned
should Cupid's quivers march along.
February is a bouquet of roses,
a box of chocolates;
goblets of a bubbly cherry wine,
threads of scarlet satin suited for ballroom romances;
two salmon swimming upstream undaunted
to birth the next generation.
Another spring is almost upon us
Blossoms blooming with no fuss
Creation springs into action,
Death to winter is spring’s reaction
Elegance and splendor abounds
Fueling natures beautiful sounds
Grass so green begins to grow
Heady winds commence to blow
In March, spring is official
Joy is felt through pagan ritual
Kindred spirits begin to dance
Ladies and gents primp and prance
Making their promises to the sun
Nature rules and all have fun
Open windows let fresh air in
People take deep breathes within
Quelling the instinct to ask for more
Rain slowly begins to pour
Spring, New Life to Bring, to Land, to us, to all
Time of Equal Nights & Equal Days
United to welcome spring in Sacred Ways
Vernal equinox - life renews
While nature is a canvas of pastel hues
Xanthic flowers blossoms first
Yesterdays chill is long forgotten
Zealously Spring quenches our thirst!
3/13/15
Through Author’s Lens: -
Perchance the fall itself was ne’er the crime,
but only what our blinded tongues call’d Hell;
perchance the error lay in naming Time,
and deeming lost what love had wrought so well.
For where the banish’d beloved doth abide,
what mortal tongue may name that mystic sphere?
If Hell enfold her, I’ll therein reside—
for Heaven hath no dominion when she’s there.
—Where Hell Is Heaven with Thee—
If thou shouldst dwell in Hell, then Hell is mine;
I’d spurn Heaven’s empyrean gates, though angels kneel,
for Paradise, bereft of thee, were but a sign—
a gilded hieroglyph no pulse could make me feel.
Though roses alter names, their breath stays sweet,
nor syllable can exorcise their vernal fire;
so call thy darkness sin—I’ll deem it meet,
and in its umbrage crown my lost desire.
Let mitred tongues denounce our love profane,
let sapient lips anatomise our fatal wrong.
I’ll wear thy malison as though it were my reign;
and bless the scar whence my strange soul grew strong.
. . . for where thou art, mine exile shall be rest;
And Hell with thee were Heaven at its best.