Long Wading Poems
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All alone, just by myself
I journey through life,
Many walk alongside
Yet all along, I but walk alone.
Slowly, steadily at an even pace
Resting, but a wee bit awhile,
Milestone after milestone
Wearily, I walk the well-trodden path of life,
Never ever straying afar
Never wading into the rough waters
Just anxious to get somewhere,
Just eager to find myself
a patch of cool shade away from this
searing heat of the mid-summer day.
No compass in hand
No polestar to guide
No beacon beckoning
No sails set
No winds of the sea to steer the course
as I voyage through life
Just hoping to drift rudderless
into some safe harbor someday.
Every so often, I pause to look back
and see only my shadow
grudgingly tagging along
And this winding road
relentlessly trailing behind.
The surrounding silence hangs
like a cold breath in the air
And the waves of the turbid waters
urging me onto its stygian depth.
~Contest "J" Poetry
~Sponsor: Constance La France.
"Own It" contest by Cyndi MacMillan
I stand on the shore
Waves and wind my companions and,
For a moment, the world is still,
Past and present in equal measure.
Then for a second a neurone fires,
A flash of remembrance
Throwing me into a place
A wish never to be.
I feel I am standing up to my knees,
Wading slowly and clumsily
Through a swap of grief.
Past as a fond memory,
Present as a harsh painful reality.
The emotions like the waves,
Pound my heart and flood my thoughts.
As if a trail in the woods becomes
A fork in the road.
Yet I have no choice, cannot take my
Path of least disturbance.
We are all pushed into the darkness,
Must navigate this stony track,
For which there is no map.
But the unfamiliar and dark
Will become less daunting as the miles pass.
There is no return to the first path,
Still as the passage of time processes by
The new path very gradually,
Oh so slowly, starts to lighten.
The landmarks are the same and
The path still stony beneath my feet,
Yet the present slowly creeps into the past.
The grief digs sharp into my heart,
Knowing I shall never occupy a space
And hear you laugh again,
But as time passes
the pain does become more bearable.
There is no getting over a loss,
No moment that suddenly it doesn’t hurt,
No time that a second passes and immediately
They are no longer missed.
This doesn’t happen, but when the initial,
Hard and brutal shock,
Ever so slowly, starts to soften,
We are given time to reflect.
Given a gently growing space,
In which to hold and nurture the memories.
The beautiful gift we were given,
By having our loved one in our life,
For however brief,
And for knowing them, our lives are richer.
"For those who love with heart and soul, there is no such thing as separation"
~By Rumi
Decked in floral wreaths and crown
as I lay in state among family and friends
with my spirit wading through strands forlorn
where lamps shone bright in celestial gleam
bordering a land of bliss out of mortal reach
where neither canker blights, nor flowers wilt
where sorrow never enters and all shall be blest
where each head like the sun aureoled
where God in all His glory doth reign
I saw through my slumber deep, as through a veil
my loved ones grieving great, my journey
unreturned to an untravelled land.
There was crying and whining, sighing and sobbing
in stirring memory of days in all goodness spent
and of bonds stretching beyond life's rim
which set me feel sick of where I was and where I wasn't
so fain to go, so fain to stay,
like a spinning midge,
my spirit veered high and low
between Heaven and Earth
between Mortality and Immortality.
a helium balloon buoyant in the air.
I'll be waiting here
wading through the seasons
Seems I can't recall the
reasons you aren't here with me
As I watch the trees
turn from gold, - to brown, - a leaf falls down
swirling around, catching a tear it's found
Sometimes even love
is like a leaf that's tossed in the wind...
So lost, it crumbles into a broken dream-
Days have tumbled down
I've wondered how to live without you
Winter - summer - spring, - and fall - have come again
Trees are losing leaves
Each one had a story
They have learned to say goodbye, without the sound of tears
I have watched the leaves
drifting from the trees, then fall on down
without a song, to say goodbye.... goodbye
All the while, I wait
Just searching for a sign in the wind
Beneath my feet the earth has turned to gold and red
Leaves have turned from gold
and I am growing cold, in the rain
Tears from trees fall down around my head, again
,,,,
Seasons pass on by
But l'll keep believing
Hoping that the spring might bring a second chance with you
I have watched the leaves
lifting from the trees, then falling down
without a song, to say goodbye.... goodbye
I am watching leaves
lifting from the trees
gone, without a song......... gone, without a song to say goodbye........
___________________________________________________
6/15/15 For the Contest: Pastel Reflections
Sponsor- Craig Cornish
Inspired by the music of Kevin Kern "Pastel Reflections"
(Be sure to listen to this beautiful music).... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQ6owzWtjIs
She grips a guiding hand,
stepping through the heavy door.
Her weight is shifting, hesitant,
wading through the tangled noise,
a momentary, shallow breath.
The rhythm shifts to meet her step.
The bass spills down,
a thick and pouring wine.
She lets the guiding fingers fall,
stepping onto the busy floor
letting the vibration pull her in.
She maps the floor sound.
The subwoofers push
a steady, throbbing north.
She doesn’t flinch at the sudden rush
of a shoulder spinning past,
just rides the static wake.
Her body catches on the groove.
A sweeping, arch of spine
that cuts through the flashing haze.
The crush of bodies hesitates,
stepping back they clear the floor,
leaving her to perform.
I see her read the dark in drafts.
A perfect pivot on the sticky tile.
She traces friction from a sliding sole,
and drinks the deep vibration up,
her body anchored to the sound.
Silk wading thru wistfully warm sea waters,
my dreaming fingers have lingered to potter
with ocean surface, sun sparkled glitters.
My poetic pieces have gone full twitter
in charmed waters of crystal clear rarity
where I felt God's love soothe life's severity.
Slowly easing into ocean powered waves,
my playful moods have seriously caved
from forceful, salt stinging, brutal wave smacks.
My body has ached sea bruised, blue and black.
Rough seas crudely taught me joy may survive
despite waves of fright that savagely arrive.
Now, reaching the end planks on my journey's pier
and viewing my twilight's approach so clear,
it's past sunshine glitters that most sustain
these concluding sea views for my earthly gain.
Yet, I know without crass waves that abused,
wading joys would not have peaked this enthused.
I want to swim in the golden rivers
of your heavenly haven,
wading through every swirl and twirl flowing in splendiferous streams.
Taste of your warmth courses down ruffles within my ribs,
pulsating your name in assonant motions.
In your moonlit eyes I’ve found the lost poem,
missing from my once hollow heart.
You are the metaphorical master,
with a plethora of poetic keys,
deciphering hieroglyphics syllables,
ceaselessly obscuring vehement vanity,
endured through violent torrents of torment.
In your arms I found a euphonious sanctuary,
calming stormy edges from a malignant abyss,
there I saw grey on silvery nights,
until you breathed poetry into my fingertips.
Words began to bloom amongst
deep ruby wine dahlias,
where seasons never wilt internal imagination.
I still remember the night we embraced a new year,
as fireworks lit up the highest mountains between us.
Revealing incandescent morning stars,
with your infectious smile,
I knew then, you were the acrylic home
I was sketching on sunflower panoramas.
In your voice I've already seen spring,
sowing seeds of hibiscus promises,
hydrating delicate dreams—
drifting with withering ferns and flowers,
imprinted from roots of fate,
ascending mauve memories to cloud nine,
where clipped feathers attain nirvana,
to love until the sun burns into ashes.
I find that as I stroll along
I fall into reflection
A wading pond of memories
So fond of memories am I
Each step, an effervescent whim
through time that has been mine
Each shine that has been mine
comes to fore
And as a kitten scurries on
to comfort of the shade
My thoughts are a parade
that wants to take me home
For like a page with splendid rhyme
just falling into place
It’s such a sugared space
This time that has been mine
You see them everywhere,
sometimes countless in number,
winged, walking or wading,
running the gauntlet of waves,
filling the air.
Birds populate the planet,
make their home in trees,
buildings, on grassy paddocks,
icy continents and clinging
to the craggy heights of cliffs.
So many. But where do they go
to die. We see only a few
as roadkill or the odd one
decomposing under a bush.
Where are the others?. Surely
death should be more visible
in their ranks, parklands dotted
with those that have fallen dead
from the sky or a branch. More
washed up on a beach.
You would think their remains
would be everywhere
in plain sight. But no.
It's as if the dead slip through
a portal and into the unseen,
leaving no trace. Or maybe
the earth simply claims
and disposes of them
in haste out of respect.
Or do they find somewhere
inaccessible, hidden from view,
a place to pass away
and leave the human mind
to wonder why
the bodies of the avian dead
seem to number so few.
Hot pickles are better than a cookie;
That crunch such a perfect sour bite,
sinful taste please feed them to me;
My palate prefers fire to candy,
oversaturated leaves me contrite;
Hot pickles are better than a cookie;
They’re more than a little bit spicy;
Tastebuds left in afterglow all night,
sinful taste please feed them to me;
Always going down so easily,
the sweat on my brow a delight;
Hot pickles are better than a cookie;
Let’s ignore wading in gently,
cannonball dive is doing it just right;
Sinful taste please feed them to me;
Give me heatwaves no talking sweetly,
I’ll devour flames whole just for spite;
Hot pickles are better than a cookie,
sinful taste please feed them to me.