Lugubrious blue mood skies funereal and morose shed raindrops,
they unleash tableau vivant torrent’s wet tranche,
blessing, bane or boon from vault of heaven,
damp pearl blob bewitching moisture mellow morph form,
the stuff of less than benign grumpy weather grouch,
whose plight infuses yen for sun-drenched bliss,
haven of the ultra-violet swathe enthusiast,
for others raindrops are a liquid gem relish firmament bequeathed,
to whet voracious craving of nascent pastures,
whose gaunt green blade emaciating stillborn,
that aqueous honey to hue-blazed floral garden in situ bloomers,
who swallow cloudburst drizzle meed in muted slurps,
droplet streak and spiral bubble patten on top hung awning window,
empyrean tear beads that roof top tap dance ritual,
so tantalising to the awestruck spellbound eardrum,
or impromptu downward dribbles on romantic saunterers,
prompting boisterous laughter as they flaunt their dome transparent chromium truss umbrella,
those enraptured red-blooded refugees beneath tilting gust spun bumbershoot,
as mud splatter cherry cheek urchins shriek,
amid the spray and splash globules at agile finger tips
You've remained a particularly fantastic mother to me.
Adequately training, I wouldn't have gotten gloomy
As follows, I'm keeping in touch with you today.
I humbly beg that God would lavishly meed you all the way.
Throughout the long term, I've seen delight and sorrow.
You were the main one to watch him grow.
Also, presently I'm a man you've raised.
Be that as it may, more often than not, you liaised.
My mother led me to His Way, and I am proud.
Without your help, I'd be lost in the crowd.
But you lead me to this point in my life.
Can seek boldness after strife.
The capacity to withstand any close-to-home attack.
That my enemies toss at me, and I may lack.
Thus it is with you, 'the world's best mother.'
I'll never forget you when you detonate your bawler.
Mother Mother, I'm intrigued about your wonder.
Either a woman or a divinely sent savior.
Her emotions run in her as deep as a river.
A smooth and calm lady is my mother.
Written: September 16, 2021
''M'' Contest, New Poems Only - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
*Image of Bread Our Daily Dough Pixabay.
Our Daily Bread
The rooster neck stretched while crowing
wakes unknowing
rubbing their eyes
mid-raised gold skies.
The fields being harvested all-day
work and no pay
hourly naught here
own free and clear.
Morning, noon, till the setting sun
mom's work ne'er done
our meed we're awed
by Father God.
2021 July 24
*2nd Place*
12 Lines In Rhyme
~~Joseph May: Judged 2021 July 26
*Image of Horses Nature by Pixabay.
Some Paradise Where Horses Go
"Somewhere, somewhere in time's own space
There must be some sweet pastured place
Where creeks sing on and tall trees grow
Some paradise where horses go"
~~by Stanley Harrison
Where linger they midst verdant green,
Brung more to this a simple scene,
Placate the calm as horses still,
A light breeze whisk a daffodil,
They frolic and roam when they need,
Rivers and greenfield be their meed,
Tameless breed in their happy realm,
Where their faithful kind steer their helm,
Grazing the countries hills and vales,
An opened book for living tales,
In posing splendor statuesque,
Trail thoughts endeavor picturesque,
Calls of horses in nature pause,
Within its wake of emptied stalls,
Romp free and wild in blithe courses,
A paradise for all horses.
2020 March 07
*3rd Place*
Some Paradise Where Horses Go
~~Michelle Faulkner: Judged 2020 April 20
Evil is a stubborn weed
People always plant its seed
Viscous are its deeds
On the innocent it feeds
A harmless germ in our mind
A thoughtless thought we can unwind
It can be a temptation to fault find
But once it clasps it is hard to unbind
Find your herbicide
Fumigate your inside
Where evil always resides
Before it spreads wide
Unthink the thoughts it breeds
Starve the seed with good deeds
Allow your harvest to succeed
And love will be your meed
why ever you are
your our star
we miss you
meed you too
we're all alone
please put our mind
at ease
DADDY COME HOME
Sterilize the enterprise...
Pro-rate your eloquence,
state sorrowfully,
then engage-
every page,
wondrous rapturous,
bashful captures,
slanty' cases and raging races...
Be hotter than road modern!
Beget the racers in the Stallium!
I am raving the major,
they take away the meed and complacent-
I am the smasher and head Caser!
Take me to the ancient hollow that was never endangered!
Lately, it's been memories
and sleepless nights.
My bed, our bed;
these sheets smell like you.
I swear I hear your voice
at three am, and I'm
awake for another night.
I almost called you,
but I talked myself out of it.
Sometimes I have to remind
myself to breathe. "Just breathe."
I have to remind myself that
the world isn't over, and that
my shoulders have carried more
weight than that of the pain
you have caused me.
I can heal.
I meed to remember that
yesterday is gone, no longer
existent. I can't keep
dwelling on a past that
doesn't dwell on me.
I can do this.
There is a weird language known as ENGLISH ,
not so weird , but better than gibberish .
But I have a question of singular and plural ,
just like the confusion between urban and rural .
If foot is feet and tooth-teeth ,
why isn't boot-beet and mood-meed ??
If louse is lice and mouse is mice ,
why isn't house-hice and spouse-spice ??
If man is men and woman is women ,
why isn't pan-pen and tan-ten ??
If chair is chairs and mare is mares ,
why isn't hair-hairs and air-airs ??
I do have many questions in my mind ,
and I know there will be a solution some time !!! :p
Silver spoons sit at evening diner tables
Forks and knives acompany these lonesome
Silver Spoons.
No one orders soup, but instead a large steak,
with mashed potatoes and gravy, with steamed vegetables.
The fork and knife are put to good use,
As the silver spoon sits there and watches,
As grimy hands, man handle the knife and fork
violently cutting away at the red meat.
Silver Spoons smile, thanking they aren't used
for steaks and mashed potatoes.
But silver spoons meed to be used too.
Waiting for one day, during lunch rush
for someone to come in and sit and ask,
"What is the special for soups today?"
Silver spoons brighten their eyes and smile,
but that time never comes.
Just another guy ordering steaks, or a hamburger and fries.
Poor silver spoons, not even used to stir their customer's coffee,
they use knives, instead of silver spoons.
Poor silver spoons, waiting for a beautiful woman to come in and order the soup.
That precious life in beautiful consonance
Where feelings and life are constant
The Alpha’s, the Omega’s children ingress into unity
We, meek, abased on our knees for his glory
With musical inflections and modulations
Bestowing him with praise
He has presented us with his overlay
Successfully, we have overcome the ill ones temptations
No longer having to fight to deny
The serpent’s fabricated meed
Here we graze the crown of thorns
There we sing a sweet, euphonious hymn
And devour our Lord’s fruit from the Tree of Life