As interlude of turmoil swerves
on my mind
leading me to reach for waning hours ,
there is a lull of evening's heave
grating within the ledge of isolation,
until gazing long enough
into darkness, I blink to recall
the revelries trapped in dried blossoms
of ardor now enmeshed ,entangled:
These haunting screams jut out
from a frame of hardened boughs
buried deep among frigid weeds-- and I wail,
stripping night's foliage of farewell
with knots of abandonment ...
and autumn loses its elegance,
those misted tears invading the glint
behind our past trysts --
that I learn how desolate this stained time
retreats when he fades away
like a ghastly ghost,
when the soul-stars dream and die...
knowing in fall's requiem,
I am no longer there.
moon-mended water drifts
mist-marked shadows wander
morning-made quiet rises
moss-mapped stones remember
mid-tide murmurs soften
marsh-misted air settles
meadow-mild minutes linger
our wedding day portrait
two made one
misted by years
masked by smoke-filled skies
bobby, gina—two of our three
days seared with sun and a child’s scuffed knee
through spelling tests piano recitals saturday games
kneeling together strokes of unquestioned belief
caps and gowns, crystal and dented brass
degrees in business and medicine
marriages grandchildren colors filling the sassafras
then job losses metastasis scares hospital gowns
loneliness
values smudged
quibbles spatter pigment
no one budged
boredom drowned in tanqueray the glass smelled of pine
blue smoke, screens, two strangers behind painted glass
lost in a bell jar of belladonna
two martini glasses, an untouched olive
the letter’s paper like granite, vows sun-washed away
body mind and spirit—desaturated
a torn canvas split along jagged lines
no reconciliation
reimagining life with unfamiliar faces
a torn canvas becomes two paintings
no masking tape or super glue
can ever repair a canvas torn in two
=======
Flavor of rain, herbal.....clear
like broth lingering on your lips ,
relishing a taste of limey brew--
its vapor beguiles my senses
with undulated abandon...
For a moment time freezes
in trembled trance, the monsoon rivering
as your kiss seeps inside the bones,
and in gradual mount of liquid thrill
the concave grip kneading
into an embrace within
one evening's quiver rescues me,
Reminding me how surrender
can be subtle like the slow movement
from piety to rawness of gust,
gathering all that's aflame
and gentle... and I will wrap
your fingers around my soul
through hidden blue of eyes ,
that cleavage of spine
dressed in lavish caresses,
that nothing else will fulfill me
...but the nectar of our misted dew.
Left little finger — mocks old strident foes.
Left ring finger — wears pale imprint after love ups and goes.
Left middle — taps out the years between hugs.
Left index finger — points up high to the heavens above.
Left thumb — presses today's stamp on yesterday's late mail.
Right thumb — flips through faded pages of old diaries.
Right index finger — traces funny faces on misted window panes.
Right middle finger — catches tears way before they fall.
Right ring finger — encircles promises with gold bands of hope.
Right little finger — wiggles forlornly until another pinky wiggles back.
Unstrolled, but of a heart
Spills, slow and dismal.
Unswept, but of a hand
Time's, whose lone recall.
Long years since, what shimmers
For evening's misted
Haunting appeal; far-lamped.
Ghost-paired, down-led!
I wonder the path of
An unknown shoe
The footsteps it’s journeyed
The people it knew
The sorrow that led it to
Wander the land
The joy that it lingered in
Kissing the sand
Near oceans, salt misted
Or valleys of green
To contemplate kindness
For life so serene
Or running from darkness
When earthquakes renew
I wonder the the path of
An unknown shoe
Tears roll down cheeks
eyes clouded by misted fog
I still can't see straight
This for a window's
Autumnal blurred;
A glassy water's
Dimly concurred;
Invites, leaf and fish
A look; deep fixed.
Night's dreamy visage
Is moon-misted.
Who, soft gushed loves, all
Sucked in, tears shed
Doubts whose power to
Be so transfixed?
Misted drizzles bring me back
not to the past but present rhythm
done and sung : I fondle
raindrops tapping on giant trees
while my wounded limbs gather
to kneel upon the ground
that stamps this mad man's
need to reclaim love's sweet pour.
Let It Rain Contest of Nette Onclaud
He moves through the quiet corridors slowly--
Moonlight brushing over him like a second skin.
Most of his wants have worn down with the centuries…
But one stubborn dream keeps refusing to die.
Wind slips along the old stone halls,
each echo brushing the quiet hurt he hides,
burdened by grief and the long shadow of old wounds,
his once-warm heart has slowly worn down over the years.
He threads the misted woods,
Searching for what time silently took.
No fire to warm him and no hand to hold
only unbroken night and the bite of ruin.
Ravenloft grips him in its shadowed corridors,
its stones keeping the memory of old vows.
A quiet hold, a mantle of darkness,
and still he drifts,
threading the quiet stone halls of the old stronghold.
written 11212025_DMK
The colors dance in the sun light
reflections of the sky, the sun, the air, the night
cool chills frosting every breath in flight
taking in the scene
of all the summer left dreams.
Pale greens, yellowing in the grassy flows
amber oaks, hay straw stuffed scarecrows,
crisp leaf foggy maple cider cloves,
wood smoked clay in autumn dusk idle slash,
gold corn flowered pumpkin hash;
every color of a scenic palette wall
painted in the ominous winter sky fall
misted wine in spicy chai tea
fragrant petrichor from the forest seas,
burnt umber leaves turn crimson garnet scenes freed;
mulberry cinnamon flame reds
cranberry chestnut butterscotch breads
scent the kitchens of fall harvest
brown sweater strudel coffee nourishing
bless this seasonal fluttering currency.
Your call resonates like a lost echo among the shadows of dusk,
Deep within me, like spring water flowing towards distant lands.
My heart, boundless and mysterious, responds silently, naive and gentle,
As the sleepless twilight creeps again through the misted windows.
The lilac and currant bow their heads gracefully in the evening wind,
And my silent homeland whispers the call for me to return home.
Your call, my bittersweet sorrow, resonates in the echo of distance,
And I, wandering among shadows, seek my way on unseen paths.
I know our meeting will be fulfilled under the blue sky of night,
Our prolonged separation will find solace in the light of the hidden moon.
Distant bells remind me of the road I have traveled,
Raising the dust of dreams, searching for you among eternal memories and longings.
Your call at sunset, my melancholy will find its way to you,
And the promise of reunion will be sealed by the quiet of the night that envelops us.
In the flow of time, under the starry sky, I will keep my promise,
For my heart, once called, cannot remain far from you.
~ Life Is a Kaleidoscope ~
5/25/2026
Life is a game, so, which role do you choose to play?
In lifes’s cacophony of human hearts on display?
What is your role in this drama of millions of metrical, truth-sayers?
I ask myself this, whenver a poem, in moonlight mist, I conjure up to post.
Not expecting a comment from anyone, or to be lauded,
at a literati roast!
I’d much prefer to write poet songs, home alone about
the glory, or angst of relationships.
These are the songs, that dreams are made of, in the moonglowing-sapphiric experience.
Forever dreaming of soft, magical, deep verbiage and longing to hear love’s tender, calls.
The ecstasy, the dreaming, of kissing his expectant
lips, beneath rainbow-misted,of lit gentle, waterfalls.
Do we shape the poem,verily,or..does the magic of a
poem shape us?
Are we here to impress, or dare we try to really connect with another’s spititus?
Just how green is my valley
Below those dark satanic hills?
How many familial bones
Lay there molding to greyish dust?
Do the words of my forefathers
Echo on beyond my ancient head...
So that future ears clearly hear
What wisdom they actually said?
I long to see the rain fall
On those grey slag built mountains,
Where trees are straggly specimens -
Sometimes misted by the clouds
So low that their moist kiss remains
On my upward stretching hands.
It's where the belly trembles
And my heartache truly resounds.
But how much better would it be
Were this a sun drenched paradise,
Where everything was plentiful;
Where everyone was fulfilled
And could afford their daily bread,
Where cries of pain became instead
Joyful smiles with ease instilled?
© Allen Ansell 2025
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