Rouge on old grey skin
lustre trying to conceal
yet exposes flaws
MUD
water
mixed with dirt
in early childhood
on my knees happily
I formed mud pies with my hand
“the outdoors was my first kitchen”
no more porch railings
mud daubers are unhappy
seasonal home gone
We love playing in the street
To escape the summer heat
On this day we walk to the park
Feeding chicks who stole our hearts
Suddenly the weather did change
We got caught shoes off in the rain
No need to fret for the animals don’t
Not upset we sing a rainy day song
Splash splash near the duck pond
They take a bath as we carry on
Find a double puddle to splash in
Left foot right foot jump and grin
There’s a rainbow in the sky
And we make great mud pies
A bright day and there’s still sun
Dancing in rain we have much fun
Like crystal tears, soft petals dance and gleam,
While dewdrops stitch stars on morning's silken dream.
Each blossom spins gold wisdom from earth's mud,
As heaven's jewels birth dawn's awakening bud.
Bud blooms like the sun breaking through midnight's veil.
Mud cradles pearls where phoenix tales prevail.
Dream waters mirror souls like liquid glass,
Gleam whispers truth like breath through temple brass,
Through time's vast ocean, songs of light sail on.
frenzied mud dauber
porch railings are no longer
we are the killers
he bores hole in post
angry about the railings
what will they call home
will he sound alarm
will army wasps come to fight
dejected he leaves
murky waters
barren sludge and grunge
until waterlilies rise
AP: 1st place 2025
The driveway is now a swamp of wet muck,
I fear driving any car but the truck,
without four-wheel drive, you’re gonna get stuck;
oh mud season has arrived.
The snow is melting, half-flooding the ground,
to step on the sound brings a squelching sound,
all sorts of fallen branches have been found;
oh mud season has arrived.
The ski hill is empty, snow left in streaks,
with more brown every day, as the sun seeks
every hidden patch, it’s no longer weak;
oh mud season has arrived.
Streams run swollen that are most times sedate,
the waterfalls surge, their flows much too great,
stunning to look on as they plunge and race;
oh mud season has arrived.
I’d like to go out, but it is too soon,
the trails right now would be a muddy doom,
I can only dream of them from this room;
oh mud season has arrived.
But life is back, I see the wading brants,
and the new fawns by the field-edge do prance,
while tawny does look on, somewhat askance;
oh mud season has arrived.
It’s already spring way up in the air,
but as for the earth, it is not quiet there,
so on rural roads, I will drive with care;
oh mud season has arrived.
(Can’t wait ’till it says "goodbye!”)
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood….”
Robert,
You let the split remain unresolved,
and while we stand in awe,
staring at your crossroads
etched in gold and shadow,
do you ever wonder
what lay beyond the path
you did not take?
Even though you say,
“I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
Did the road arch upward,
an unfamiliar melody on the wind?
Or did it tumble into brambles,
a half-forgotten warning?
Even now I see your boots----
Mud-caked, maple-tinged-----
pausing at the edge.
Here’s my advice, if you allow it:
Don’t linger too long
in the pondering.
Step once more
into the thicket, the gravel,
the unknown blaze of paths.
And when your pen hesitates,
push it further
to sketch the forest where both trails end-----
or perhaps where they entwine,
branches brushing like old friends.
Some questions don’t need answers,
but oh, how they crave
a different kind of wandering.
Regarding Robert Frost’s famous poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.
The grown Dove searches for mud
to disparage its mother
who granted them this pure white.
Lord endow me with divine purpose,
help dry this dirt on the earth
a brown ocean, swelling, percolating.
A window pane snaps from the pressure
I remember the day I was born.
I weep, I weep, I weep.
A bird scurries ‘round my neck
it is a little pigeon
it will serve no purpose;
it suffers a century of burden,
the weight of its child.
It weeps, it weeps, it weeps.
it has bore too many
Beautiful, fecund, yet meaningless;
its children will be born in mud.
Rainbow ribbons in her hair
Playing in the grass with no care
Making mud pies in the dirt
Skinny dipping in July no pants no shirt
Playing hide and seek football too
Finger painting pictures under sky blue
Racing the wind playing in the rain
Singing favorite songs pretending to have fame
Riding in the back of an old pickup truck
No seatbelt there on a dare so tough
Catching fireflies and huge June bugs
Sitting by camp fire drinking from a jug
Walking to church for Sunday school
Praying for sinners crazies and fools
Not yet finessed in politically correct
Calling it how you see it no regrets
after spring rain
children stomp in mud puddles
splashing happily
Silk stocking filled with mud was Talleyrand.
With the future of France held in his hand,
He played kibitzer-informed cards with skill,
Maneuvering a Congress to his will.
There once was a Marquis named Talleyrand,
Who loved ladies and a fine sarabande
Smarts from ladies gained as a teen
Helped him escape the guillotine,
Surviving four regimes as he had planned.
Vested in priestly garb this backslidden Bishop
Chose diplomacy over baptism and hyssop.
Though Talleyrand walked with congenital limp,
He was never known as a diplomatic wimp.
Low rounded slick mounds
glistening silvered brown flesh
riverlet veins drain
Your heart remains in the same place where its memories belong to.-
quote by author
Small, close and warm neighborhood. Only a few children inventing toys to play with or games to play at.
Old stone houses on muddy roads, surrounded by bustling farms and a beautiful, wild nature.
Days of happiness that enriched my past and enlarged my soul.
Days running through those years, when the Spring was sunny, rainy and flowery.
When the Summer was very hot with storms passing by.
When the strong wind of Autumn used to open its doors to the harsh Winter.
My beloved refuge where I grew up. A humble village in the deep countryside, where money was little but not the main purpose or reason to enjoy life.
Where the sadness didn't last much, tucked in with kindness and generosity shared with the others.
Oh...My unforgettable village!, you gave us your best until we left you abandoned in your sad ruins where you cry alone.
Only four old people remain in, sitting on the shade of a clock moving forwards so fast.
I wonder if you miss me running full of joy through your meadows. You must wonder if somebody miss you now...Yes, somebody does!.
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