Red dawn spreads above the range of hillocks.
A soft breeze scatters the dandelion seeds around.
A soft zephyr, clean and furry, flows like a hymn,
I feel elated, happy to be far from the city’s dust.
The meadow hums, a mild cacophony of sounds.
Bees hover over wild flowers that grow profusely
Beneath the two rows of rough stone walls.
As the sun rays rise up, and petals glow in such a grace.
Larks fly copiously here and there, sometimes resting
On a dark mulberry tree, so full of black berries
A delight for the birds that love the sweet fruit.
A delight for me since I too love the sweet mulberries.
So I sit down on a smooth stone, back to the wall.
I close my eyes just happy to hear nature’s song
No other being will disturb my profound meditation.
All around the meadow, silence reigns in peace.
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
romantic robins
swiftly sway in spring refrains ~
mulberries blossom
They love the leaves—the butterflies,
mulberry for their eggs,
a home and caterpillars' feast,
where adults rest their legs.
Their beauty drawn—the butterflies,
mulberry for their dance,
where beauty mirrors beauty well,
even with fleeting glance.
With weather harsh—the butterflies,
mulberry their shelter,
through chilling winds or blazing heat,
no flight helter-skelter.
When hunger strikes—the butterflies,
mulberry their nectar,
for food, for strength, for energy,
their nose, their detector.
For friendship’s call—the butterflies,
mulberry, their best friend,
in loyalty and harmony,
a bond that will not bend.
Each year I plant an herbal garden
very near a stand of mulberry trees
and every Spring when they're in bloom
they attract butterflies and honey bees.
This morning, as I tended the sweet basil,
a young Monarch landed close to my hand.
Then, a cloud of them swirled around me,
and flew back to the mulberry trees to land.
For that moment I dared not move an inch,
mesmerized by the wooshing of their wings.
It was so memorable, that I'll never forget.
Their humming was like a song Nature sings.
I watched them flutter. Thirty, maybe more
before clinging on to leaves of vibrant green.
Their bold colors of black, orange and gold
looked just like petals as I watched them glean.
I have not seen a mulberry tree,
only the words that spoke to me.
Now I romance its boughs and shade,
where butterflies in beauty wade.
Beneath the hush of ancient skies,
the mulberry tree in silence sighs,
its roots like veins through earthen skin,
where time and memory begin.
A thousand hands have plucked its fruit,
a crimson stain, a whispered truth—
love once lost, love now found,
a tale in berries, dark and round.
Once, Pyramus and Thisbe fled,
where white mulberries blushed to red,
their love, a river, deep and wide,
a vow that even death defied.
And in its boughs, a silken thread,
where caterpillars weave the dead,
cocoons like prayers in golden light,
waiting to dance with borrowed flight.
From hushed decay, the wings emerge,
a breath reborn, a fleeting surge,
butterflies like spirits glide,
ghosts of silk and time untied.
Mauricio, the merry moose
in Lanny Locke’s garden let loose.
He munched on mulberries,
chips, chestnuts and cherries.
The produce he poached was profuse!
His cousin, Carol the cute caribou
consumed cucumber, cabbage and cashews;
and Kory the cute koala
wandered down from Walla Walla
bringing broccoli, beans and barbecue!
Blackberries, blackberries, what’s the big deal?
They’ve too many seeds, and they give me no thrill.
They’re actually tart and they’re only sweet when
placed into a pie. Are they even good then?
Likewise the strawberry is not all that great
except if you eat it along with your mate.
You see how in movies some great lover dips
that berry in chocolate for his lover’s lips.
Think of all berries that you’ve ever had.
Cranberries, mulberries, etc. . . . all bad!
Berries just aren’t BERRY good. From elderberry
to choke(me)berry. And please forget the gooseberry!
Raspberries, boysenberries, and blueberries too.
THOSE are the only three I care to do!
But blackberries, blackberries. What good are THEY?
Unless they are sweetened, I’ll throw them away.
Aug. 6, 2022
For Matt Caliri's Your Thoughts On Blackberries Poetry Contest
a mulberry tree
under dark blue/purple skies
birdsong on the wind
red orb descending
midst the hello and goodbye
the wandering hours
evening breeze caress
sun lurks in shadows of night
mulberries so ripe
The skies are deepest plum,
And the sun's like a cherry,
The dark mysteries beckon,
And birds are in mulberries!
Peach roses soft and creamy,
In rich shadows gone dreamy.
Written on: 6/20/2021
For: ALL YOURS (Jun 22) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Suspicious glances
cast by anxious neighbors
ignore the leers
the sweet mulberries
dance on my taste buds
The air, warm, unmoved, clings to our bodies
Like an old, familiar blanket.
From the west, the light,
A warm amber brew, pours down
And is strained through the leaves of the nearby gums
It fills the veranda and spills through the shuttered windows
In a gentle rippling stream,
To settle thickly on the timber floor.
A lone cicada breaks the stillness
In the drawing room
We sit and chat,
She and I and tea
Passing pleasantries with the milk and sugar.
She rests, motionless, amongst the ornaments
Reflecting the soft glow of late afternoon
An image of her mother’s mother, sepia gold,
Smiling from the sideboard
Fifty years, trapped by the glass
Fifty years cornered by a silver square.
Alive once more, she sits before me
Talking of Mossvale and Mulberries.
Beyond the window, the air,
Dusty with the incense of dry bark,
Hangs lifeless from the branches of the gums,
Where a solitary cicada sings to the setting sun.
The sweet bird songs heard at the break of dawn
Mixed with the sound of sprinklers on the lawn
Neighbors readied boats for bobs in the bay
Morning papers landed in each driveway
Boxy air units were wedged into sills
A mailman in shorts delivered the bills
I rode my bike downhill to feel the breeze
Getting vitamin D was done with ease
Voluptuous housewives gloved in the garden
Black barbecue grills covered in carbon
Thirsty drooping plants on blazing back decks
Lobster red shoulder blades and sunburnt necks
Lunch was a sandwich and chips in the shade
Washed down with a glass of pink lemonade
Money was made from the grass I would mow
Listened to baseball on my old radio
On towels in backyards lounged sun seekers
Chlorophyll stained the tips of my sneakers
The mower’s blade spun like a propeller
Musty scents wafted up from our cellar
Plump purple mulberries there for the pluck
The beckoning sounds of the ice cream truck
Mom cooked supper and the heat was obscene
Hamburgers, tater tots, and cowboy beans
I ate with gusto like a death row man
Napkins aloft from the rotating fan
Symphony by crickets under the stars
Blinking fireflies and candles in jars
In the pale sunshine of a springtime morn,
As fresh as the dawn before it was born,
Such creamy clouds, grace a deep blue sky,
After the midnight of rain has passed by.
Plum purple blooms, leave scented traces,
As butterflies appear in unlikely places,
In hues of green, white, orange and gold,
As bees hum to the drummer in the marigold!
Baby bluebirds peep in tranquil treetops,
While the caress of breezes is felt nonstop.
Plump red strawberries and mulberries glisten,
And you can hear geese honk, if you listen,
As they swim away the hours on placid pond,
Framed by emerald rushes and trees beyond.
Pearly beads are scattered along the grass,
Where countless, fragrant snowdrops mass.
In the sunny days of innumerable births,
That cause gaiety everywhere upon the earth!
DARKNESS GROWS IN THE GARDEN OF PLEASANTRIES
Meandering through the garden of pleasantries,
did you sense, the breathless pant of trees,
or hear, the violin seduction, of Cupid’s sentries,
or pierce the eyes, the blossom spread of luxuries?
Do tell of sandals, chains and locks lost in shrubberies!
O turtle doves, between your teeth, insolent mulberries.
Too soon succumbed to satin skin, fracas of discoveries.
The fruited-fountain of chocolate but noncommittal fudgeries.*
The shrieking tomb of sirens — seagulls sic the maggoty melodies.
The butterfly tresses of yesteryear sans curmudgeon cure of drudgeries.
You thought to toss away her sensuous beauty, with exorbitant lies.
No hope in her sea soaked eyes, salt preservative of glass flies.
4/14/2018
*fudgeries - fakes (made up word)
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