Morning thoughts of you roses full of dew
gardens full of summer love, sweet romance
here inside your arms we rebirth brand-new
like the morning sun when it starts to dance
Aborning sunlight cortef hours .... loved,
like the pied colors of a rainbow burst.
glancing tinted shades two petals englobed
to the loving hands of time, we come first.
Inside this garden youthful hours of truth
reborn like the seasons we live nonetheless
despite of the winter mulched in vermouth
we pair up nicely, ... to nature's headdress
Morning blushes her cheeks and we turn right,
like airborne angels, at the cusp of night.
Locked inside a summer dream that never ends
I am a breathing tree, a pushing flower, a seedling
Hemmed in by a sun that shines and never spends,
I am a rose in a garden, filled with mystical healing
Enfolded in the hour I am a sunny season of joy
laughing, giggling, scintillating, playing with the wind
Concealed with beauty that never ends nor deploys
I am June, July and August, rushing in without rescind
Immersed in the scent of sweet mulched fruits
I am an apple in the orchard of crimson cherry red
Soused in heat I dip into pacific waters find my route
I am all the things you can imagine in your head
Locked inside a summer dream that never ends,
I am hemmed by a sun that shines and never spends .
leaves by lawn mower
shattered across open yard
gathering their thoughts
Mulched into the ground
giving some life to old soil
tattered scattered leaves
I'm going back to April,
going to watch Spring chew through winter,
watch the sun,
rake over the dead heaps of the thawing.
I may have to take a night train to get there.
April is way back behind the frozen tree line,
Sometimes I think I can hear it
digging through the darkness.
For a while
I'll watch the bouncing bleating lambs,
say goodbye forever to some of them,
go fishing for warm winds.
The last train to January will not wait,
I cannot be late,
or I'll be mulched into bonemeal,
and spread over this hard cold winter,
for the few remaining sparrows.
Origami gifts fledglings multiple
Stork sling incubates infant hatchery
Holds pine seed offspring horticultural
Burst dirt celebrates cedar jamboree
Invisible drive to thrive, hormonal
Reverse javelin sapling spear Jarvis
Pin bend Pilates practice jovial
Christmas bonus brings bountiful harvest
Silken sway, acres of muscular maize
Youthful juice under crisp skirt harem
Masters of last year crushed in hasty haze
Mulched during terrain turn over mayhem
Lake levitator long necked swan mascot
Lays Faberge eggs in reed bloom jackpot
16th November
Manyfest
The happiest day of October
was the one when she wore her little red hat
Off to the woods we went hand in hand like songbirds in flight;
The sun in all its glory spilled its applesauce grin
all over my baby and I as we caught a fistful of leaves in our hands,
and made them fly. . .
Diving right in we buried our arms in a pile of leaflets
oh what a thrill!
We sunk below the fire brick colors of russet yellow and brown,
and inhaled the mulched flavors of earth for all their worth ;
It was the most momentous day of my life,
my little girl was five and I just had to memorize her smile.
Her, a colorful piece of art an Autumn portrait,
me, a weary soldier about to be deployed;
The first thing she did when I returned
was hand me a crumpled leaf then said,
"I saved it for you daddy "
As I knelt at her side I buried my face in a sea of red curls
it was then that I knew, I was finally home.
Sept 7 2022
# 1 Jumping In A Pile Of Leaves
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name Fall Flavors
Quote: I don't want a perfect life I want a happy life
Children tumbling out of bed
coffee dripping from my old faded percolator
Stockings hanging from the shower curtain
mother's laughter from across the miles
Husband's wet kisses and the shuffle of feet
scraped toast, slamming front doors
The smell of mulched leaves
the way the sun slants over my kitchen window
I don't want a perfect life, just a happy one
Empty cafes and smokescreen writes
pulp fiction and doggie smiles and treats
eggs over easy and difficult puzzles to solve
hugs and kisses and fun between the sheets
tea for two, I love Lucy, and more dreams
then I can ever dream of, ...just a happy life,
nothing more
Walking on sunlight, spongy and soft like the grass
sauntering on the moon, blue cushioned bounces of joy
stepping on stars, silver bursts of happiness all around
flying with eagles, notorious wings of power and thrust
climbing an oak, filaments of wood on your tongue
entering soil, we feel like we are mulched like flowers
if paper airplanes float on water as well as sail ships
then why do we need a solid stern
take the slow ride home and loose your earth power
it will surprise you what is real and what is not
you will find that what is not is actually there
and what is real, can always be forgot...
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, only foundations and rubble
partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
Dead pigeon smudged into rot,
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
Bacon rinds and coffee grinds
among the weeds;
a jumble of parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off!
Alone, looking at the naked pen-lady,
the boy seeing her more as a doorway
than any plaything. A threshold
to curiously push against.
light outside my front door
like a face
the end of a long day
ends in darkness
a friend died
a month ago
but no one said why
I sing a song for him
at the place
where we used to do karaoke
I pretend to be another
I shed my skin
laundry lies
on the floor
my laptop plays scenes
for my many lives
a refrain
a love song
as it lives beyond
my dreams
leaves mulched
the ground takes in
remnants of summer
in stillness of night
sounds of footsteps
and conversations
in my front yard
I look out the door
nobody’s there
Golden smiles mulched in memory, sweet cuvee
sipping it soberly I adhere to the fading of day
When night arrives to shut the curtains in solid
I lose all transparency and my thoughts un-lid
Immersed in the bittersweet moments we once shared,
I find comfort in the knowledge that we were well paired
Sponsor Line Gauthier
Contest Name BITE SIZE POEM no29
acorns fall, unfold
on tall pines
everything feels bare
(Autumn has a way of muting colors of summer then coating them with
mulched earthly tones. It all happens overnight, or so it seems.)
strokes of paint
on canvass of old
Autumn shades
(When Autumn arrives I ready for art by muting the colors with a
dip of my brush. Imagination never lacks when Autumn is around)
Oct 28, 2021
Mulched in latent sunshine, the language of trees speak to me softly,
like the first gentle rain of May. Drenched in full dew the Marigolds
concealed from the heat scorches of July, thrives in a garden nook.
True to their nature sturdy and strong with scent, they grace us with
orange fires, like true beauties that they are. It is a special kind of
August this year, one that has ripened into a real God send.
Warm days and cool evenings are a welcome sight.
Two months ahead from June, August sits closer to the promised
Autumn with its reds and orange hues.
It is a prime picking month for Apricots, Cherries, and Watermelons.
What a joy it is to welcome this beautiful month, with hope in our
hearts. Let us live out August and make great memories, so that when
September comes around, we can sweetly remember the magic colors
of one beautiful passing summer.
Mystic Rose
Night roses dipped in purkinje, tendencies of blue
lost inside this dream I urge the winds to carry me
onto the hammocks of the night where antic roses lie,
moonlit soaked and mulched aside a big blue moon ;
Festoons of flowers strung across the midnight sky
scented florette boutonnieres of Saints and Gods
Angel wraps and gauzy shawls caressing softly stars
lost in a shimmer high above the sea , I am nigh
In exploration I am closing in, onto sweet allay
loosening the strings of yearn for my turtle dove
here in home sweet heaven, timeless as a rune
soaked in purkinje, eternally making room.
My uncle took me fishing.
He’d smoke his favorite briar
Stuffing the cherry blend in with stubby
Welsh fingers more suitable for digging coal,
Than compacting mulched tobacco leaves.
A line taut between his index finger and his thumb,
He took a thready pulse of a line strung along the pole.
He told me stories of his growing up:
Painting my grandfather’s car ruined by feathers
Blown in from a cock who’d recently been plucked.
He would hand the pole to me to relight his pipe, he said.
And fumble among the hundred pocket vest
Pockets for his Zippo lighter
I liked surreptitiously to smell
And play endlessly with clicking of its top.
A trout would tug my line, bolt arching up
Above the water’s edge and topple back to tug again.
I’d play it back and forth until I played it up on shore.
And put it in a basket made of hardened wicker weave.
Some men fish for fishing's sake and others to make fishermen. (2/7/02)
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