An occupation is a narration
telling one’s story
in all its glory ...
Though o’er the narration's duration
~ it may undergo alteration
Sharing my love narration,
Causing much elation,
Ignoring cant negation,
Here tis love central station,
Harmless joy aeration,
Heart is your curation,
Pixie dust your vocation,
Love needs no stagnation,
Evolving, with illustration,
Never has privation,
Revoked our sublimation,
Scribbling this summation,
"Pour blessed love libation!"
We stand a few feet from the battering, foaming waves,
they can foretell if hail or rain is coming to scatter us...
as we run for cover to the beach house color rust;
should we wait for those swollen clouds to bust?
To get frightened is to imagine an immediate evacuation,
or even an illusional mirage from deadly hydration;
peacefulness is the narration of unrealistic writers,
not of the cautious fishermen securing their rocking boats!
Any other day along this crowded and vibrant bay all comes alive
with this sweet song, " Be mindful of today, tomorrow is unknown. "
How true it sounds to our ears when notes and voices thrive;
we look beyond this small island: so endless seems the clear horizon!
Storms may come and go, but the scenery remains intact;
people who were born here and built their homes, stay here:
unless they are forced by dire reasons, they'll unwillingly leave:
someone says," My grandad built this house with excessive sweat! "
I am Name, the leader of the cast.
If all should fall, then I shall be the last.
Invisible, beyond what players see,
The play would be for nought, if not for me.
And so we're at the start, where I begin.
For them, I stand without; for you, within.
Forgive me please and don't berate
My dismal voice when I narrate,
The many poems I've written well,
To bring to you my tale to tell.
I like to write my thoughts in rhyme
And find I have an easy time,
To form each stanza with a flow;
My words go smoothly to and fro.
Then comes the time to say aloud,
The words composed to a small crowd.
My voice will crack with croaks and gasps:
A rusty gate, it swings and rasps.
New England twang with words that clip,
Come squirming through my palsied lips.
I envy Brits posh english speech.
Their phonics cannot be impeached.
I practice lines a hundred times,
Until they sound just barely fine.
Then try and try and try again,
But still I reach that faltered end.
So bare with me in my attempt,
To narrate words in voice unkempt.
I'll forge ahead and not give up,
To spout my spiel and fill your cup.
In penning this, yet speaking that;
It's better left where it was at.
On pages written to be read
And not aloud with angst and dread.
Nature's willingness and narration
of winds blowing in from all points
Earths' compass tells us west to east
and from north to south
Wind breezes' goes howling
through trees everywhere
as nature begins
her new narration in water
Water flowing onward
filling Rivers and Oceans
with great wonders
of life in abundance
Ocean tides often rise above
and waves are push on shores
... signaling forward motions'
and slowly back again
into the ocaen
from which it came and formed.
roaring rocks gushes
down the mountain side
Winds goes howling
through trees
And nightime follows
drifting in on
a gentle breeze
Domestic nature silently
resting with ease
Climates are warming
Our sun giving
off a dazzling display
of colorfull rays
reflecting off the blue sky
Days are left to last longer