Ark of laughter far from sea amid earth
Hair be it long or short power still stays
Mite of two, widows, others measure worth
Bitters Holiness Hunger forty days
We are born to this life as possible,
and grow by the choices that we create,
right or wrong, obstacle or optimal,
I'm an ark, hair, mite, or bitters, --I wait.
The Voice, The Voice, The Voice of Heaven, state,
Heed Me, Heed Me, a sacrifice be made,
Abraham your son, a high place you'll take,
Issac the choice, you heed my voice, spare blade,
Amongst the thicket nigh a ram has strayed,
I am, that I am, what Heaven has made.
Looking out the window
Of the cancer ward
I see golds and russets
Way off to the distant horizon
Nigh a breeze gently swaying life
As the sun warms all colors
With its honey glow
I let my thoughts wander
Over lush hills and fields
Till peace pervades
And together become one
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on December 11, 2018 for contest A PERSONAL FAVORITE POEM WRITTEN IN 2018 sponsored by CAROLYN DEVONSHIRE - RANKED 1ST
the making of demons
in heavenly cribs
the veil of Truth
covered in Lies
For at first consider
humanity is
and it truly is
at once alive
like life
by the waves
of on high
nigh a nightime
we spread
enslaving
the dead
damned
and
gifted
no reason
no end
by the bay
it floats! it floats!
infinities away
Early morning when I awoke.
The minute that I awoke I was embraced with
an amazing feeling of peace that possessed my soul.
On this early morning, I laid next to my man
The man that I cherished nigh a golden grace.
I sighed as all things aided in my piece of peace.
The house was still.
Not even a squeaking door or a cracking floor
from anxious feet troubled the serenity of the house.
The scent of the magnolia blooms was sent to
me by the way of a summer breeze that trespassed
through my open window.
I stretched and sighed again to the songs of the South;
The crickets rubbing their hind legs.
The frogs croaking from a nearby creek.
The romantic melody of a Lark.
I then laid still;
Until the house got busy.
Until the road became a boisterous beast.
Until my man rolled over and kissed me sweetly.
copyright 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
The recipes have dawdled
In their box for nigh a year,
But now they'll get some brand-new stains;
The holiday is here.
It's time to clean and shop and bake -
From scratch, if you are able -
And then to find that special cloth
To decorate the table.
The wine is waiting to be poured,
The napkins folded neatly;
The soup is bubbling on the stove,
The baby napping sweetly.
When evening falls, we'll gather 'round
With family and friends
And read the oft-told story,
Though we know just how it ends.
And then we'll eat the festive meal,
Familiar and delish;
To do it all again next year
Would be my fervent wish.
Look, now comes the harvest reaping
So don your most passionate clothes
And prepare yourselves for sleeping
For, yonder harvest moon doth glow!
Listen, I can hear her softly sweeping
Bringing with her soft blankets of snow
Cold sister who draws nigh a leaping
For, the north wind has started to blow!
Hurry, her chill comes coldly creeping
And your greenery will cease to grow
You shall miss my warm safekeeping
For, soon my children I too must go!
Timothy I. Brumley
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