I paint a smile on my face, mid-poem the smile
begins to crumble.
Who are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my laughter.
The brush falls from my hand, now I sketch in charcoal -
teeth gritted.
Wishing to portray the sun rising over a pastured valley,
struggling for sunrise hues,
plucking eyebrows with frustration.
hands snatch up an artist's palette to mix and blend,
to gather together a comic image of a free-willed poet,
a notion both ridiculous and profound.
Shaking a shaggy head, splashing on a new grin
the valley explodes into light,
a rising sun rains down its golden radiance,
the canvas reflecting each shining word.
Alas among these sparkling sounds,
Deadhead's Moths emerge through the verdancy,
they also are grinning, as this poem is captured
by an always hovering, dismal shade.
Once more a drear charcoal bleed's through
a paper reality,
doggedly painting a clownish grimace,
as joy and sadness merge and mingle.
We met on the seam
between two drownings,
his cuff snagged in the kelp,
my mouth lined with moss.
He grinned
like a man who'd forgotten the surface,
held out his hand like a memory.
I took it.
We spun a waltz—
water-logged feet brushing
the roof of the wreck,
the nape of our need.
My dress leaked its scales,
his coat shed pastured wool,
each step stirring
the schools of ash-bright fish
undulating in rhythm.
When the tide pulled harder,
he didn’t let go.
When the tide pulled harder,
neither did I.
What else could we do
but dance,
until the water conceded—
we were breathing inside her.
By Your mercy, Lord I’m secured
Your providence can’t be measured
You’ve placed me in a stable job
For my needs and for all my love
Divine protection is assured.
For transgressions, I know I’m cured
In God’s words, I graze - laid pastured
I’ve peace, hope and patience at prob
By Your mercy!
In my vocations, now tenured
Lord, in your love I was allured
Placing me in your precious cob
You graced my goals, I never slob
In your wisdom I was nurtured
By Your mercy!
May 5, 2022 9.29pm
www.howmanysllables.com
8-8-8-8-8/8-8-8-4/8-8-8-8-8-4
Jude 1:2
May mercy and peace and love be multiplied to you.
Hebrews 4:16
Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
Your Favorite Theme
Contest Judged: 5/12/2022 12:06:00 PM
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Place 10 (10 single w)
*Image of Horses Nature by Pixabay.
Some Paradise Where Horses Go
"Somewhere, somewhere in time's own space
There must be some sweet pastured place
Where creeks sing on and tall trees grow
Some paradise where horses go"
~~by Stanley Harrison
Where linger they midst verdant green,
Brung more to this a simple scene,
Placate the calm as horses still,
A light breeze whisk a daffodil,
They frolic and roam when they need,
Rivers and greenfield be their meed,
Tameless breed in their happy realm,
Where their faithful kind steer their helm,
Grazing the countries hills and vales,
An opened book for living tales,
In posing splendor statuesque,
Trail thoughts endeavor picturesque,
Calls of horses in nature pause,
Within its wake of emptied stalls,
Romp free and wild in blithe courses,
A paradise for all horses.
2020 March 07
*3rd Place*
Some Paradise Where Horses Go
~~Michelle Faulkner: Judged 2020 April 20
In late summer.
They walked along the red brick sidewalk.
The bricks sunk into the ground, long ago.
Leaving grass and red patches, to show.
Branches from the apple tree, hung low.
They picked apples above the sidewalk.
In early fall.
Wildflowers flowered along the way.
Blooms were bright purple, red, and blue.
Cows in the pasture and new grass grew.
Leaves from tall trees past them, blew.
They collected leaves while going the way.
In cold winter.
They walked the car track, making the path.
Snow came to rest on tree limbs, now bare
The snow covered the leaves, with care.
The white field had no, cows there.
They walked behind snowplow, making the path.
In new spring.
Wildflowers flowered along the road.
Blossoms bloomed with limbs, leaning.
Cows pastured with new grass, greening.
Trees spread new leaves with, meaning.
They walked to school, down the road.
Even then, as herds of winds pastured on boundless water; -
Even then, as mountains began to shake, the earth cracked, and by the rough, sharp as swords blades of grass
various monsters started crawling -
- Clouds, carefree clouds played on the sun. Delicate babish forms! - sophisticated
outlines! - who needed them?
The savage, who ate up raw meat, watched them for a long time with incomprehensible eyes
and unknowingly sniffed a flower that was like a thistle.
by Pavlo Tychyna
in "Instead of sonnets and octavs"
http://www.yuryzavadsky.com/tychyna/zsio.html
And the word flew forth from the parapet gleaning as it went
Flying through the history the sounding had been sent
Touching, rolling, reaching strong
It was matter, spoken song
Everything is made by words, the wise
Speak forth the words that mark the skies
Heaven sent, their words are bent to steer the errant stranger right
Never falling to the ground, even finding paths at night
Silver crystals, bonded lovers, fir trees softly bend
All are made by messages spoken by the wind
Tenacious time, the pastured land, teeming with lament
The Word will find the people there and brings them to the tent
I arrive early for the meeting.
Row upon row of chairs
face forward, like a flock of sheep,
nose to tail, waiting for a shepherd.
My grandmother raised sheep,
cows, pigs, geese, and children.
Grandpa buckled under tuburcolosis,
leaving her seven kids to raise.
"Waste not, want not," served well
as a mantra over rugged paths,
and pastured her fleecy days.
With no aid from government,
church, neighbor, or relative,
she prevailed where others failed,
sharing the bounty garnered
from those wooly mammals
of endless grazing.
As these empty chairs fill,
what shepherd will lead us
into the fold of words;
power words for change,
wisdom words for growth,
magic words for dreams,
with teeth piercing to the core,
strong jaws for chewing,
and sensitive tongue
to taste those other words
floating around these chairs
of tail-wagging writers?
A Letter to Mr. Frost
I walked again with Mr. Frost
‘cross dew dampened lea
quietly gave thanks to him
just for inviting me.
I gazed at leaf and tree and limb
the beauty that he saw in them
resembling lovers, children, dreams
serenaded by clear pastured streams.
I skipped through fields
followed footprints bolder
down hardscrabbled paths
past boulder on boulder.
We stood in the cold
lonely darkness in white
dreading the miles
left to travel that night.
We took the less traveled
so that we could seek
the duplicitous meaning
of that tongue in his cheek.
John G. Lawless
5/29/2014
Soft, the powdery feet
Scamper now along the street
Blanketed in sleet
White socked windy feet
Stretched under winter's soft sheet
Of ice thin deceit
Soft now the winds bleat
And stagger through the cold wheat
All footprints delete
Sucking the clouds teat
The pastured winds softly bleat
Winter's flock is sleet
Bright sun has no heat
To melt winter's powdered feet
Or gnaw the snow's sheet.
They say he was the devil,
in whispers, not out loud—
the Brahma bull no one could ride,
his name was ol’ Black Cloud…
Many a cowboy mounted up,
an’ many a cowboy tried,
but the bull was like white lightnin’,
an’ a couple cowboys died.
Snortin’ an’ a slobberin’,
red-fire burnin’ in each eye,
bellerin’ to each rider,
“Better kiss yer kin goodbye!”
Off his back the cowboys flew,
landin’ hard upon the ground,
then scramblin’, if they’s able
‘fore ol’ Black Cloud turned around—
As if dismountin’ everyone
from atop his hairy hide
weren’t enough to brag about—
round an’ round he’d stride;
Shakin’ back ‘n forth his head
as if to tell the crowd,
“I’m givin’ ya fair warnin’,
don’t mess with ol’ Black Cloud!”
No cowboy heard the buzzer,
tho’ he sometimes rang their bell—
the bull they tried so hard to ride,
was shot straight outta hell.
I hear they pastured Black Cloud
an’ put him out to breed,
hopin’ that he’d pass along
his hellish devil’s seed.
For there never was a Brahma,
retired with such a score,
as the bull, Black Cloud from Texas—
he tossed all ninety-four.
You land that bare your baron hills and alabaster skies
Pastured fields of emerald green, the roman's left behind
Golden meadows stand arrayed, a tapestry unfolds
The air of medievel thoughts, a mystery of old
As I look yonder to the east a shepard tends his sheep
for you a nation not so learnt,your beauty you must keep
My dancing thoughts oh land of song, the harp and all who sing
with poetry and bairds that long to keep the love she brings
All through my journey's mile to mile and many leasons learned
oh! wales my love I promise you to you I will return.