Alas, all this pile, has not got much sense,
Ha’pence for all the lot;
Had but a clue I been taught,
I’d not compose utter rot.
The plane pierced into the pile, exploded loudly, Human fleshes every where .
It is time for us to embrace our differences, enjoy each other’s cultures
A time to rejoice in the diversity God gave each of us to admire and revere
We need to gather together, teach each other our mantras and our songs
Tell our folk stories, our relative stories, our experience stories.
To pile ourselves into a stone wall, not to keep people out
But as an invitation to others to bring us into their light;
To share their stones and stories, unity is love and love is unity.
Rotted wood splinters
Shiny beetles run amok
Mushrooms guard the door
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
old and alone,
sitting on a wood pile,
making it his own..
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
listening and wondering.
Why has the sky grown dark?
Could that be thundering?
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
here comes the rain..
Fur now soaking wet thru an
orange matted mane..
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
drenched as can be.
Are you waiting there for
a free meal from me?
Pile of dried branches
fuel for October’s bonfires—
Haven for wildlife
Can I be exonerated
For the crimes I never commited?
There’s no one to ask, I’m afraid
Which doesn’t make me uplifted
And its nowhere to go, I’m unseen
Cause my passport is shining too bright
Unwelcomed, I see the screen
But never I saw the light,
Of that special hour, before the evening
Covers your land, my reader
No rest for the wicked, believe me
Wicked isn’t me, but a leader
Of lemmings with human faces
Though I don’t belong to that file
I never cared for rat races
But for you I’m of common pile
Concerning about your peace
You cannot see what you’re not shown
It’s not an eyesight disease
But a mental thing, still unknown.
When bottom of pile
there are those who are on trial
this has been our style
birds fall hunger-wise...
before
cold winters shortages...
today a woodpecker ate...
such an
overfill it had to lay on the...
feeder for ten minutes till...
its throat
cleared so that it could fly...
it was such a 'pile he ate' that...
it's
called a 'pileated' woodpecker...
stans sand
The words are waterfalls down the pages,
Fluidly descriptive of time and place;
Pieces of text from different ages,
The words finding meaning in their own space.
They live in the books within the covers
And tell their stories of life through the years ..
Of family, friends and long-lost lovers,
Of lifetime experience, hopes and fears.
The books bring to mind a life at its best,
Simple and quiet, relaxed and at peace;
Those pages of print giving times of rest
Recalling the hours that will never cease.
Memories of times piled high on the shelf,
Those days to be shared or just for yourself.
The poor man is still in grief;
He was being linked with a thief!
A real big blow to A Chief…
Thrice he’d tried a spiced-up beef
But the glad bites turned out brief;
“Spreading wide is wrong belief;
To that beef holds no relief.”
He’d be leaving for some reef,
There to not be reaching beef:
Agreed place of his exile;
To stay there not for a while…
No one wants again his guile…
His case files: Stacked-high pile.
Leaves-piles are seen plenty in our place,
During summer or winter or spring or autumn's race;
Our games of any sort in fall are incomplete,
Without hiding within or beside heap of leaves-suit;
Jumping within leaves-piles is true fun,
As though slipping through bed-sheets velvet-spun;
Sometimes their dry-hard petioles poke,
Who minds it, when exhilaration constantly does provoke?
Occasionally from under a stray leaf a disturbed spider creeps,
Or a snail, in surprise, from within its shell peeps;
We continue, as though we're not worried at all,
Who, for this sake, can afford to miss true fun of the fall?
Competitions are parts of such pile-jumping,
Who does faster and finer and without any bumping?
Who lesser shatters the labyrinth around the heap?
Who could longer within the warm pile sleep?
Thus goes our jumping and leaping game till moms call,
Each one, as though deprived of great treasure, does crawl;
We impatiently wait for a new day to dawn soon,
That we might resume our games within leaves-dune…!
08 September 2022
Fall Flavors Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
The wind whirls
Around the trees
To gather their foliage
Around their base.
Brown and red
With remnants of summer
In a sprinkle of green.
I feel a sudden
Rush of ecstasy
Jumping in a pile of leaves!
I land on my back
In this textural bliss
Hearing them crunch
As they soften
My landing.
The child within
Cheers with delight
Jumping
In a pile of leaves.
Written September 3rd 2022
For the "Fall Flavours" contest
Theme chosen: Jumping In A Pile Of Leaves
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
A poem, lovely as a compost pile,
One lingers, sifts the elements awhile.
At first unclear, not all is evident;
Sharp images emerge as time is spent.
Though pieces, separate, may cause chagrin,
When taken as a whole, beauty's within.
To mull, to stew, to tease suggestions out
Though time elapses, ere they take shape, sprout.
For oft, a new direction is deduced,
Organic thoughts are grown, notions produced.
A poem such as this is never spurned,
But contemplated often, gently turned.
————-
FIRST PLACE WINNER
For the "A poem lovely as a" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Margarita Lillico
Written 03/03/2022
Before me is a pile of bricks.
Some so handsomely carved from granite and quartz,
Fit for the construction of any deserving community.
And some are made of mud and straw, dried in the sun,
Thumb prints of this world and even a few of my own.
These bricks are mine to carry.
Beautiful or not, they are all heavy, but it is an honor to stack them,
I shuffle to and fro in the brickyard, trying not to let them sink in the mud.
Sometimes so exhausted, so sore, not knowing where the next one will go,
And then I see your face, the way you looked at me when we first fell in love.
The bricks begin to change.
Though the work is hard the bricks soften in my hands,
They lighten as does my heart when you hold me, when you are near.
The bricks become warm to the touch, as though they are coming alive,
Much like my senses when I see you smile, when I hear your laugh.
The bricks are like doves.
I know the bricks are the foundation of my life,
But when I carry them with you, they float into place with fidelity and care.
And they fly from my mind in the beautiful sunlight,
When I am with you, so vulnerable and yet strong, together as one.
I love you.
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