If only Autumn Days , were this good , all again
as golden mellow paintings, visual hearts, all explained
as a child walked slate paths, covered in splatters of rain
where he picked purple berries, from muddy , puddled lanes
and his cheeks were as red , as fallen Apples, all new
stuffed in his pockets, his found treasures, a few
he saw the Cottage spiral smoke, for mothers baking bread
smelt wood shavings sweet, from fathers, work shed
for this , is Country Childs World, of 1842
and the 4 year olds wishes, on Dandilion seeds, that he blew
now his mud covered trousers , from ginger cat, who's alone
to the lace covered windows, to the safety
to the safety,
called home
5/12/26 12:47 pm
I am the waking sky.
From ravaged rose,
Vivid violets,
Bleeding blues,
And barbed Blackness.
Every bit of flesh, bone, and blood fills with Colors that sear through even iron-skinned bodies.
Rose-wounds, blood oozing from trust torn out of my chest.
Violet is the world stitched quiet at last.
Blue, sorrow puddled under my splintering ribs born from the nights you belonged everywhere but beside me.
And Black,
The part of me carved out by the blade of your tongue,
Left a cavity where warmth used to breathe.
Cold settles like dust in the hollow of my chest.
But even the darkest nights eventually thin,
And the sun emerges washing the darkness in gold that sings and colors carrying a mercy I never expected.
Each ray finds my shattered body where I fell,
The sun caresses me with warm hands pressing trust into my veins,
Light returning to my eyes,
And softness to my skin.
My book of my inner most heartfelt emotions from my soul,
Sit unseen inside a book I created with my hands, hours of editing, finally created out of love.
Now sits in a shelf, with nobody to seek but me, is this how much my deep life experiences are worth?
Only Jesus has seen, for it was only HIS Holy Spirit which guided my hands to type them onto the paper, my tears unshed puddled up behind my eyes…
Time will tell if I open it back up my SOUL, Jesus help me, as with my past life, I’m Just INVISIBLE………….
Unless it’s positive, all I get is “thanks for sharing thus one” I guess like the song, “It is well, it is well with my soul”
The sky unwraps a silver veil,
Each drop a hymn, so soft, so pale,
As rain begins its tender play.
It drapes the earth in crystal lace,
With every bead, a sweet embrace,
A gentle calm on Christmas Day.
The lights reflect in puddled grace,
Like stars descended, face to face,
In every splash, a dream will stay.
Oh, how I love the rain's refrain,
Its hush more pure than caroled strain,
A holy hush where hearts can pray.
I’ll admit
I’ve
Thought
About it
The moment where
The ground underneath my feet
Reverses
My life
An old film strip
Burning up after the last breath
With the weight
Embedded to my bones
Of mere existence
Leaking from
My skin
Like bubbles racing to the surface
Sharp points
Of windshield glass
Like freckles on my face
Numbing
The feeling
Of lukewarm red
That makes me
Look like
A morbid drip painting
The scissors
They hold cut the one restraint
Holding my body here
Making me
A puddled mess
Of a being
Crushed
Up against
The hardtop
Where my future aspirations
Wishes and dreams
Are now just stains on asphalt
Adrift in dreams while romance reading
Asleep e're night shadows began creeping
She lay puddled in moonlight's rising tide—
Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' at her side
In reverie, Elizabeth stood on the misty moor
for what seemed to her a lifetime of waiting
Held her breath when in front of her he stood
Sighing as Darcy brushed a gentle kiss on her lips
“If you give me rice, I’ll eat today; if you teach me how to grow rice, I’ll eat every day.”
- Quote by Mahatma Gandhi
------------------------------------------------
sprouted, sowed, dressed, transplanted
soil rich, fertile, warm
puddled field, drained well, weeded
panicle to grains
gently harvested
life staple
food
NATURING PEACE
Hungary hates hunting…
Love’s lone lamb looks luscious…
Puddled peace preferred…
The soft clouds of cotton white
Wipe away the tears of the earth
Absorbing the pain poured and puddled below
Swarms of pestilence incubated in muddy melancholic pools of despair
From clean, fresh, white fluff, these clouds absorb the real us
Aging each one to the salt and pepper gray and musky stench of filth
Mop it up
Wring it Out
Over mountain, valley, and field
The dirty emotion and sordid feelings like mop water rain down
Yet at the dawn a clean shining light
The sorrow of the night
Washed away with clear, blue skies and
The crisp wind snap of clothes line white clouds.
Yard Work
Written: by Miracle Man
5/13/2024
The morning has started with a drizzle falling,
my name, the tall grass, seems to be calling.
But a puddled yard,
makes mowing hard,
and daily rains have made mowing appalling.
He visited Simon's mother-in-law, who had a fever.
Did he do so because she was kin of his disciple?
The elderly needed care. He knew this as a healer.
Wasn't their psyche more than their physique what made them ill?
A lesion in reason and logic rots the mind, like rust.
Depression, delirium, dementia, and rifts in moods
Loss of autonomy, grief, loneliness, and lack of trust
Optimism fades like a waning moon, and pessimism broods.
He knew these puddled muddles. Was he a psychoanalyst?
How was he able to read each mind like a telepath?
Wasn't he, for-bye, a universal philanthropist?
Was he not the zenith of extraterrestrial math?
Innocence, like crystal clear streams, flooded from his person.
Wasn't he, after all, the Almighty God's precious son?
I find small groups of words huddled
Bound together and befuddled
Their meanings over time now muddled
Yellowed lies of passing dogs now puddled
Others rant, claim they’ve been born again
Lost within deceptions now and then
Whittling their meanings razor thin
Thus, none can use such words except for them
To form a phrase was once considered art
For open minded thought was at its start
As words would step on stage, play their part
Not caring for the place of horse or cart
For words are but the spindle’s flowing threads
Ink the weaver’s yarns in blues and reds
I swung my mini fridge door wide
Revealing tiny porridge pops and coke
They puddled the shelfs dripping down,
Sticky little oats and fructose
The mess muddied my socks
Soaking my bow and sole
Like a beach of sweaty skittles
Carried by the melting rocks
I raised my knee to my shoulder
To watch sludge fall and splat
Ingraining my mess in the carpet
Compelling my toes to stretch
When the lights go off
When curtains are drawn
When stillness settles here
I lie thinking
It is you swirling in me like feathers in soft winds or letters over an ocean
Like a little girl swings in spring time
Swaying slow
At the bus stops by the ways where vineyards grow
At times you try and hide
Some how your feelings show:
Puddled eyes, swaying hips both arms in a hold,
Drawing circles in the sand with the end of your toes
Over time you became so quiet
I left you in the stillness the nostalgic silence like the lost bow of a violin
Perhaps in time retirements
Perchance someday we'll find it
You fell and wept, I knelt as you bled, there's a scar that I've nursed on the side of your leg
Ja 'quelle
As lightning brights the meadow
And thunder dulls the air;
I feel it still,
A stormy chill,
An aura everywhere.
I wander o'er the pathway
And paddle through the rain;
My bootheels squash
The squelchy wash
Along the puddled lane.
My face refreshed with teardrops
The clouds have wept from high;
They gently wet
My eyes, and yet,
They barely seem to cry.
I dance on midst the moisture
The hail sends down to earth;
I sense the beat
Beneath my feet
And sing for all I'm worth.
But then the fulgid sunlight
Warms the land once more;
I'm home to you
As I step through
A rainbow's archwayed door.
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