Not knowing where Time begins
and ends...I suppose, we could be
anywhere? And if Eternity is true,
well, what does it matter?
So, let’s say that, for now, I am here
with you, and you with me – and all Time
is in the moment...then we are beginning
and end and eternity together.
You speak of End Times. While my life
is one of beginnings; this morning was
Sunrise...and in the evening will be Star
Rise – and I will love you even more
and not less.
Moonlight is liquid – didn’t you know?
A sable brush feathering from sunset, how
we sort of saturate the canvases of one and
other, transverse, cleansing and freshening
our borderlines. Let us paint love tonight.
Using fingers and Tongues, speaking ours
in a primal way
a child-like language of fond and far purer
gibberish.
Eight beautiful lines .
Sponsored by Constance La France
Posted 28 th March 2025
~~~
Of all the portraits on the wall
I gaze in awe , I stand and stare
Her gentle smile has me in thrall
A maiden, pretty, young and fair
Her features tinged with rosy blush
Compelling eyes and curling hair
A masterpiece from sable brush
Her beauty rich, beyond compare
Colourful meadow on summer day
Blue cornflowers vie with wild primrose
Perfect poppies with elegant sway
Peaceful place where beauty grows.
Artist ponders this habitat
Colours perused with critical eye
Contentment under wide-brimmed hat
Silent he paints with blissful sigh.
Meadow shimmering under sun
Aromatic perfume does beguile
Canvas reflects what nature has done
Sable brush paused for short while.
Pixabay image: Karsten Bergmann
The unwitting days of Autumn,
And the carefree days of Fall—
They bid farewell to Summertime,
And without a care, at all.
And were the Fall to think a thought,
Whatever would it be?
Other than to contemplate
Which of all the leaves to free.
For She harbors no resentments,
Owing not a single debt—
She travels on a balmy breeze,
Free of worry, or regret.
Autumn has no aspirations,
No account, nor purse to fill—
Autumn gently takes a sable brush
Turning red both wood, and hill.
Still the majesty of Autumn,
Comes again, though never stays—
How I envy Her oblivion,
And Her unpretentious ways.
And though Winter steals her color,
Turning amber fields, to white;
Autumn—if for but awhile—
Turns my worries to delight!
~Once upon a rhyme, many years ago~
a charm of wordsmiths gathered on an emerald mountain
took dreamy strolls on piney paths along its golden crown
dipped their wits and winsome in a pastel-painted lake
while sun and shadow played a game of enchanted charades.
The moon unchained a spray of applauding stars
from the muses' hearts, the gemstones gently flowed
like a rush of songs from a bevy of meadowlark
Shakespeare's ghost stirring just beyond the glow.
All the while the old poetess listened quietly
her novella etched in the eyes and beech bark hands
seeing things the green sprigs would never see
her cane tapping stardust into an empty hourglass...
The coals slipping silently into quiet blush
as sonnets wove seamlessly upon a sable brush.
A ruby-throated angel fanning poetic vows
sealing us to our muse in a jaded stand of boughs...
We bid farewell and made promises we'd never keep.
Carving our weighted hearts into the shag bark of memory.
In my distal conception you shine like a lucent star
whose touch fondles the fret and strings of my guitar.
An image worth painting in oils with my sable brush,
your voice like the recherche love song of a thrush.
You are the faint break of day in dawn's somber skies.
A sanctum of refuge in times of angst and weeping eyes.
My ardent lover, seducing me with each lustful thought.
You are life's pulse beating rhythmically within my heart.
If I am blinded tomorrow, visions of you I shall not lack.
And if I were entrapped in a world of boundless black,
wavering shadows would not fill my heart with fright,
for with you at my side, I would not have need of sight.
No demands would I make, but humbly I would beseech
you to please make me aware that you're within my reach.
You are the assuasive waves that quell my restless soul
and I, a brigantine moored in the shallows of your shoal.
November 12, 2022
2022 Marathon Mile 20 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
On the shaded side
of her morning room,
invisible and silent,
I watch at the window.
Noon, softened by the pane,
spotlights
the dazzle white of art paper
held taut by azure glass pins.
An alchemist of sorts,
she mixes colours into shades
in search of the perfect hue
to express a memory
tucked neatly away
like a piece of mending.
A sable brush dips into an old Gerber jar
filled with muddied water.
Deep brown strokes,
the peach tree grows as it once did
in her garden, resplendent,
wreathed in promise.
While the light lasts
she sits patiently creating.
Rapt in delicacies of tone.
A life far apart from mine;
now transparent, waning,
She drifts across the afternoon
into my reverie.
Chased mercilessly
over well- worn tar
palpable loss pushes
a sable brush
dunked in dread
a furious deluge
of fear
oozes out
blackens every inch
of familiar landscape
what if’s
eat through
the still static blue horizon
making a meal
of unborn dreams
slaked only by
hastily grabbed
history
coupled with
ragged spirits
that desperately
haul hope north
safe haven
on strange soil
still dark hours
away
~ For Vienna ~
There once bloomed a Lotus Flower
whose tears mingled with an evening shower.
I saw her smile then slowly wilt and die
In billowy clouds I search for her in the sky.
If I could hold a rich sable brush
I'd paint the pink of her soft blush
upon my canvas, each petal's fold
of her beauty and grace I did behold.
Thoughts of loving her invade my head.
It was from her beauty that I was fed
as a koi swimming in her pond below
where she lived before the Winter snow.
Lovely Lotus, on sage stem of femininity,
the allure of her fragrance was fatal to me.
I remember it though she's gone from sight.
In dreams, she returns to me night after night.
No Geisha was fairer in form or embellished face
then her bloom on velvet throne, I did once embrace.
Purest pearl white petals, she was a work of art.
Lotus, I'll always remember her in the depth of my heart.
A canvas washed with pastel hues
In palest pinks and liquid blues
Perfection seen through Monet’s eyes
Recounting where his genius lies
The lilies floating on the lake
The water, greenish blue opaque
A fluid mix of subtle tints
A flowing dream with fragile glints
This work of art from sable brush
Perception, depth, a hazy blush
This masterpiece both cool and warm
All bound up in poetic form
To gaze in awe, to stand and stare
To find oneself transported there
The tranquil view, unbroken, whole
Will heal the heart, rebuild the soul
The peace, the calm, the beauty rare
The artist’s gift for all to share
Margaret Foster- 21st September 2011
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