Cast him not in bronze,
Nor sculpt in pottery clay,
Lay down the chisel
Where the marble bust holds sway.
Better to fold paper
In the Origami play,
So when fame has died,
He can quickly blow away.
In the quiet of early morning,
a dewdrop clings to the edge of a leaf,
a fragile globe reflecting the first light.
It trembles, a breath away from falling,
a brief testament to the night's embrace.
So too, our joys, gathered like rain
in the cups of our hands,
slipping through fingers no matter how tightly closed.
The laughter of children fades into silence,
the warmth of a sunbeam dissolves into shadow,
and words spoken in tenderness
are carried off by the wind.
Yet, in this transience, there's a beauty,
a sharpening of senses to the grace of the ephemeral.
For in the knowing that all is fleeting,
we learn to cherish the moments,
to hold them close,
even as we let them go.
Like the dewdrop at dawn,
glistening and gone.
She pumped the air and whooped,
'The holidays are through!'
She danced a jig, she spun,
and did a moonie too.
The grinning mother yelled,
'They're back to school again!'
But then her laughter died,
she groaned in awful pain
and mopped her furrowed brow,
for she's a teacher now...
written 20th August for Francine's Back to School contest
Short Lived Thoughts
Written: by Miracle man
July 15, 2021
Sometimes like comets thoughts rush by,
as dust bunnies from a troubled mind.
Concerning some moment I might decry,
leaving me, in anguish, questioning why?
These thoughts arrive at an early hour,
and continue not for a time that’s long.
Some, on arrival, from a higher power,
have stirred my voice into virtual song.
B rewing her potions one Halloween eve, Witch Hazel
R eceived a sting from a bee;
E liciting the response of a flyswatter smack.
V ulnerable bee, he lay upon the dark, dank floor.
I nstead of sweeping away, little bee, Witch Hazel
T hrew him into her brew and laughed with glee,
Y a, haha, ha, I’ve got you now, take that for your sting!
The night was brief, its black tent
threatened to fly away from the sunset,
stars gleamed naked, then hid in a half-light.
Between the glimmer, night ran as if hunted.
No one thought this a good sign.
No one blessed the fleeting dark,
no one praised the lingering and early light.
We saw the cornered eyes of backyard critters,
how they backed up into imaginary dens.
We saw the exhumed moon
laid out as it was like a corpse.
We saw it all, and no one mentioned
the neonatal, the premature, the stillness.
You think you’re the best
Your mind is at rest
You love with trust and zest
Believing that deep down he feels the same.
But now I’m afraid
His love could abate
It looks like it's too late
Already in his dreams he calls her name.
[I have to point out that this is not the usual tailed rhyme poem,
it's my own personal layout.]
I laughed today,
in impetuous fits of giggles
that clenches the belly
and ignites every sense
as though it were kindling
with a spark big enough
for my heart to catch aflame
I felt alive, pretty, like a wildflower bloomed
in the wasteland of my soul,
but then I thought of you
and immediately wilted
Words are dying everyday
As short-lived as when imagined
A plead be a beseeching dismay
Yet as lived... where have I been?
Perhaps a little guidance for despair
A foothold for the disappearing grounds
To once more walk with a solemn flare
And nevermore with fear to turn simply around
Yet the more to will, I am not to see
Of words begging a difference for someone to be
A broken faith upon the unfounded me
Remains only a founded me to never be free
Where the world stands, I stand alone
Misguided, misjudged, misunderstood and misgiven
Where I stand, the world isn’t my home
And with solitude... I ask yet to be forgiven
Have I not have words if I may?
As short-lived as forgettably imagined
Where words are dying everyday
And as lived... I could only have been
Fine
beauty
why so sad-
the art nouveau
dream
SOIS BELLE ET SOIS TRISTE Baudelaire ideal that features in much Aret Nouveau
eg Alphonse Mucha Bronze Bust
http://www.cigala-art.co.uk/mucha-lady-bust-bronze-nouveau-sculpture-p-250.html
A summer romantic perfume -
fades into mellow maple shade
'neath
weeping
willow oaks-
drifts of bluebells
bide.
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