Hand on hand rest, I given a thistle
Forgive the word by the flaws in whistle
Tarry you and carry,no-more longer I
Dripped you the tear of slouching eye
In the mountain of fall layered in gild
And golden wattle suited into the barren field
The swore i remembered the long before
I placed over you that i never hold anymore
A stolen merry gyring within your quietness arm
Against the same lea and your terrible charm
Saddening and shrilling cries on my chest
And felt burnt by the chilly and hanging crest
O' what is meant to be sorrow i forgot
It is so where you were biding a lot
I the varlet flee to where we never meet
And is now your joy undimmed and sweet
In shrilling silence, my moans of defiance subside;
Falling tears no one hears, drop and drop, midst my drear.
In all these years, I've never cried the way I've cried;
Each drop shatters the silence in echoes of past years.
No sun shines today; even the heavens mock my pain,
A bitter cold that scolds the lover, borne you away
And stole you back from those angels in their jealous vein.
Within his sepulcher, in darkest silence, my love will reign.
Silence
Nine long weary months waited in distant awe with a cradle,
Empty ears of motherhood longing for the long shrilling cry—
Sound
Speak me your songs
and I'll reply with your bone's deepest chills,
your blood's chilling boiling point,
and your hearts shrilling aches
This, is where it began
A scream
Blood curdling
An amalgamation of acid and iron
Coagulates my blood
Mother
Instinct seizes
Heart racing
Legs race faster
Thoughts race out of hand
A gun to her head?
No time for weapons
Fists will do
Around the corner
My eyes catch glimpse
five golden corners
two solemn eyes
Mother
One word resounds
From shrieking lips
No
Over and over
Over
And
Over
That word
His badge
Her sobs
His gaze
Say one shrilling word
Her lover
My father
My father
Gone
Shrilling seagulls spreading broad wings
are bound for another flight into infinity;
unlikely us who perceive fear and adversity,
they know how to conquer boundaries:
and as soon as daybreak begins, they don't wait
but venture further than hazy horizons
with a straight line that guides navigators
on their trail until they vanish from limited sight.
Was Columbus or Vespucci more fearless than bold seagulls?
Didn't they defy storms and pushed forward to match their grit?
Their zest for discovery never threw them into irrational wit;
they goal was to project a vison and turn it into daydreams.
Had there been voluptuous women to weaken their quest,
there would have been none to behold other than deep regret;
and unlikely us who fall for shallow desires and accomplish little:
we ignore seagulls and navigators that are brave and yet fragile.
No harmful or irksome thoughts
stir this mind to absolute madness,
and away from annoying, frequent sounds:
only peacefulness soothes irritated senses;
I may fall asleep and dream
in a state of false reality,
letting the fanciest fantasy
enter the bloodstream!
The crimson sunset arising over the wind-swept moor
alleviates the mood of daily woes such as this murmur;
the torrid day, unlikely a dry desert, gives into a cool breeze:
nothing is heard above and under but the shrilling of a geese!
All the joyous smiles flashed by others were missed by me,
and the craving was stuck into my throat unable to spit it out
and feel the relief I needed to carry me through a painless night;
firebugs aren't pretty butterflies, they glow and suddenly flee!
Soul's laugh soul's cry
Soul's live soul's die
But what of the soul's of trees
Sipping soil in which we bleed
Nature uses our body to feed
Colorful tears shed are leaves
Falling like a ballet in breeze
Whimsical dramatic blue melody
Trees that stand as nations fall
Despite wars in lands they stand tall
Hearing all our tales bittersweet
Fearing our own power in peak
Chopping trees down despite need
Shrilling sound of dying greenery
The soul's of men hang low
Hanging then during Jim Crow
Brown bodies lynched from branch
Trees do scream in this land
But we ignore, don't listen at all
Animals we are and sure to fall
If we don't learn to hazel hear
Trees that cry colorful leaf tears
I didn't drink the brew
because it made me twitch,
and break out in hives,
every where I itched.
She cackled real loud, a
high shrilling pitch,
and hit the broom stick
with a switch, and flew
away in the sky with out a glitch.
Must still be the season of the witch.
"Snow loves the forest and trees that he kisses them, sweetly,
covering them in a white blanket, whispering, sleep my darlings."
Based on a Lewis Carrol Quote
A white swan in the falling snow,
bright birds on the branches clinging;
small birds twittering in a row,
the winter trees full of singing.
The cold forest wrapped in stillness,
from tree to tree birds are winging;
an eagle calls with a shrillness,
the winter trees full of singing.
And the white snow falls on and on,
the birds shrilling like a bell ringing;
oh, such a divine winter dawn,
the winter trees full of singing.
A white swan in the falling snow,
the winter trees full of singing.
As a non-golfing husband I revel at tales
Of sunshine filled days chasing small balls,
Some in the rough others in sand,
All these brave girls fighting nature's pitfalls.
I hear of the times the flock of wild ducks
Hindered a drive that was perfectly hit,
And what of those trees that magically moved
With a subsequent shout 'I just want to quit'.
But then I'm regaled with feats of great skill
Such as the time a Birdie was made,
Out comes the flask, big glugs all around,
Magical moments that no-one would trade.
They say Golf's a passion a lifelong pursuit,
One day may be heaven the other pure hell,
Neither cool mornings nor that full midday heat,
Apparently stops that will to excel.
Yet there's one thing I notice each week,
Yes the real pleasure from playing the game
And what's not to like from those magical views
But without one's good friends the day's not the same.
So to all poor Golf widowers awoken by shrilling alarms,
Then never quite knowing what time we'll see our fair brides,
There's a much higher calling we can but embrace,
'Happy wife happy life' the true gift this pastime provides.
Hundred steps I made
From soiled ground to the bridge of cursed shade
Three dungeons of heroic souls
Locked up over four hundred in shoals
Living souls of eddies drilling
Dying breaths of bodies shrilling
Hidden story of men of courage
To die in Atlantic is sweeter than bondage
Eighteen hundred and three was the year
Freedom is the peal in every man's ear.
Sam sends smileys,
Sheila seeks sobriety;
Siberian skies shed sadness!
Seven Swallowtails swirl,
sunset sets scenic shades:
scintillating, stunning,
stimulating, sparkling!
Sordid sentiment stays sentient,
safeguarding searing sailing ships;
sailors sit still sipping scotch,
soaring seagulls start shrilling:
somber, sorrowful symphony!
Sordid sea swerves ship,
storm stirs subdued senses;
Simon strums strings...
sober Samuel sings!
Ideas conveyed in trails of semantics
Or moving over horse and bars in gymnastics
Tumbling, rolling, scribbling phonetics
Reeling, shrilling, scorching like ballistics
Quibbling over ideas and reams of whims
Rattling odd stories of soul's whines and trims
Yours is the power over lines and grims
Absolution or redemption atop one's dreamed
old gym hymns
History, forgotten element of man`s life
Adage of forgiving and forgetting
Messing and proceeding on the solemn assembly
Expunging and blotting life-long terribly
but carefully committed and covered-up tracks.
If at all the inanimate had ears and eyes
We would all be at ransom for our lives
If mistakes could be made up and rounded
up to significance of our lives
humanity would erode to miniature
weeping and shrilling at thoughtless and
careless indulgence
Swoon and sulking thoughts convergence
would lead to no hope
Thanks to nimble of days
For with each that passes, history is made
A shun to excavate stone age
Quite momentous to delve in space age.
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