Barking Madly at the Shore
The early morning wakes to find
the sun struggling above the horizon,
offering what warmth it can,
to a shivering sweep of sky
that is blue with cold.
Below, the sea whispers secrets,
playfully licking at the shoreline
while litter starts to sprint the beach
and jigsaw pieces of cloud
slowly smudge-grey the sky.
Before long, the sea has gained
a mischievous glint in its watery eye
and is barking madly at the shore
as it sends waves to froth and foam
around a finger of lighthouse.
As the day ages, the sea rhythms on
while distant ships slip and slide by
and the occasional winged seagull,
like a torn piece of white paper,
is ripped from the scene.
Eventually as a distant hand
throws darkness all around,
the lighthouse can be seen
silvering the moonless sea;
a detective on its latest case.
Ian Souter
Autumn Highlights
the
blooms
silvering
shimmering
in
patches
of sunlight
daubs
of colour
midst
the frigid
frost
of
fall:
cursory
change
shapes
all
our
lives
soft rain
threads through the quiet,
silvering roofs and branches~
a gentle shift
toward fall
Rain drums softly
on the little apartment roof,
thunder walks across the sky
like an ancient village festival drum.
Lightning blooms for a second,
silvering the lonely room.
Far from family,
far from familiar streets,
a young man sits by the window
with a cup of hot tea in his hand
and for the first time,
his loneliness does not feel empty.
It feels like life
quietly teaching him
how to become his own home.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ today
A leaf I tear;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Without a care.
And ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ gentleness of June
Will ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ fly
¦¦¦ I will greet the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ moon
Of ¦¦¦¦ July.
Beloved months ¦¦¦ soon ¦¦¦ pass,
¦¦¦¦¦ I see
The ¦¦¦¦ sand silvering the glass
Of Time for me;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ midwinter woe
I wait with rue,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ I grudge the days ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
They are so few.
A ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ gayful thing
To grace a room;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ with joy of life I sing,
With ¦¦¦¦¦¦ gloom
I add this ¦¦¦¦¦ month of May
To ¦¦¦¦¦¦ past,
Thinking each page ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
May be my last.
(Blackout of My Calendar by Robert William Service)
soft summer night settles
like a page turning itself,
quiet, unhurried.
moonlight lingers
on the edges of thought,
silvering whatever it touches.
rest comes easily
when the day has been kind
and the mind has been creative.
"The castle’s bones and its ghosts mingle, and memory glimmers into a passage unseen." quote by poetess
Within the castle’s moon-hushed marrow,
dust-soft echoes mingle~
old footsteps brushing the present
like ghosts testing the air.
Lunar light sifts through arrow slits,
silvering the stone’s worn sighs;
even the shadows seem to listen
for a story still half-asleep.
And somewhere in the quiet,
a forgotten door breathes open~
inviting the living to mingle
with whatever memory remains.
Hatred, see the world with love?
Sure. That can't be helped.
Agony, arc. O alcove:
Wendigo is whelped.
Sickening loss, tempest toss.
Hard work, go to waste.
No use hanging on the cross!
Bitter is the taste!
Caiman, the gulf floor. Abhor?
Oh, good sir, you bet.
O computer, where's the door?
Aren't we fancy-fret.
Thrashing round the thresher?
O chaff blue, from brown grain.
Cannibal, refresher?
That flesh, sir! Deign to drain!
Red mountain, yellow forest.
Wild will be that fire.
Lava, ignite. Pray, poor pest.
Sad thy sprawling sire.
Parents, clutch thy offspring?
We do the best we can.
Sacrosanct? Sick? Silvering?
Reconcile run? Ran.
Ghastly gale. Green gibbous glow.
Cobalt blue bad moon.
Captive, open door. Let's go?
Well, it's none too soon.
Tiny crosses. Metal.
They fell straight from the sky.
On that cliff? Gas pedal!
Eternity, odd eye...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was the mirrors~
their silvering betrayal,
how they traded my sharp edges
for something softer,
like dusk forgiving the horizon.
Then, the bones~
their quiet rebellion,
the way they hummed an older hymn
when I climbed the stairs,
when I knelt in the garden,
when I reached for him in the dark.
But the hands—oh, the hands~
they learned the deepest alchemy:
to hold my husband’s hand like a sparrow,
to trace the map of his spine
and call it home,
to press against time’s window
and leave no fingerprints,
only warmth.
And when the night comes,
as it must,
I will have memorized the stars
not by their names,
but by how they taste
on my unapologetic tongue.
There is I am
where the white dawn with the flying pigeons is
where the golden noon with glittering afternoon is
where the silvering dusk with rhythmic twittering is
where the silent contemplating night with poetic words is
Yes there is I am
where this dawn to dusk, night to day, ground to sky
everything with the poetic expression is
And there is I am
where beloved poetry with Whitman's pensive pen is
07.09.2020 Chattogram
***
Tribute to Walt Whitman, an American poet, essayist, and journalist and as a humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse.
Up there, a wonderful garden
moon flowers, silvering
the sky,,,
Further away, igneous
powerful garden of the sun ...
Fire flowers crackle
without burning ... !
Beyond, right there
superb garden of lights,
flowers of all colors,
of heavenly sparkles ...
They are all magnitudes,
divine gardens
of the creator ... that we have
also a garden in us ...!
https://youtu.be/XHNhVRjVtGc
sugested song garden by donovan
His hair is alive,
serpents writhing, a man Medusa of the tropics,
as if he wore the demons
of colonialism and injustice on his head,
unforgetting,
a dung-brown-and-black hologram of
the ganja-fueled reveries inside,
the broken record of fight and redemption in his ears
masked by an ancient face, all taut leather,
placid with a sheen of absorbed light.
Bloodshot eyes, not insomniac,
but from the weight of things that, once seen,
cannot be unseen,
scleras color-coding history,
the blood of dead slaves on white.
Yet the heat-chilled island calls a daily truce.
In the shade of the commodious palm tree,
the bleach of sun cordoned by a shower of shadows,
even the gluttony of Babylon
and the promise of Zion can share a siesta.
Looking out to the silvering sea beyond the beach,
exchanging a patois-scented greeting
with two passing brethren whose hair hang like roots,
he puts fire to a fat, white-jacketed spliff,
herb smoke curling up,
rising,
rising,
a slow exodus up into the dusty fronds above,
hung with the fruits
of a tender mantra as,
ever,
the spirit of Marley
sings.
the
blooms
silvering
shimmering
in
patches
of sunlight
daubs
of colour
midst
the frigid
frost
of
fall:
cursory
change
shapes
all
our
lives
Mirror mirror on the wall
I went to the beauty salon today
Silver strands ~ gone
Long dark wavy hair ~ beautiful
Bet you're jealous ~ ha
Twirling away and singing "because I'm happy" by Pharrell Williams
Six weeks later...
Mirror mirror on the wall
If you keep showing those silver strands
I'm going to give you some cracks
Bet you won't like that
Walking away mumbling how people are talking to her but their eyes upon her head
Days later...
Mirror mirror on the wall
What is the meaning of this
Each day I'm seeing more glitters spreading
I'm plucking them out but they seems to keep surfacing
"Sighing" knowing full well
She'll never beat this medallic battle
Weeks later...
Mirror mirror on the wall
I've come to realize these silver strands are the enhancing highlights of my life
For every silver strand had its own enchanting story
So color me away
They say she's too young to go silvering
Maybe they're right
Today...
Mirror mirror on the wall
Keep calm
And go authentically silverlicious
My hair
My beauty
My silver strands
Smile
Akkina R Downing
1-5-18
EVERY DAY
the ticking of the clock
a future promise...
EVERY DAY
the daydream,
a deep glimpse
silvering fragments
through a lattice
imagination takes hold
its wings await...
EVERY DAY
asleep,dreaming
ingenuity
imagination takes hold
its wings await...
EVERY DAY
the ticking of the clock
plucked from memory
rooted sorrow
imagination takes hold
its wings await..
EVERY DAY
the ticking of the clock ...
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