few colors, but green
a Fall stand out
spotty, the Southern reds
beautifully shaped
teeny, not trite
the fallen
up North, pleased
by ample leaves
the tumbler of hues
crimson and gold
over my shoes
as if snow
trees on both sides
of the streets, a treat
still, I know
my yard will overflow
raring to be raked
slurried by depths
piled on tarps
pulled down slopes
agonized over
forgotten the sparkle
the jumping pile
of a cheering child
Categories:
slurried, autumn,
Form: Free verse
Words too often have rough edges,
bloody histories,
lines more defined
than relentlessly imaged cliffs,
worshipping sacred sunlight shades
of high hazards
Coveted risks
more than needed opportunities
to hard wall wail against wild creations
unmoved by words
without animated calling
longing
belonging
or wooing wilderness
Offending worded weapons
seducing well-schooled tools
Sounds with edges
and without
Opening and closing
edgeless sighing pause
Slowly awaiting surf's slow
slurried
soft
slavish turn
to reach for shores
absorbing thoughtless
sand-grained
edges.
Categories:
slurried, health, integrity, language, nature,
Form: Political Verse
Childhood crept through
those long summer days
when the smell of pine
hung in the hot air.
Deep in the shadows
of that besieged acre,
heaven and hell played
out a lethal game
in what crawled, wriggled
or took wing. Death there
was silent and cries
froze in gaping mouths.
Dragonflies patrolled
the boundary
like miniature demons
and in hollows,
mandibles gnawed
on nerves
until the last thread
snapped and let panic loose.
Gowned in finery,
other terrors waited
to welcome fleeing souls
with a fatal sting
or to paralyze the will
and render living flesh
food for offspring.
At night, screams
broke out
and blew across
battlegrounds
to tangle in the thickened
skeins of dreams.
Years on, all have
sunken deeper
and slurried
into a faceless fear.
There are times,
even now,
when you can hear
the sobs of those still
wandering the wastelands
of restless nights
whilst good people sleep.
Categories:
slurried, anxiety, conflict, insect,
Form: Free verse
The holly berries reveal
a bronzing tint of orange
on their journey to becoming
deep, dark, blood reds.
Soon the three bonded trees
will glow in vibrant color
held bold and standing out
against the snow and waxy green.
This is the robins and the blue jays
favorite winter treat
stolen and devoured
in one cold, harsh winter day.
Off in the distance,
some trees are fully naked
while others unexposed
wait to undress.
Some have color barely faded
held on the palette of distinction
still full with greens, yellows,
crimson reds and orange.
Others stretch and open up
the blue ocean of the sky
and but for one or two cloudy wisps,
brilliant beneath the sun.
Now and then
there comes the rush and slurried breeze
moving through defoliating leaves
then holding still and quiet
playing a game of peek a boo
throughout the days of mixing
warm, hot, cold, gentle, and rough
Indian Summer Autumn.
Categories:
slurried, autumn, nature,
Form: Verse
the empty chambers
of a heart buried deep,
low beneath a vibrant earth,
darkly fed by brackish storms
washed into catchbasins
wetly percolate through broken clay
through caverns delved by mineral roots
building languid waves
silent currents pushed upon
borders of an unseen shore
burbled by eyeless minnows
flushed by distant moons
as the weight of earth above
expands the slurried ache
of a lighter place
of a softer face
a notion gentle bumps along
carried on iron platelets
deep past rasping ventricles
contracted
expanded
contracted
through derelict cataracts
rising above to clean artesian
spent in marble fountains
and walking by in swelted heat
startled by the cool curtain
she smiles.
Categories:
slurried, love, missing you,
Form: Prose Poetry
How they toiled, from first light,
Shrugging off the slurried sleep,
Aching from a bed of feathers
To cold and draining shades of night,
Dogging the waking ritual.
For the generations gone and those to be,
Paying dues with loss of youth,
Sweating living blood and tears
For their just morality
That drove the future dreams.
Did they expect, in labour's clutch,
Straining spines on torture racks,
Feeding selflessly the mouths,
The twilight years would not mean much,
Wasted under house arrest?
Is all forgotten, hurled away,
Winding down a deathly coil,
A tedious solitude of age,
Facing nothing but the soil
Calling their arcane bones?
They who lived, arose before
Twinklings in the parent eyes,
To whom we owe our very lives,
Not deserving something more
Than palliative care?
How they toiled and time would leech;
Fell then prey to our disdain,
Impatience and indifference
To the lessons they could teach
And the tales they have to tell.
Categories:
slurried, caregiving, history, nostalgia, people,
Form: I do not know?