Her eyes were not made
To speak ambiguously
They linger from here hence
Like raspberry and lavender
On my phrenic palate
My head was not made
To be prepared for this moment
The songster prophesied
That I will never be with her
But I'm agnostic
A wise man said “all you need is love.”
To satisfy our dear Lord above
God made us hoping we’d live in peace
That earth would be a gleeful retreat.
Imagine being in mist of war
Living in fear behind one's front door
Afraid to sleep, in a living hell
Listening for the latest bombshell.
Seeing dead bodies strewn all around
Innocents sadly heavenward bound
Glorious buildings raised to the floor
Been and gone, destroyed for evermore.
The Lord must weep to oversee this
It’s not the way we’re meant to exist
God created a world full of grace
For everyone in the human race.
Most folk on earth have a sacred heart
Knowing what’s right and wrong, from the start
All we need is love, those words so true
From a songster, who died from hate too.
The poet strings his words on feet,
While the songster sets his to the beat.
Are they similar or the same?
Are they different in more than name?
The singular of feet is foot.
A boot is where our feet are put.
The singular of beats is beat,
But that’s not where we put our feet.
And so it is, without dispute,
A beat to a foot we can’t impute.
An accent can’t go on a boot -
Except with accordion or flute.
Instead, the accent’s on the beat,
And that is also true with feet.
Mom
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
MOM !!
My first shout out loud...
Where is my metal
When i am weak
Where is my coastline
From the deep...
Where is the fountainhead
Of our parenthood
Her heart is never locked
She rubs my ear
When I fear
And vows to love me
In solemn oath.
Where is my flawless
My entire vital wrap
My loyal guardian..
Who makes me golden.
My blanket when
I am cold..
MOM !!
I shout out loud...
Where is my trumpet call
In her shawl
She shouts from the hall
Our pact is unbreakable
In my babyhood of
Sore, cut and bleed
She be my nurse.
The jaundice, fever and the pox
She cure's it all away
Where is my night call
The tissue to my cry
My songster so enjoyable
Who tucks me in with lullabye
And hugs me so tight
As if I was part of her body.
Where is the little
That I know
From the one that brought
Me up to grow
MOM !!
I shout out loud...
Dad you are a food cart
Your place is high
In the house..
But MOM is my
My shout out loud...
First hero in this world
And my first cry out for help
Will always be ..
MOM !
You are upside down
WOW !
My triumphant call.
Undecided, Aspen leaves turn from gold to silver to gold again.
Carnivals of colors, prodded by the wind, bow to end of autumn,
While brittle noise, as they fall, brings a symphony no songster could pen,
But these trees' starch and strength hug their roots to rise from soil at the bottom.
The grove is small with Aspens clinging tightly like sisters in hard times.
Their focus is a dying tree, once grand, but now black-burnt to cinder.
The Quakies, remembering the day when someone committed these crimes;
Who chopped, defaced, set afire; this one in their midst now left to tremor.
"she spoke of him quoting others.
Were his quotes of stories, might I call him
a storyteller.
Were hius stories of Ballets, might
than I speak of him as a songster.
Then he speaks of unknowns and
sceince: so then shall we call
him and unknown sceintist.
Then who's works are these? Thus we
stand in the confience of tommorrow, to
have the blueprints to the future!"
from Doctor Wufgang Sinsier
The musician songster I so admire
will perform for us what they love for hire
while the music I make all for free
I am the only one who know of me
The dancer accomplish the stage above
a living they make doing what they love
although dancing alone my room at night
I am the only one who know I might
The respect and wonder I have for all
of whom talent on show does so enthrall
when alone I perform my act for none
the applause I receive from only one
Little Bella’s quite a delight
a lovely little feline sprite;
she’s ever so pretty,
this striped tabby kitty
her energy level’s dynamite.
She has a great right-paw throw,
she’s definitely a great sideshow,
she went chasing a mouse
all over the house
and flipped it right in the bread dough.
For a songster she really is tops,
she has the most talented chops;
when my guitar I strum,
her paw helps out some;
I tell you this cat really rocks!
songster brown thrasher
lands in garden, thrashes mulch...
stink beetle succumbs
Georgia State Bird
Tough, aggressive and has a large range of different songs
1songster brown thrasher 5
2lands in garden, thrashes mulch... 7
3stink beetle succumbs 5
SyllableCounter.net
The big swordsman sings
Cling!
The shy samurai
Used clanging on a mortal stones and metal bowls
Cling!
Are you upset by how large it is
Operatic kitchen
Clang!
It doesn't tear you apart to see this swordsman so mountainous
The voices tralala wireless is large hands he swing
He whose such a songster, martial artist chef and cook
He is a singing samurai
Cling
5/30/21
Written by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
A desert lake is a perfect
mirror of the bluest sky
that everyone has ever seen,
it wants to trade place and expect
to be a part of Heaven
without the pretty
daisies and lilies:
it will have plenty of clouds
that will shine on breezy August noons...
as folks let loose their colorful balloons!
Watch little Claudine play the Hohner,
often times she borrows her dad's guitar...
while Aunt Jane puts on her straw hat
and shades to resemble a movie star;
that's not a beach, but she looks hot!
What's missing besides a songster?
A desert lake is a perfect mirror
of the bluest sky in Oklahoma...
where no sea is seen only big mountains,
Uncle Jesse slowly sips his chilled beer;
if it'll rain, he'll play the harmonica
making her niece mad with furrowed brows!
Watch little Claudine play the Hohner
getting claps from pops and grannies,
nobody notices when her song is out of tune;
Jack tries to warn her, but she neglects him with a smirk:
let him dance, let him sing music can change his quirk!
Funny how it delights the frantic puppies
that join the fun thinking it's opportune
to surround and upset Jack the crooner!
The Breath Of Winter Sigh Of Spring.
.
After the long icy crippling breathe of winter
At last a warmer welcoming sigh of spring
Heralds a promise of better things to come
The end of stagnation and decay
And the rebirth of abundant living things
.
The wiry trees prepare to clothe and dress
The now fertile ground
No longer under deaths duress
As hazy sunlight filters and dances through
Finger tendrils and contorted twisted naked branches
From a sprawling canopy of vibrant blue
.
Clear sun-kissed ripples
Cascade and weave trough the scattered rocks of sandstone
Of a rushing gushing gurgling
Sparkling gleaming silver ribboned stream
Journeying through vale moorland and pasture
Evoking thought of summer dreams
.
Songster birds scurry and hurry
Collecting nesting scrags and things
Dormant critters awaken
As a season of plenty now begins.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
high in a forest tree
a little songster listens
and answers with phrases
with chatters, twitters, warbles
the little bird hops along a branch
hidden in a green canopy of leaves
singing a song that drifts and dips echoing _
_____________________
April 15, 2020
Poetry/Verse/song bird
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1244-072-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
For the contest, Strand No 730 Contest
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
'Twas a dreary morn at best
Veiled neath leaden clouds,
Job's patience it would test
To oust this morose shroud.
Sol bore unseeing eyes
Declining he to call,
Overhead, ashen skies
Dispersed their languid pall.
From this dismal, doleful day
There voiced a symphony,
Welcome solace came my way,
Eclipsing ennui.
Whatever reason to rejoice
He aired his sweet refrain,
Rapturous, in full voice
He sang, and sang again.
Ne'er a sweeter song I'd heard
Nor finer melodies,
God bless this joyous songster
His tidings, lifted me.
Plucked from Shakespeare
and plopped in Central Park,
Sturnus vulgaris, the mimic,
conquered New York.
It made it there,
You know it made it everywhere;
The continental stage stolen.
And here on my fence amid this tragedy
To be blessed with a modicum of bliss;
The sparkling spring songster
with his treasured chest pumping
my missing birds song list.
22.04.18
Craig Cornish's
Spring - Poetry Contest
3rd Place
Sub Categories
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