In Southern hemisphere,'
Winter flowing past here,
At Jack Frost we peer,'
Happy smiles do appear,
Winter sunshine is sheer,
Roses need a pruning shear,
Moonlit nights all clear,
Not much snow this year,
Not a ski bunny, dear,
Drought is what we fear,
Of farmers' plight we hear,
Send more rain in our sphere,
Looks like El Nino gear.
The white church lifts its fragile hands
Against the burning sky,
And hymns drift out like whispered prayers
Too tender not to die.
The pine trees lean to hear the words
Of grace and quiet fear,
While summer presses close with heat
And judgment drawing near.
A woman bows her careful head,
Her sorrow folded tight,
And hopes that God will read her soul
More gently than the light.
The preacher’s voice, a trembling flame,
Declares both love and loss—
A mercy wide as southern fields,
A shadow shaped like cross.
And somewhere in the gathered hearts
Where faith and longing blend,
A question blooms no hymn can still,
No certainty defend.
For even in the softest psalm,
Where hallelujahs rise,
There lingers doubt as quiet as
The floating dust in open eyes.
Words are swirling.
I want to write them down,
but even in my mind, tears blur the ink.
I think you'd understand.
You, the English professor,
the storyteller,
the Southern Gentleman at heart.
You, the naval officer prone to seasickness
who could talk to anyone,
out loud or on paper, without bias or ill-will.
I miss hearing you whistle as you walk
and the smell of your shaving soap.
I miss your infectious knee-slapping laughs
and your unmitigated love for jam.
I miss your stories, all of them,
about growing up in the South,
about your wise, kind-hearted mother,
and your dog, Scrappy.
I miss your rows and rows of books
and their dust and must and might,
and your love for Blake and Keats
and Alice Munro.
I miss knowing you're around, somewhere,
making the world better just by being there.
I miss the purity, the goodness
of your enormous heart.
I don't think I can describe it quite right,
but I'll try.
With your books on my shelf
and your words on my heart,
I'll try to convey
what an honour and blessing it has been
to call you Grandpa.
The Earth's Oceans Poetry Contest-Sponsored by: Constance La France
--------------------
" the seasons have many changes-and changes are many with the seas." by poet
i am the untamed southern sea:
with my spirit wild, dark and free.
from the land of frozen ice I do flow-
as my gale force winds cut and blow.
my swell beats to the dance of death.
as deeply i breathe beastly breath-
echoing the sound of thunder-
as i crash upon rocks, while I plunder.
sculpting the scars of time with my thundering surge-
i sing a rumbling mournful dirge.
but...there are two sides to my soul.
when the warm summer sun comes to gambol-
to the winter's chaos i bid farewell-
and under the golden rays, i will dwell.
becoming crystal clear with hue of colour blue-
the untamed me becomes fresh and brand new.
i will ebb and flow upon the great southern land-
and bask on my shore line of golden sand.
diamonds sparkle and dance across my calming bays-
reaching to greet-the warming rays.
Oct month
The heart of fall
Five Oct world teacher's day
Spring in south of the equator
The tenth
The Saint Lucia flag reflects the tropical sky,
with the colour blue representing fidelity
and the emerald waters
of the Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea.
Gold represents the prevailing sunshine
and, of course, prosperity.
The triangles, they symbolize mountains,
the Soufriere twin Pitons,
and the people's hope and aspirations.
While there, couldn't help but smile,
for tho' located north of the equator,
with my eyes on an unusual sight
where, low on the horizon, and with clear skies,
I saw the Southern Cross every night.
Electric Line's sway,
spider webs of industry
along a rocky lane under
a hot southern sun, cicada…
cry high, into the crystal blue sky
We are a ghost nation
of Man’s hypocrisy
crossing shadows under a hard
noonday sky.
The empty road under the leaning
Electric crosses of civilization
Shadows fall, carving silhouettes into
Upon hitting noonday ground
Humanity lost all reason
Along a rocky, dusty road
As day bleeds into a hot
Southern night
Crickets cry high
As the moon rides the
White galleons of cloudscapes
As star falls in infernal southern sky
Frogs sing the song of endless rain
As electric crosses lean
Under the halogen of streetlights
Crosses stand, lean to and fro
Like graves of the day
Souls drift and sway
As a nation is lost along the way
Bought and sold
While electric crosses align
A forgotten road
Of a Nowhere nation, undone…
Watching all fold…!
It’s ninety one but feels like more,
Like I opened up the Devil’s front door.
He said “Come on in!” with a fire breath grin
Now I’m sweatin' places I ain’t ever been.
The sidewalk’s cookin’ eggs on the sly,
Birds stopped chirpin', too hot to fly.
Even my dog gave me that judgmental look,
Like, “Take me out again and you’re getting cooked.”
Humidity’s clingy like a bad first date,
Stickin’ to me like it’s true soulmate.
My shirt’s now soup, my socks are stew,
And I swear my flip flops just melted through.
AC’s gaspin’, fan’s wheezin’ low
I bribed ‘em both just to halfway blow.
My iced tea’s warm, my will is weak,
I’ve been napping in the fridge since Tuesday this week.
So if you see me walking slow and fried,
Just know it’s the heat I ain’t yet died.
But tell my kin if I do collapse:
Bury me somewhere with cold sweet snacks.
Spectre, South Pole's chills,
Frost clawing at window sills,
Vague fears, old age thrills....
Late Springtime Hiku 18
late springtime glaciers
drifting in Southern O ~c ~e ~a ~n
~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~
e n g
driven by p u
.s n i
Pride, one thing they taught us in south
With everything we do all way the cooking
No wonder everyone wants live taste of tradition
Passed down generations it make mouth's water
The morals of man strongly respected
Southern pride, where your word is bond
And people are laid back and different
We believe in whooping that ass if needed
Working sun up, sun down the farms needed tend
Country way of life without big city living
Staying free do not disgrace my flag
It's not a racist thing but of honor I stand
To myself as I do my country it not touch ground
Racism isn't color thing, hatred of fellow man
Southern pride, last name was one's integrity
It's milk gravy/biscuits, grits on the griddle, sweet tea
Knowing a man's worth by his teachings
Standing tall in ourselves, where we come from
Its southern thing, pride of Carolina's I'm from
Where justice once ruled, independence was fought
But truth, liberty, freedom fall to grace of man
Let not die past, prosper our experience
Southern pride, to old know any better
To young give a dump about your feelings
Straight up!!!
Southern Rata (is a stunning Kiwi Tree)
Red or scarlet harlots instead...a bucolic frolic..
Tranches spread as if bulbous branches have gorgeously bled..
Overpowering flowering towers glimmer…fanciful fairytale shimmers showering...
Such vim...swim on a whim..sprouting on an outing from their pouting wooden limb....
A delight..refining..shining bright.. defining.. these bizarrely beautifully gnarly trees...
Crimson collage..insisting snarling tendril darlings..timber tentacles twisting…a magical mirage....
Marooned yet cocooned in a festooned lagoon...wouldn't barter anything…
To swoon at the miracle..spectacular boon of Southern Rata ...
‘I found an explosive quill
down on the streets of New Orleans.’
It’s fun to share who I am and also learn from other writers. There was a discussion on the idea to let yourself get lost inside of another world. I made sure to speak a reminder of the inner child. The one who wasn’t jaded by their transformation as they got a little bit older. Remember to dream visit the sea occasionally. Another poet said ‘Let go of the restrictions of human eyes when you write. Speak to a smile unforgettable and a laugh infectious.’ Which reminded us of children, and how they color outside the lines. Make sure you say it how you want to. Slide down the stairs and destroy the box they try to throw you in. ‘Give yourself to your pen AND your deepest fantasies.’ I took that mantra away with me as I left the writers’s retreat.
Laced with Bald Cypress
my Muse tastes the Big Easy;
A sweet southern heat.
A woman’s voice said
Look out the window
and I saw a ravine
with a fresh cover
of snow.
I thought it was the neighbor
but I was alone.
A thicket of trees
reached for the sun
yet I noticed
one was fallen
its age born
in its rings.
Two cats lay on my bed
as I took in my visions
of a pastoral scene.
a day in February
in the middle of town.
In this moment
I bore my seasons
and winter called for spring
yet a patch of a lawn
had turned brown.
A woman’s voice said
Live, live again
as I faced another day.
It's early January,
and the fields are wet and muddy.
The rainwater sits and slowly soaks
the fertile soil. Heavy machinery
has been silenced and put to rest.
They shall sleep through Old Man
Winter and awake next Spring.
Beans, corn, cotton, peanuts,
and sesame seeds no longer
flood the bounty fields of plenty,
because every crop has been
harvested. What's not in the silos
has been sold to markets near and far.
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