Nature's, autumn-layed
If befoul, I
These, its rooms, a child, across
Dashing, and spry
Tis with a mother's
Laughing consent.
Down through each shook treed rafter
Gustily sent.
REHTORICAL RAMBLINGS-:-
incessant
individuated
rattling
dedicated
optimism
so COMPASSIONATELY SYMBOLIZED
affection
understanding
transcending
vivid
vitality
in REMOTE REMINISCENCE
optimistically
expressed
scribbled
splotched
theories
One room; two time periods
As unresembling
The bright, dull mood-splashed, splotched
Walls, what echo in.
Muting of mums, yet rainbow’s nigh.
Memory clouds don’t often lie.
Darkened skies of treetops. One drop.
Subdued arcs in photo workshop.
Release of the silver lining.
The truth of matters reclining.
Facts are not new violets in rain.
Kissing splotched photo, without brain.
Virga won’t release history.
Weather remains a mystery.
Slight chance of weeping; willows fade.
Jellyfish don’t reach hunter’s blade.
feathers twirled,
long into the night.
ebonic ink,
splotched and saturated,
with the heart’s content.
t
e
a
r
s
created the first draft
of watercolors,
s
e
a
r
i
n
g
of the candlelight vigil,
long forgotten grief,
h
o
w
e
v
e
r
God never
f
o
r
g
e
t
s
He bottles up the flagrant fluid
of our awfulness, kept for
the day of wrath. Careless,
never; He eyes antiquity.
ink scratches on paper
tears smudge the words
scribbles and nibbles
for wisdom and love
meanings flow in and out
of consciousness and thought
emote passion and wonderment
a path of no return as it stands
as poets we don’t go but flow
with musings and feelings
reason and reflections
condense and prise open
the poet’s cradle weeps gently
rocks doubts and composure
envelops discards and contains
everlasting impermanent time
weeping willows inhale tears
cosmos flowers shed smiles
weeds become herb gardens
as a tomb stone beckons
in my warm grave I’ll be happy
if mourners wear orange and purple
when my epitaph becomes prologue
and I hand on the pen and a torch
when worms sift through the debris
my coffin rots and gives birth to soil
kind memories may keep me going
and proceed with my journey
26th November 2020
written for the contests 'where do we poets go'
Fourteen
At fourteen,
Lost in the woods
Squatting to pee, it
Runs down my leg
hot and itchy
No one knows where I
am, or was
My face splotched
and pimply
Always embarrassed
No kissing for me
The boys want perfect skin
pretty smiles
I hide in those pine trees
Near the pond and farm
There’s no watch or clock
I can’t read the sun
Just my hunger
When it’s time to go I walk
Past the corn,
over the stones
Rotting apples on the lawn
The door unlocked, my room
Hot and bare
TOMATO CHASE
Now....
Out of season
They're reddish
Uniform in size & shape
Firm
And flavorless
In season
They're RED
All sizes and shapes
Firm, soft, some just right
And flavorful
Yesteryears
They were magic
Like the transformation of a caterpiller
The little yellow flower
Gives way to the tiny green marble
Stalk n stems grow bigger
Marbles grow larger
The green fuzzy rough stems
The scent
That wonderful smell
So unique to the tomato plant
They turn green to red
Some even get incubated on a sunny sill
When it's time
Knife reveals seeds and red splotched juice
And the TASTE
A taste that fades with our age
That TASTE that we chase every summer
Close
But never a ringer
Poets stumble over half written sonnets
find themselves trapped in dark poetic throes
Not for the lack of interest, but they often wilt
as petals wither on the stem of a plucked rose
Their Haiku go on hiatus; lingering on vacation
Romantic writings drag on without decent rhyme
They are not procrastinators, but often tumble
down a mountain side they cannot seem to climb
Writing sharpens the points of dulled memories
black ink is splotched by an onslaught of tears
eyes blur as their hands tremble from sorrow
pens draw deep scars across hearts like shears
Long held melodies keep playing across their minds
unfinished lyrics that lay resting in regions of nether
tunes haunting them until tears rain and lips quiver
Impossible to complete when shackled by love's tether
Down the pine-studded mountain and towards the sea
Me, mounted on a rickety, swaying, desperately-desiring bus,
Floorboard splotched with rusted holes revealing
tires
Below my feet
and salted sea wind soon
Breathing down my neck.
The Luzon day stretched before me, road
Singing in it's curves
drowning out Philippine faces painting
Collages of
colors and years.
Revealing Spanish lighthouses beckoning
Lost souls and
Galleons
Scattering gold onto
ivory shores.
One hour later,
Nerves frayed from endless bumps,
I tumble onto the palm-fringed beach to
Witness
Waves cresting like glittering
Champagne and a
Delicately worn grandmother being
Gingerly dipped into the
Azure Softness like a
Queen Cat in a
Cherub's cradle.
My shirt is splotched with spit-up,
Though my shoulder sports a burper.
My clothes are like a kingdom
And my grandson's the usurper.
He drinks his bottle, gives a burp
And then, without a doubt,
A quarter of what just went in
Comes, like a fountain, out.
I really do not mind, but learned
My lesson, truth be told -
When I'm with Henry, what I wear
Is faded, frayed or old!
A small advance party scouted the valley high,
The rest,
In a ba,
Massed on the ocean nigh,
Not towering creatures with spindly hairs,
Nor mountains of bellows with rumbles of bears,
But endless splotched
Like cotton from cats,
Plumps and hunky
Like so many rats,
These clouds rolled by
In a playful parade,
Summer chasing Summer,
Turtle passing hare,
Chicken riding puppy dogs,
This tree and ground my chair.
Horsehead whales
And heads of bores and boars,
Dragons and unicorns
The half-moon with me watched.
My night palace is a dark abode,
a mortal passage to salvation.
I play the day just as I'm told,
until night's invitation.
Paternal guidance at night sublime,
dead days are simply props.
But night brings life into it's time,
mine starts when their life stops.
Blood tells all in many ways,
my passenger confides.
Those who think crime truly pays,
wind up as blood-splotched slides.
So murder, greed, and godless souls
stray down that darkened trail.
I'll be there when your bell tolls
and we'll see who goes to hell...
A tear is shed momentarily
It falls from a closed eyelid
Descends towards
the concrete ground
with rapid speed
And splatters into
a splotched shape
A second tear
descends down the
cheek but is quickly
wiped away with
a damp sleeve.
Once, when no star shined
on slick, black, asphalt roads,
the murky wetness of November's
watered nights a freedom-feeling
and strangeness-sense inspired.
The moisture lubricated
sluggish mental cogs that
all the dirty, dry, autumnal
season rusted tight and atrophied.
Wildness no man can tell I knew then.
All November's labored length
my nightly notions filled:
my bacchic spirit soared, and flew,
traveled far, saw much in waking dream,
along a single street, wet and splotched
with light from cars which coughed their fumes
and passed my momentary immortality.
And now...time has come when
I no longer feel delight to revel
in the wildness that I knew:
senses, now subordinate to sense,
defuse the spell and November nights
are merely murky.
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