Sprightly walk on landing,
then I step down each rung,
with habitual due dispatch,
an enthusiastic heart beats,
mind awash with apt fervour,
whilst fixating on elation,
that weaves rose bud tints,
to dawn townscape purliue,
on a fair earthborn agenda,
whose brief a germ kernel,
mission sprouting benign,
seeds among the coterie,
red sunrise street dwellers,
who sense crimson aura,
a fond radiant saunterer,
that tonic touchstone,
oops .. watch the last step
You don’t know
what you cherish,
like kissing
grandpa, two girls
against his cheeks.
He appears younger
than you thought
at the time, and I’m
in the prime of my youth,
shirt and skirt so sprightly,
my sis not her shapely-self,
still finding her way. I
recently slimmed down;
not the first time. Back when
both grams were living,
one thought I was too little;
kin don’t mean to do that.
Even now, a couple of people
have said it’s good to have meat
on the bones; rolling eyes.
I never gave thought
to the features, the blessed face,
how we must have been good
for his soul. We visited once
a year. I was a teen, my sis
a pre. She’d not come
into her own yet. Didn’t matter;
it doesn’t, to most grandparents.
They just moisten their eyes
with all the grand-love they get.
It’s not until we are around the same
age, that we understand
how much it must have mattered -
a photo masterpiece!
A sprightly little squirrel named Drew
sat under a moon that was oddly blue,
and as its glow soaked through the night,
it dyed his furry body a dazzling hue.
He blinked, he twitched, he gave a chirp,
for blue is bold and far from meek~
but Drew, now bright as midnight skies,
felt rather dapper, quite unique.
He scampered up a maple tree,
declaring, “Look! Just look at me!”
The forest gasped, for never yet
had anyone seen such tint on a squirrel so free.
And now when moonlight turns to blue
and paints the nighttime’s silver view,
the squirrels all gather, hoping too
for a moonlit moment
to change their fur to blue.
.
hern celt
plead'n
"kiss viriley
me
you man"
tish
')>
Written: May 6th, 2026, for contest sponsored by Sara Kendrick
1st place contest winner
*****************
Soft silver sky-foam shimmered as I strolled,
seeking a sly, star-stitched secret to behold.
A sprightly breeze sang stories through the trees,
its sibilant sighs designed to soothe and tease.
I met a saffron cat with a mischievous gaze,
She sashayed past with svelte, superior praise.
The sunset spilled its syrup on the well,
a molten gold incandescence cast a spell.
Somewhere a seraphic laugh began to swell,
so sweet, a spell only stars could tell.
The swales grew soft beneath my wandering feet,
each step a sacred syncopated beat.
And in that scarce scene of dusk’s caress,
I felt the world spinning into happiness."
75
Kevin Davis 2025
I’m about to turn seventy-five, I’m still a sprightly old chap,
With a cane in my hand and a hat in my lap.
My knees and my back may be creaky and sore,
But at times I still have the spirit to try to dance on the floor.
My memory’s a jumble, like my clothes on the floor,
Sometimes I forget what I came for when I walk through a door.
But I’ve got all the wisdom that comes with the years,
And a lifetime of laughter, and a few happy tears.
My hair’s no longer curly and brown,
But I think I look distinguished in a shade of gray that’s just right.
I tell the same stories, again and again,
But each time I tell 'em, they get better, my friend.
I nap in the afternoon, and I snore like a bear,
But I wake up refreshed, without a care.
I might move a bit slower, but I’ve got all day,
To enjoy every moment, come what may.
So, here’s to turning seventy-five,
With a heart full of joy and a spirit that’s free.
I’ve lived a good life, and there’s more yet to see,
So, I’ll keep on laughing, just being me
I love the muse that one day came to be.
Although sometimes I feel her start to stray,
a gift from heaven she has been for me.
As a youngster, never did I foresee
the day when she sprightly came out to play.
I love the muse that one day came to be.
My muse can make a fragrant cup of tea
in honey - blooming like a rose bouquet.
A gift from heaven she has been for me.
Sometimes when I let her run especially free,
I’m amazed by the things she can convey.
I love the muse that one day came to be.
I love her going on a writing spree,
for she brightens my world when times are gray.
A gift from heaven she has been for me.
How strange it is at times to think that she
lives within my mind. It blows me away!
I love the muse that one day came to be.
A gift from heaven she has been for me.
A gentleman opened his mail,
When out jumped a sprightly young snail.
"I'm glad to be out,"
He said with a shout,
"I thought I was in a white whale."
Snowflakes falling gently on the ground making not a sound
pine trees waving sprightly branches sharing sidelong glances
I hear cornflake crunches beneath my feet, I am keeping beat
to the rhythm of the wind and falling snow, I have to go,
inside a flurry of white pristine snow
inside a fresh puff of wind, yes I know
Snowflakes are falling gently and my heart is calling me home
evergreen moments on a January day, I am never truly alone
I hear the sound of sleigh bells, horses prancing in the snow
to the rhythm of a slow trot, I go, go go go ...
inside this fantasy of silver bright
inside this winter lullaby of light !
Snowflakes falling falling falling, gently in the January snow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a forest named Camelot lush and green,
lived a gray squirrel, quick and keen.
His name was Arthur, a sprightly furry lad,
with delusions of grandeur, in his armor well clad.
One sunny day, beneath a mighty oak tree,
he spied a sword as big as big could be.
This must be Excalibur! Arthur cried,
with his nut-stained paws and eyes so wide.
Excalibur, you are MY mighty blade.
I’m King Arthur, be not dismayed!
No longer am I just a critter small,
I’ll rule this realm, beloved by all!
With tiny paws, he climbed the base,
and faced the sword with noble grace.
Farsighted, Art grasped a twig instead of steel
believing he was embracing Merlin’s ideals.
I pulled it out! he squealed with a cheer,
From this stone, my royal fate is clear!
For in this wood, I’ll take my regal stand,
A squirrel king am I, of this fair forest land!
So raise a goblet of cheer for Art, so spry.
With twig in paw, his kingdom no one can deny.
In his world of quixotic, leafy dreams,
Arthur reigns supreme, or so it seems!
I walk along the slippery shore.
of the shingled beach
that welcomes the inland sea.
The sun rises slowly in the east,
lighting my way amongst
the small rocks and drying seaweeds.
There is a lift inside me
that nurture enthusiasm.
Peace and quiet reign around
disturbed occasionally by the barks
of sprightly dogs that race upon the sand,
the squawks of gulls gliding gluttonously
swooping down for their repast.
I look with sympathy on other walkers
on the beach. Thus, I meditate,
a marvellously therapeutic exercise.
Who am I, Lord, to deserve all this?
The quiet meditation calms my mind.
lowers my blood pressure,
a spiritually potent release.
My mind is tranquil,
I know who I am,
my soul is happy.
SQUIRREL’S SOIREE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam the squirrel, sprightly and spry,
sought a soirée under the sapphire sky.
With acorn appetizers and nutty delights,
he danced with delight through the dappled night.
Chirping chums and critters abound,
cackles and chuckles, a charming sound.
In a twirl of tails and a flurry of feet,
Sam spun in circles, a soiree sweet.
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
Ever since we called thee as grief O Life,
Heavy hast thou turned, light as leaf O Life.
Not sprightly, but nigh painful do thou feel
As if ye climb up a stiff cliff O Life.
Hence, thought up I have this remedial pill:
To bestow thee boost of life brief O Life.
In this world, unfortunate seems just he
Who vies with thee with needles tiff O Life.
The long and short of life be this, O life,
As is with guest, so with life brief O life.
___________________________
Ghazal | 25.07.2025 | life, brief, grief
Each Summer blossom, rustle of the trees,
Spring’s over, I know your work is all done.
Every bird in flight, every gentle breeze,
Summertimes here to have fun in the sun.
Still glowing brightly, is the colored moon,
Wonderful perfumes drifting so sprightly,
Excitement of surprises coming soon,
Summer sun shining, shimmering slightly.
By the seaside the ocean is churning.
Such sunsets, the skies drenched in purest gold,
Notes you send, to tell me you’re returning,
Stunning scenes, fields of flowers to behold.
These wonders I cherish deep in my soul.
So when Summer comes round, I'm feeling whole.
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