At the edge of summer the rainy squalls disappear,
north winds flow gently under the sapphire sky clear.
The drooping leaves of the thicket trees wake up to its call,
don the auburn drape before they wither for the final fall.
The ivory brush of clouds washes the end-summer sky,
the birds bathe in the blue as from amber nest they fly.
Lining the cinnabar garden path the tawny trees stand tall,
in the rustle of the golden leaves they hear the fall’s footfall.
The dulcet dawn creates crystal crown with pearls of dew
for the bent blades of grass wrapped by tinge of russet hue.
From the horizon beyond the blue hills cotton clouds fly
like the fleet of sailing ship in the azure of the serene sky.
As the saffron sun sinks in the splendor of twilight hours,
the canvas of chromatic fall is painted with blazing colors.
The shimmer of the sunset sequins swathes my meadow,
I feel the gilded touch of the aureate autumn’s afterglow.
My silent senses whisper like the breath of autumn air,
articulate gratitude for the divine gift of rapture so rare.
So much like we, a life that caught the rain,
in storms that tested all our will to live,
and shook until our grasp could feel the pain
in angry squalls not ready to forgive.
Amongst a million souls now what are we
~ just leaves the autumn wind has blown to die,
'twas simply fate and always meant to be,
and wasted months and years that wonder why?
Yet something shuffles on the forest floor
where ashes and a lonely leaf was cast,
to be the end of life forevermore?
To lie among the long forgotten past?
But, mortal life becomes what nature knows.
A fertile soil where newborn leaves can grow...
i dunno why
but have you ever come across a Somersetshire mob?
i'm talking squalls and screams in the night
sister of Satan stuff
i'm looking for people with a reputation for learning
and sobriety
will i find them?
i look through other alarms on my phone to see what they are called.
one reads, 'pretend to celebrate St. Crispian's Day'
i was intending to get in tons of balloons and pie
i saw the F1 movie and have recreated the press conference scene
in the kitchen. i am getting cheekier by the day.
The daunting mountain in tough terrain of life,
needs to be climbed as the summit calls,
follow the undefined trail in the storm of strife.
Cross with devotion the gateways God installs,
repose in His prescribed ordain steadfast trust,
faith will show the path in dark nights of squalls.
The rough sea of stormy life in grueling gust,
needs to be sailed serene, the last anchorage found,
guided by His beacon with devotion just.
The dark alleys of agony profound,
need to be lighted, lost life recouped from abyss,
God’s grace in regained essence will then abound.
The journey on prayer hymn isn’t amiss,
it takes life through soul’s stillness to the bay of bliss.
march squalls unpick roofs
forcing our woman's tongue up
to bark at the air
autumn stalls, a spent leaf falls
spirit yet graced by bliss squalls
rust red hues adorning earth
womb of life, wherefrom God calls
"On the coasts of compromise,
consider the cost."
Poet
Squalls were forecast
at last evening's meeting;
sudden gusts of duplicity directed decisions.
My wild frenzy wanes, passes now
as I pray.
Today, back at work
Jesus' spirit within my soul
restages me with truth to defeat divisions
as I work to lower temperatures.
Pardon’s plea
My life's been fine without you -- really has.
A Belgian bar has opened in the square,
and weekends, we do beer and tapas there,
then Malcolm and Elaine's place, for some jazz
and Jamieson's. May in Cortes -- what a blast!
Right now, I'm growing sideburns! Summer hols,
we'll all dress up as bandits and their molls!
I've never laughed so much. Who needs the past?
Yet sometimes, when the lake frowns in the rain,
or April squalls tug blossoms from the trees,
I think of you. This sadness preordained,
like plane trees pollarded, proud amputees
shorn of their plumes, emerges, stark and strange:
and I know then. Some things will never change.
Crescent adrift
skipper its sails
hearts pursues
eclipse squalls
lost treasures
alit silhouettes
To evade the fangs of fate,
if we choose to meditate,
the doer as yet present,
we imbibe not love’s bliss scent.
Our feeble form we hold dear,
becoming the cause of fear,
which in turn is fed by thought,
a vortex in which soul’s caught.
As a witness to ourself,
watching life flow by itself,
we stand at the river’s bank,
heart enlivened, our mind blank.
Our emptiness is then filled
with bliss mists, by grace instilled,
if we be childlike and pure,
mood playful and heart demure.
Thoughts at rest, poised in repose,
as we so metamorphose,
in timeless time ego falls,
blown like a leaf in bliss squalls.
Ego dies, we yet remain,
as light of Self, free from stain,
in a realm beyond space-time,
with no mountains left to climb.
spacial stillness
a tumbler falls
space flickers
sensing bliss squalls
we witness
heartbeats born
God waves a wand
ushering dawn
Dust taints scent of rain
the wind wrenches gate ajar
lightning splits the clouds—
grime streaks down marble headstones,
as silver names bleed deep red
bouquets torn and flung
petals smashed into the mud
plastic stems snapped clean
weeds kneel and crawl up to stones
claiming what storm has laid bare
the squalls scour angels
driving grit deep into wings
puddles drown vases
pebbles scatter like lost teeth
pathways get buried in hail
beneath all this rage
the dreamless ones stay silent
beyond the storm's grasp—
no pleas get through weighted soil
moored tight in unyielding peace
storms don't bow to the names in stone
don't hear the prayers carved to atone.
the dead can't rise, the dead can't plead—
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
Go you must when you Hear The Call
know to Trust when you've blazed Afar,
for you are The Hero, this Quest will Unveil it all
have Faith in the Reckoning, the Quickening shall Quelch the Squalls
we are the all
let bliss squalls rise
God calls; listen
In a winter’s bed I sleep, a dreamless starless sky above
And though the daylight does not keep
The snow flies like an aimless dove.
The blood orange sun spreads ‘cross the sky like a painting on a wall
The artist keeps a watchful eye and wraps the hues in endless squalls.
The cardinal with its wings of red
Chirps its promises of signs
Of those of us who’ve gone ahead to speak of heaven’s unbounded shine.
My frozen bones begin to warm around the fire’s roaring blaze
Like brittle ice in a winter’s storm,
And blanket the horizon’s haze.
These sacred days of early moons and late sunrises wrapped in time,
For it won’t be long till springtime swoons
The tulips from the winter’s grime.
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