I write poetry like i make love
The mood comes to swing
And my pen start digging
Emotions are purged
But first
My skin is aware of how poetry has taken a hold of me
So sometimes i think it's charm
I breath
I exhale
I feel love
And start spilling inks on dangerous papers
The mood is constant
And my pen is always ready to dig
I mean dig into thoughts
I write poetry like i make love
I swing a lot in my emotions
And scribble roughly
Sometimes it's more than that
I love to sail in the wide blue skies
where the breaths of clouds go rushing by,
where the tall trees toss their leafy heads
way above the garden beds.
I love to sing with the birds at dawn
when the sky cracks open and Day is born,
when the velvet edge on the hem of Night
vanishes in the morning light.
I love to swing past the falling leaves
as they whirl around the autumn trees:
wind in my hair and wind in my face,
racing in a wild chase.
I have a swing to sail the skies
and dance with the Autumn leaves,
and I sing to the birds as they go by:
it’s my favourite place to be.
A cold dawn creeps, pale and dead,
I swing from a tree filled with dread.
I rise so fast, I chase the scream,
Lost in a grim and fierce dream.
The wind claws at my hair fast,
I grip the ropes, I gasp at the blast.
Up high I shoot, to pierce the sky,
Where black crows screech, then fly.
The sun sinks down, a red streak bleeds,
Night hunts the yard with dark deeds.
White stars flash out like sharp sparks,
I hide in bed and brave the dark.
Sycamore tree, swing thee far?
On a crescent line?
Yes, sir. As I strive for par:
I think of the vine.
Due, friend, to its supple reach?
Twist and turn a-right.
Spark within me, I beseech.
Flicker, fly, and fight.
Well, young man, mythology.
Legends of the old?
Ancient is the redwood? Sea.
Lava makes the gold.
Sword, point heavenward and stand.
Enforce hell's command.
Fear severe, have you been planned?
Fire, forms frequent fanned?
Doubt, without? Tough taut to tout?
Down the waterspout.
Lily pad, repair or rout?
Flagrantly to flout.
Yet organized the strong ones step.
Each in rhythmic racks.
Soldier, load thy gun with pep.
Notes hang up with tacks.
City bells, alarums.
What message will you ring?
Plume volcanic, ply thy plums.
Blister as ye bring.
Crumbs. Chaos, thy star dances.
Dissonant its flow.
Fate and Fortune, white chances.
Black the broken bow.
When did I lose her
that carefree girl on the swing,
when did she go, why and where~
your last photograph
in the family scrapbook
holds a smile like sunshine.
Missy Glow said she has giant cat swing; I did not expect this
It must have cost her a fortune, I say to my curious sis
We both go back together to take another peek at this swing
I try to get a price, but she pretends she does not know a thing
It came from my fellow, a sweetheart, an angel, my new beau
I want one for myself, so I try to get his number from Missy Glow
He won’t take your call, he does not know you, she says expertly
I am so irritated I can barely swallow my crumpets and tea
The hillbilly hoe down is in full swing
We are all trying to be crowned the king
We put up our dukes to everyone we see
Jumping into the fray is my Uncle Lee
I am pummeling my brother and two strangers too
One has a red face, the other one is kind of blue
My brother say “hey! I am your bro, you crazy boy!”
“That’s what makes us rednecks, what brings me joy.”
The hillbilly hoe down is held in the holler west.
I brought my own whiskey, my moonshine is the best.
Auntie tastes my barbeque sauce that burns off her tongue.
This hoedown in Tennessee is all kinds of fun!
The porch was warm that summer night,
Fireflies buzzing, swift and bright,
a moment held in memory’s gentle sight~
the day still lives in me.
My granddad’s laugh, a low, sweet roll,
the kind that settled in my soul,
a sound that made my childhood whole~
the day still lives in me.
The scent of cedar in the air,
his calloused hand smoothing my hair,
a tenderness beyond earthly compare~
the day still lives in me.
And though the years have slipped away,
I feel that porch in every day,
its quiet grace still lights my way~
the day still lives in me.
My lightsaber can be a mood ring,
that is what makes it so powerful.
It is cathartic when you must swing.
Between lavender and aqua flexing,
never do two shades appear equal.
My lightsaber can be a mood ring.
There’s danger in emotions building,
be cognizant and keep them stable.
It is cathartic when you must swing.
A slash will leave your body stinging.
Keep the core temperature normal,
my lightsaber can be a mood ring.
The goal to be the last one standing,
your fire makes that unavoidable.
it is cathartic when you must swing.
I wield a weapon ever-changing.
Pick a fight? Mind the hue be careful.
My lightsaber can be a mood ring,
it is cathartic when you must swing.
My Legs kicking toward the orange sky..." The scent of damp wood and twilight..."
The sun lowering, painting the sky with orange, pink, and purple, reflecting on the water, the silhouette of the tree, the ropes of the swing.
Rhythmic creaking of the rope, water lapping against the bank, birds settling down, silence/hush of evening.
I feel it’s texture of the rope or wood, breeze on my skin, the freedom of lifting off and dipping down, the cooling air.
The aroma of damp earth, willow trees, water weeds.
The old rope swing still hangs by the old hollow tree, its insides a refuge for Gods creatures..
The pond so still it is as a mirror, a black pool, a silver surface reflecting the sunset, "liquid light".
An anchor, a guardian, a silent watcher, gnarled oak, weeping willow.
As the swing comes to a stop, so does the sun setting on another day, its rays coveth the ground like a blanket of fire, my bare feet drag the ground as if saying goodbye, I slowly loosen my grasp of rope of the tree swing, bow my head to give thanks, Lord thank you for this old wooden tree swing my solace of Your undying grace…
Inhaled and exhaled
Freedom; its relief.
Higher, forth and back, higher; till
Felt have broke loose of
Earth. Not as this tree's
Flutter-sheddings brief;
As those feathered; of golden tone. *
Endless blown above.
* golden whistler
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a squirrel named Tyron,
the Tire Swing Tyrant—his ire on
full display if you dared
to approach (he’d stand, glared),
then pelt you with acorns like iron.
His kingdom? A maple tree’s shade,
where trespassers trembled, dismayed.
Kids tiptoed in fear,
but old Mrs. O’Sheer
just laughed, tossed him peanuts—he stayed.
A truce? No, a trade, it was clear:
her yard safe, his ego sincere.
Now Tyron rules proud,
though occasionally cowed
when the neighbor’s tomcat slinks near.
Old rusty porch swing
holds on to memories
of those who have sat
if you give me anything, please let it be a spider web swing.
all kinds of joy and happiness to me this sticky play thing would bring.
if it is full of lady bugs, ants and smaller helpless spiders too
it would make me extremely thrilled, said my gothic cousin, Sue.
If I were an orangutan
to be the best I can
as thoughtful by nature
I'd swing through the trees
and hang by my knees
while patiently contemplating
like an abominable orange snowman
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