Good counsel guards where love alone may fail,
It trims the winds that swell a reckless sail;
A mother's womb gives life, wise words give sight,
And guide young feet from darkness into light.
The breast gives milk to make the body strong,
Good counsel keeps the wandering heart from wrong.
A child is born by one, but raised by two:
A mother's love, and wisdom firm and true.
The hand that warns is kinder than the rod,
It turns young feet from dangerous roads to God.
The womb gives life; wise counsel shapes the soul,
For truth, not time alone, can make one whole.
Blessed are ears that welcome wisdom's call,
For humble hearts are slow to slip and fall;
The child who treasures counsel while still young
Will leave behind a life well-lived and sung.
He trims my hair,then half my pride.
Declares: ''Vivi,your bald spot cannt hide!''
I asked for ''short'',he heard ''absurd''
Now I look like an alarmed porcupine
He winks,'' a new style-bold couture!''
I tip him thrice,though I'm not sure
Next week I'll shave and call it art
And tell the nyatsi ,''that's the smart part
Dictionary
nyatsi: A Back-door husband when the real husband is with the back-door wife.
The month of March has many moods;
its days are varied as she broods
which day is warm, which one is cold.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.
Some days she brings snow full and deep,
and others, like she's fast asleep;
with the warm sun, we are consoled.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.
She's stuck between two season's clime,
and so to each, she gives her time;
One fading soon, one to unfold.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.
So we are patient with her whims-
while Winter's ways she slowly trims,
till brand new April joins the fold.
Tween Winter-Spring, she can be bold.
There was a Time in my life where I tried to undermine
The lies in my mind
Time being spent tryna justify
Asking myself who’s this guy
Time to get rid of the disguise
Now I’m left with this persona
Who lost his sense of self due to corona
Isolated but not at home
Doing shrooms dropping acid
Went from being avid
To my ego collapsin
So when they ask if I been slipping
Yeah I have been
Forced to fight the feeling
Born to write words that cause healing
So I picked up the pen
Becoming an addict
To be a man amongst men
Puttin my heart and pride on these sheets of paper
I’m finna Break the stereotype and become a different type of landscaper
One who cuts and trims the letters to fit better
On this piece of paper
That I call a love letter
Jim starts the day with good intention
Jobs need doing that require his attention.
The garden needs a good sprucing up
His vegetation 'triffids' are running amok.
He mows the lawn, trims the hedges,
Creates those nice, neat lined edges.
Weeds the borders, deadheads the flowers,
Feeds the plants their nutritional powers.
The hard soil is dug, ready and prepped
To sow the seeds for home grown veg.
Must not forget to prune back the tree
A labour of love is what it can be.
Hours of work that seemed never ending
His body and limbs, stretching and bending.
Sun burnt skin, his head now aches
Back is killing him, so takes a break.
Joints and muscles moan and groan
Weeds now gone are finally dethroned.
Jim's bones applaud with clicks and cracks
His badge was the sting when a wasp attacked.
Admiring his garden that he has served
His body felt it carried every ache in the world.
The thing Jim will remember and quickly did learn
To wear factor fifty to avoid the sunburn.
29.08.24
The platinum gray blonde fairy sported dainty wings
Her gown of turquoise matched them perfectly,
Both were enhanced by golden brocade trims
She rode her snail toward the marsh, sitting erect
Is she fairy of the prophecy? Some wondered.
I figured she must be; who else could look this regal.
She was apparently the queen we had been waiting for.
Now the woods could renew its magic contract with the faeries.
Written: October 30, 2023, For Brian Strand Contest
______________________________________________
as
gloominess
drops to the ground
the lamplighter performs his
rounds. Equipped with his
ladders, wick trimmer
matches, long pole
and backup fuel
positions the
ladders on
the post,
He opens the lock and trims the wick
and strikes a match to ignite the flame
locking up
the door
he steps
towards
his next
Sentinel.
Through
evening
he steps
his path
merrily
friendly
to those
he sees.
His task
will take
him out
in wind
and rain
the whole
year round.
curious children
watch as each
torch comes to
life with a glow.
In the morning
the lamplighter
is back at work
smothering the
flaring wick set
alight the night
before. As dusk
falls once more
the lamplighter
lights the torches
She liked to beautify and decorate
Arrived at school early, never ever late.
We liked her ornaments and trims and such.
I loved her gaudy garnishes, I mean very much.
The teal peels as it submits to gloaming,
and a round lucidity exposed abroad.
As the alien brilliance shines far away,
the maneuvered view is being cast.
'Tis dormancy that exacts dark period of tenure,
countdown from the zero hour.
Distant silhouettes grow versus fawning growth,
dipped in Luna's balm.
The etching of profiled naturalness acquiesces,
constant figurines masquerading the expanse.
Subtle contours architecturally restructured,
split seconds surrender serene scenes.
The solid realm maintained lifeless postures,
as the teeming formations made idle trims.
Mimicry traces the bestilled in passing,
perfect copies render mockeries silence.
Heights claim their surroundings,
as the tight-lipped verdant statuesque frames.
Depths summon intimate intrigue,
whilst burgeoning burrowed bedrock bound.
Exchanging brightness extremely bold,
lilt ventures its routine as the subject of Sol.
More or less defining shadows...
there's no difference that a day would make.
Jesus is the Master Potter
By Franklin Price
09/14/2023
Jesus, is the master potter
We, the followers His Clay
He molds us into shining lamps
Reconstructing day by day
He lays His hands upon us
Kneads and shapes us 'til we're done
He is the Master Potter
Who recreates us, He's the one
As cracks appear, remolds us,
Provides our structure with relief
Then fuels us, and lights us
To be His lamps that shine belief
He trims our wicks when needed
To even light the darkest hour
Leading others to salvation
His lamp has given us that power
He adds a globe of glass or crystal
To let the light burn in the wind
To guide lost souls to heaven
For since the garden, all have sinned
He cleans our globes when they have darkened
And our lamps are not as bright
And we doubt that we are able
To shine out believing light
If Jesus had not died for us
On that cross upon the hill
Would be no need to have our lamps
For other's nights, our lights, to fill
rain-splattered waters
burbles in rising river ~
beaver trims rudder
Forth from its safe nook sun on grass ~
spring's dandelion shows its green face.
dandelion wrecked
drifts at the kitchen window ~
pleasant southern wind
Dandy Dandelion gets up and trims his yellow hair,
the ant drinks his dewdrop and rises his bed to air.
I halted my shuffling steps in the trees to gaze,
glanced where the sunlight was in a saffron blaze.
3rd Place Contest Winner
A Monoku, Haiku And 4 Lines Of Rhyme -
Same Theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
I am getting myself a retail therapy cat said my aunt.
I met one once, and I am telling you that you simply can’t!
She had made up her mind and brought home Mrs. T.
A well-dressed cat that was persnickety, stuck-up and snooty.
She won’t speak to me and she puts on airs, said my Aunt Lee.
I told you not to bring one home I said, laughing a bit with know-it-all-glee.
Mrs. T was outfitted in round dark shades with white rims.
Her leopard cape was elegant without any kind of extra flair or trims.
She was carrying a black patent leather purse when out popped a mouse.
The creature was wearing a mink pillbox hat that outclassed our house.
A mouse too! Said my aunt. What on earth was I thinking?
The mouse ran up into a wall and died there, so now things are stinking.
Dear Canada, if I were an artist,
I would paint the world with your beauty,
A masterpiece for all to see,
As I know it to be.
Oh, the beauty of my land,
With its sunsets creeping in the rain,
And clouds shining on the rocks,
Like moving lights in the sky.
The night flowers would be my stars,
Pumping out their chests like small artists,
Playing red violins with grace and charm,
Creating a symphony of nature’s art.
And as the twilight settles in,
I would capture the dance of amber trims,
Like a dream of a mother with pure eyes,
Watching over her children with love and pride.
Canada, you are a canvas of wonder,
A mosaic of colors, sounds, and life,
A symphony of nature’s beauty,
That fills my heart with joy and delight.
Dear Canada, know that your beauty,
Is etched in my heart forevermore,
A masterpiece that I will always cherish,
And a love that will forever soar.
…
Ideas conveyed in trails of semantics
Or moving over horse and bars in gymnastics
Tumbling, rolling, scribbling phonetics
Reeling, shrilling, scorching like ballistics
Quibbling over ideas and reams of whims
Rattling odd stories of soul's whines and trims
Yours is the power over lines and grims
Absolution or redemption atop one's dreamed
old gym hymns
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