blossom of baby's breath
soft white
gorse crusted yellow
weeping willow
rush patterned lace
pasture in pastel green
buttercup daisy
comely cowslip mingle
&mix in fellowship
swaying pelts of grass
with purple vetch
& ribwort plantain clover
scabious burnets
butterflies & bees
scent the woodruff
briar brambles
in hawthorn sprawl
dogrose so tall
seabank of scattered seaweed
Alexander’s leaves so green
& feathery fennel aniseed
fat hen so vibrant
shoots of vimen
in Lamb’s lettuce
wild radish cress&chive
majoram &sweet cicely thrive
seabeet chard survive
wild parsnip
& tansy to savour
stinging nettles so green
She's freer now
she spends her time
on the wherewithal
Through the bastions of yesterday
she prays for brighter days
She wrote me a letter
questions of sand
a matter of the heart
reposes a promise
comet like she smiles
Through concrete glades
a vetch on the hill
she is restoring yellow
Antique lace
plastic face
so unnatural
trying to laugh
whilst in a difficult place
you cant change me
in something im not
wild dancing on the green vetch
secure in remoteness
as the world rises and falls
chilled as a crystal belfry
of a glazen star
You cut the rivers in half
bulldozed the banks edge
bristled the green trees
and threw florid ladies into the vetch
your old winkles
falling into shredded paper
your conversation not always edifying
utter the past
chase the line of least discourse
hark a time in the distance
don't blame the numbers in the sand
lichen will cover the scornful
a distant cove as cover
the place before the vetch
I did not choose it
A gift utterly unloved
by a familial sky
Folks who make life out of Vetch,
For their farms heading on ketch,
Their future they sometimes sketch;
None thinks he’s the truest wretch,
For labor does some hope fetch,
Though, Vetch would their choosers stretch…
Now, Hot Debates in the ketch!
“I can with Vetch accounts stretch,
Farther move from being a wretch.”
“But in Gold some their names etch
And Vetch can’t such nice dreams sketch”
“No! Vetch can the Big Name fetch
Quit the wretch that makes one retch”
So, say no more against Vetch…
buttercup daisy
&
cowslip
swaying pelts
of grasses
bask in Spring
purple vetch
ribwort plaintain
lush clover
in English rain
scalious burnets
protude
hawthorn
dense and tough
sweet scented woodruff
hearts tongue
divided frond
circle &stop
spined point
rambled briar
sprawl
prickly &
wandering tall.
Blossom of baby's breath,soft white gorse,crusted yellow, weeping willow rush patterned lace pastures a pastel green.Buttercup,daisy&comely cowslip mingle
&mix in fellowship swaying pelts of grass with purple vetch & ribwortplantain, clover in English rain.Scabious,burnets buttefliesand bees hawthorn and scented woodruff.Briar brambles sprawl,in dogrose so tall above harts-tongue The thinking eye,the abstract made visible a spatial convergence ,now liberated.
Imaginary ,incomplete feelings,beacons of vivacity,profound and positive.Intense inner sounds,a polyphony,the poet's soul,unfazed&free.Seabank with scattered seaweed & feathery fennel in aniseed;Alexander’s leaves so green this tender cusine.Welcome wholesome fat hen,vibrant shoots the vimen in Lamb’s lettuce in Jack-in-the-hedge in wild radish,cress&chive,where majoram &sweet cicely thrive.Seabeet,and chard also survive.Wild parsnip the confectioner,tansy to savour.Stinging nettles so green,peppermint oil pick-me-up, in coltsfoot syrup cup.
Doppelgänger
by Michael R. Burch
Here the only anguish
is the bedraggled vetch lying strangled in weeds,
the customary sorrows of the wild persimmons,
the whispered complaints of the stately willow trees
disentangling their fine lank hair,
and what is past.
I find you here, one of many things lost,
that, if we do not recover, will undoubtedly vanish forever ...
now only this unfortunate stone,
this pale, disintegrate mass,
this destiny, this unexpected shiver,
this name we share.
Keywords/Tags: doppelganger, namesake, twin, shadow, lookalike, grave, tomb, headstone, inscription, weeds, shiver, recognition, destiny, shared destiny, fate, life, death, cemetery, epitaph, elegy, eulogy, mystery
The Lord's respect won't reach mankind
They're never here to vetch it
Where all who know the lord to play
hold every kind of fetch it
That all who hold the lord to word
know any kind of hedge met
As all who know to stay away
sole any kind of ledge met
the glebe
the veldt
the steppes
the glens-
the dells
filled
with
sedge
and
vetch
pebbles
sand
and
tufts
of
grass
catch
the
wind:
the salt air
succours
thirsty
poppies
so fair
What's not to love about a summer day?
Kissed by the sun, the warmth of its embrace
To feel the cleanse from sweat at work and play
While honeysuckle breezes cool my face
With hillsides blanketed in purple vetch
Magenta morning glories and light blues
Imagine all the butterflies they fetch
A scene to romance any poet's muse
But when it gets too hot, I seek the shade
Barefoot in clover 'neath tall sycamores
Or take a watermelon down to wade
A spring fed creek, to cool, while I explore
That evening, in the swing, I watch fireflies
Then pray I wake to see one more sunrise
May 9 - 2018
Daniel Turner
The Glass Eye
My window is an eye on the morning stretch.
Raspy green grasses tangle up in the vetch.
A mama quail runs down the soft red clay path.
Her fat round babies edged to the drain for a bath.
I see the hill slope up in poppy and craggy oak.
One lone gray cloud trails on cobalt blue, like smoke.
The sounds of a barn owl are near but it hides,
And only my window can find where it resides.
Then finally, the children dance by on to school.
The window knows innocence here in the rural.
A giggle, a shout, dropping books as they race,
The bus winks lights, on the knoll, in its place.
My window blinks back with it's stare of the hill;
Its shimmer reflects our morning time drill.
The eyelash curtains brush back with the breeze,
I turn to my paper, and coffee, and do as I please.
By Edlynn Nau
© April 20, 2016
THE PASSIONLESS REVOLUTIONARY
A ragged impulse – the scrivener’s tetch
truncated our conversation on the working
class. Your brief was their craft
was their art, which liberation lost
to them: mine was an impounded version
of the waggoner’s instance, the vetch
caught up in the wheel, thus anneal
the war on wills, the writer’s mockery.
Justice, your fruitless wand and weal
is power to blow the thrust of the argument
over the innocent sweet scatterbrained
head of your sister. The lace-
maker’s art has a hand in this, but
like fingerless gloves, makes raw vision blind.
published IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin 2008
Prayer, a tide of washing's wane
confers rancor's disdain
that when a spirit fastens me
upon annoyance lame,
the bitter vetch is carried off
like dust per aft the rain,
and I am saved to fill the cup
of Holiness again.
But when my mind is so filled up
with worry and proclaim
I only hear the goading sup,
that lengthens with its gain
and so my spirit is vexed abrupt
and I react in vain,
to curse the vestige interrupt
that fills me with its pain.
To curse that cursed thought destruct
my goodness is its aim
Oh, Godly giving, pray construct
relief from mortal strain.
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