Must I curse the vagrant winds
Lean, warily, into their open arms
Defy the truth of life’s gravity
Or shall I huddle, clutching a dream
Tremble at the thought of its leaving
Fear the cleansing breath of life’s lunacy
Will I not cast my nets into the fury
Clench tightly the gnarled hands of hope
Around the tattered threads of belief
They tempt me now
Their Whispered wish a plea
For am I not but a vagrant wind
The witches sleep late in April
Broomsticks swaying on budding branches
With those noses you’d think they’d snore
But are actually fairly quiet
Their fires burn less brightly
What with the April showers
Squirrels steer clear of the smoldering embers
A passing fox tip-toes warily
I believe they dream
As the moonless nights
Echo with unintelligible murmurs
Curses muffled by a thickening fog
An eerie presence unnerves the sunrise
Shadows playing tag ‘neath leafless claws
Shuffle through the remnants of their night
As the witches sleep late in April
If time were the minted money of the world,
we’d care to safeguard our wallets every instant,
making sure the valued notes don’t fly away like seconds
through the extravagant course of the darting minutes.
If time were to turn into the legal tender,
we’d carry the unseen folders in our chests,
filled with currency as precious as the years we get,
that we long to live in affluence every wealthy hour.
Sunrise time would be morphed into prized fortune
with splendorous riches enshrined in valued moments.
The crypt of dawn would turn into mental locker
where the gold coin of each second we’d warily keep.
Time would come for us with gilded hours to be spendthrifts,
for giving it generously to a destitute lonely friend in need.
The rationale to rightly own the treasure of time
is to squander it on something that requires it most.
A sorrowful smile, a betraying teardrop from my eyes
I write this poem for the testament of time
Cries turning into hollow smiles
Unconsciously sinking to the wells of crime
My past gazing at me warily
Bloodred lips now chapped and dead
Dragging me to that same court of dread
Pouring out another poisonous wine
Draining out the fragile life of mine
I pay the price for it every day and night
Devoured quietly in silent fright
Do the eyes see, or does the mind perceive
What shadows creep warily upon the eve
What forgotten past horde our gainful years
What winged doom bearers rouse our darkest fears
While doubts fester in the fields of the failed legionnaire
And fallen angels flock about thy desperate prayer
Know, aback the world dreaming dragon, I'll be there
Arisen from the dust and decay of The One's, promise broken
I am all that, of which mean, "power", awoken
The wailing grief of shadows fallen where darkness dare
Cleaved in twain by the righteous sword's gleaming glare
Nigh falls the last darkling felled to the abysmal deep
Goeth now from fretful slumbers to restful sleep
For, nor even death himself may reap
thy mortal soul
Whilst I stand guardian; the sacred fold
The fox slopes warily into the garden,
a sapphire dawn overlay's and
sheens his form.
He trots across
a snow powdered clearing
head low, electric whiskers
seeking trace and track.
Crystalline eyes
turn toward a window
where I watch between
aquamarine icicles.
A white speckled snout
wrinkles in sudden awareness.
A quick curious stare,
then off he vaults
over a frost jeweled fence,
a bristled tail whisking
diamond flecked snowflakes -
blue diamonds.
To have your picture on the face of a stamp,
Is a honor reserved for the ones who cultivated change
Among the mèlange of inspiring faces,
Lays the face of someone who served on the basis,
Of freedom
Behind a small black and white picture,
A mighty face lays
With eyes of a fighter,
eloquent hair, neatly parted
The words,
Black white
Trust danger
Defiance hope
All line the bottom
Words of hope, words of courage
That picture is of a strong willed soul
Oh what a wonderful life, one bloke stole
Late at night, she deployed her clandestine runaway
With peers, she warily walked, not knowing where she was destined
Little did she know,
She would make this trip many times again, not knowing what each bestowed
Harsh winter nights, where the breeze grew as cold as coal,
She walked, walked and walked
Till’ days grew into the lines of a bole
She is a freedom fighter
She is a activist
She is a mother
She is a motivator
She is Harriet Tubman
Usps Stamps Poetry Contest - 07/04/25
Sponsor: Robert James Liguori
Tasks, by their very nature
are often painful to perform.
Polysyllabic pedantry exacerbates undertakings unnecessarily.
Strict contest-runners rate your
adherence to the stipulated norm.
Would Robert Frost perform feats
of wordplay? Or leave forsaken
such boring chores? I airily
dare opine this, for Keats,
is the road not taken.
Like rednecks have their gun,
and German shepherds have muzzles,
one posits, all too warily,
that poets need their fun:
like doing harmless crossword puzzles.
I believe, I may have missed the boat
The water’s deep, I couldn’t float
Perhaps the marks I set weren’t high
The tide’s in now – I’ll wave bye-bye
I read Thoreau and Frost, I know
Of wilderness and falling snow
Of Roads Not Taken tongue in cheek
Of singing trees and babbling creek
With pomp and ceremony flyin’
I stopped to sniff a dandelion
To watch a honey bee rejoice
At making such a tasty choice
I sit beside the croaking pond
A heron blending with the frond
A muskrat watches warily
A dragonfly upon my knee
My pants are frayed, my kayak weathered
I share my time with furred and feathered
Visiting these woods, their home
Leave them, as I came, alone
It was a warm balmy night very peaceful
the woods slept soundly the moon shone
In the quiet stepped out a unicorn flowing
silver mane it paused sniffing the air warily
Satisfied it started to cavort around gayly
soon a stag joined in and a fairy both dancing
They called to friends to join in all stepping high
Dancing and cavorting they continued till dawn.
They then went their separate ways only hoof
marks showed they were ever there people
puzzled over marks and shook their heads
Yet on the next moon lit night they returned.
And for many nights they cavorted with glee
Waiting for something to appear still waiting
then a star beamed down and prettily she
came touching noses with her mate then
They vanished back into the undergrowth
leaving all wondering if they ever or not
had been there at all.
Sun Conures
Brazilian blue bliss
from hot savannah rise these
squealing screechers then
land so near me peering through
whited eye rings warily.
Worn out faces
In destitute places
Weary eyes
Peer warily at skies
Wavering lips
Where leaves crunch like chips
Wandering hearts
Slowly ripped apart
Whimsical memories
Beneath the surface simmering
Whispers bitterly
Breaking constraints of liberty
Waking to what is true
When some always knew
Wasting our life
On that which brings us strife
Whimpering howls at the moon
Will it all be over soon
Wondering if the last days
Will be spent in a haze
Weary eyes
Peer at skies
Worn out faces
In destitute places
We may be out of time
And that is our crime
I’d rather be a whistleblower
Fighting for the right
Then just another thistle grower
Plucking out of sight
A whistleblower blows to be
The keeper of our crimes
A thistle-mower painfully
Is catching hell at times
The whistleblower wants to break
The folk who fake on us
The thistle-grower wants to make
The poke redeem the pus
Oh cautiously but selflessly
The whistleblower blows
Oh warily but carefully
The thistle-grower goes
The whistleblower fearlessly
Is fanning freedom's flame
The thistle-grower tearfully
Is plucking just the same.
The seas today were not a short, sharp chop
but were syrupy soggy soft like black treacle,
clinging to the hull like on a spoon, clutching and sticky.
Warily I sailed on, aware of the tenuous tug
and drag of deception in the compliant welcoming.
I, as an alien in the wetness of sea,
knew that the warm softness of the seas's clutch and cuddle
may belie a hidden tumult,
a change of face
on the whim
of a mere breath
of wind.
A life recovered from Stygian depths
tainted by the horrors of dark abyss.
He falters as he takes one thousand steps,
a life recovered.
Pale sunlight stippling through with warming bliss,
luminescence he warily accepts,
burning too brightly after his darkness.
There is a shortening of his sharp breaths
as stark reality he soon percepts
that forces him from his grim regrets,
a life recovered.
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