While wending my way one sunny day
in no particular direction
on stopping for reflection
I took a look at flowers by the rustic fence
beside a gnarled old tree
and was amused to see
beautiful colours and textures
which it seemed to me could only be
a painting picturesque
packed with pinks and reds yellows too
while beyond there lay
a field of green beneath a sky of blue
an avid artist if not gardener
it must have been
to have created
such as the sight I had seen
tho' my words won't describe
don't do justice to the sight I saw
it is etched in my memory
and will remain so evermore
Though all the ways our paths may roam
The goal of every journeys end
Where calls the heart to hearth and home
Through wending weather beaten bends
The welcomed warmth of hearths embrace
Whose comfort cloaked in threadbare wise
No longer wields the power to chase
The moody rain from autumn skies
Inspired by Iron Maiden’s “The Final Frontier:
#18 on Best New Poems List , May 16, 2025
I am but one person
on a mission that went wrong -
locked out of the safety
of the spaceship I was on.
Black ink is spilled around me,
vast and never-ending
as into nothingness
I find my body wending.
The oxygen inside my tank
will last perhaps six hours.
I can see stars - stabs of light
that twinkle not – cosmic flowers!
Forlornness embraces me -
a suffocating feeling
so unlike my loved ones’ hugs.
With gloom my brain is reeling.
I travel in my mind
to things I cherish most -
my family and friends.
To them I’ll be a ghost.
A ghost forever floating
in this upside-down endless sea
which will be a graveyard
of black surrounding me.
God, I am imploring you
as I drift and drift and drift,
may I soon be in your light -
my death both peaceful and swift.
The road narrows, I have outgrown highways,
any future travelling will be accompanied
to the sound of the echoing boards
of covered bridges.
The past has caught me gazing
into star maps only tomorrow may follow.
Fast lanes have become red dirt tracks,
the 'far away' rushes to be my next footfall,
a landing at the end of a headlong dash
that has led me to consider
a slow meandering pilgrimage,
to the next bend ahead
a place where the unknown curves.
I am madly alive today,
one has to get mad not to be dead.
I wander out,
wending through myself
allowing the warm west wind
kiss the thin ice of a low mood.
Smiles light up my gladding blood,
clouds scud.
I take the bright light
in the field rabbits' eyes,
to set fire to my own sight.
I must give praise to whatever,
I see it threading my reality
through this warm breath of infinity,
both I and it are madly in love
with every crazy-hearted lover.
This boisterous day
the Westerlies do blow,
and the Spring air leaps
as sprightly as a young girl
running over
a sweetly waving meadow -
and by god -
I am mad to be that green grass
beneath her!
Posted February 3rd 2025. For Brians contest
An Errant Balloon
I saw a balloon yesterday.
Then I saw another again today.
Floating along on a sunshine ray
wending on its way.
Where did it come from? No one knows
where will it go? where the wind blows.
Did it escape from a small child’s hand?
or is it a memory of something grand?
A Wedding perhaps? Or a departed good friend
who will meet up again round some far away bend
what is it’s story? I wonder aloud
As it floats along in the lee of a cloud
Perhaps I could guess, but I won’t even try.
Just lift my hat and wave goodbye
Daze and days of penmanship
Potent perhaps a touch of sun
Shipshape warming of outlet ink
Ishmael invites a tale; I say: “stowaway”
Stop all blubbering; just get yammering
Yo ho soupmates, we must steer the ship
Stir golden pot of disbelief and brass tacks
Torrential corkscrew pasta, perhaps?
Pish posh of the alphabet riding the waves
Wending its way, each letter to the crew
Conspirators of sonnets, limericks and dust
Dangerous alliteration, elevation and descent
Decidedly dizain, free verse or blank; thats it?!
Steep streams -
Deep dreams
Splashing
Crashing
Rumbling
Tumbling
Wending
Ending
Cascade
Displayed
Yon roars’
Encores
Judge me gently, as I am still a fledgling.
I avoid the pompous, gaudy and bling.
Swiftly simple suffice setting styles.
Abandoning artists amorous aisles.
Fingertips searching for contrite meaning.
Mind from one side to the other leaning.
Bringing forward a paradox of words.
Flowing and forming in flocks and herds.
Wistfully winding with wanderlust wending,
Beguiling bounty beyond beauty blending.
Meanings meander, melding misty metaphors.
Liquid amber, sweet honey seeping from pores
Innuendo intrigues, interest icily intended.
Read and reread and dutifully amended.
Bringing heights of pleasure yet forlorn.
Seeking perfection, my poem is born.
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
Contest: Trilonette Contest Sponsor: Joseph May 6-21-23
#1
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
River of Clouds
Lazy mists dawdle through valleys,
Wending in a river of clouds,
Surfs deep dales on rising tides.
Silver curly-cue veils dally
On twisting rivers like a shroud -
Leaves a pale kiss on riversides.
Mystic Rom roams the pine alleys,
Gypsy brume evergreens beclouds,
Cryptic nomad without a guide.
Flat bottomed shades float like galleys,
Wispy fogs tickle thunderclouds
Stolen cloud ships on a joy ride.
Rising tule croons playful songs -
Alto whispers for a singalong.
This day, a new year marks and also brings
afresh sweet memories of vows exchanged
one shy of thirty years ago, of rings
in token and in pledge, a day arranged
by God, ere we were knitted in the womb.
Why He joined us, and through His providence,
did graft us to his vine, our love to bloom,
is known to Him alone. Its consequence
yet hidden from our eyes, but what a wealth
have we, thus joined, shared on this wending way
in joy, in sorrow, sickness, and in health!
In confidence, with surety, I say:
yet were I able all this to foresee,
a thousand times again, would I choose thee.
------------
A sonnet I wrote for Frances for our anniversary a few years back, found rummaging old computer files... We're coming up on 37 years in January
Wending my way, as one asleep
through my listless routine
grinding away the hours
a money machine
In my mind, not much unforeseen
'tween eight in the morn
and five afternoon
weary eyes tied to a screen
Hearing the bell, I leap for joy
run, scream and shout
from my cage newly sprung
come alive ~ to let the real me out
Leaves are fluttering in sunlight
Soon, they'll all wither and turn gold
Chilled air now takes a nipping bite
Scenic ambience I behold
Summer days dwindle while wending
Leaves are fluttering in sunlight
Another season soon ending
Skies darken earlier each night
Today, a flock of geese took flight
All that's green will soon disappear
Leaves are fluttering in sunlight
Near their shedding time of the year
Brisk winds will blow them all aground
It saddens me to know their plight
for great beauty in them I've found
Leaves are fluttering in sunlight
August 15, 2022
Hint of Autumn Contest
Sponsor: Gina McIntosh
He ran the palm of his hand across the canvas,
Felt its soft, smooth surface, excellent fabric.
It was well primed with gesso, and he was sure
The end result would be an immortal masterpiece
The quintessential fragrance of daffodils,
a carpet of yellows in secluded woodlands,
new-born lambs on wobbly legs bleating for milk,
bees irresistibly drawn to luscious nectar.
male cotton less cottonwood trees flourish
as do the blooming peach trees erupting in fruit.
And birds flying here and there, chirping delightfully.
On one side a cottage, beautifully thatched,
with a rivulet wending its way from the water mill,
on the other, a bench beneath an alder leaf birch.
There sat a young maiden fair to behold,
on his knees was a young shepherd hand outstretched,
barely touching, proposing, as she smiles happily.
The painter looked satisfied. It had taken days
But finish it he did. The Museum would be satisfied.
After all weren’t all his vast landscapes immortal?
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