Down the lane not far from home
Across a field where we occasionally roam
There is a river that slowly wends
Along a pace until it bends
It is a bit misty in certain places
In others, you see a reflection of your faces
The wildlife pop along to say hello
Out from the riverbank as you go
The odd fluttering Moorhen or two
Seen to watch just what you do
So as to protect their young chicks
In their nests made of sticks
The river fish scamper about
As they know, someone is about
To them its food that people bring
As into the river bread they fling
Down we walk along the path so still
Sometimes fighting off the winter chill
Or in summer basking out in the Sun
Then everyone is out, it is so much fun
To enjoy an evening stroll it seems
Is part of many a lovers dreams
As arm in arm, they steal a kiss
Our walk is something we never miss
During National Poetry Month each year,
grand festivals are held throughout this land.
Excitement increases when time is near.
Variety is key. No event will be bland.
heartfelt
greeting
starts the
meeting
time is
fleeting
MC’s
leading
schedule
heeding
poets
sharing
deep thoughts
baring
scrumptious
dinners
contest
winners
speakers
first-rate
wise words
they state
short breaks
workshops
soon the
fun stops
all’s done
fest ends
homeward
each wends
April
next year
poets’
good cheer
will be
spreading
we’ll be
heading
to a
grand fête
that’s a
long wait!
Finish my poem contest,
Sponsor Mystic Rose Rose .
Posted 12/4/2025
~~~
As she drinks nectar from a flower, sweetness from heaven falls like dew
anointed with a gentle rain amidst sun showers she appears as if on cue
Lifting her wings she lands on a Zinnia beneath a tinted sky of April blue
flight of fancy fanning fast, fabulous marvel, she is beauty true
on true
~~~~~~~
From flower to flower she wends her way, searching, seeking out the very best
The cottage garden flowers they all delight but is on the milkweed she comes to rest.
It’s here she’ll lay her clutch of eggs upon this common plant. and when the babes arrive
They will feed their fill on milkweed leaves, they need them to survive
Then nature, in her mothering way, in silk will wrap them up real tight
And they will slumber on the milkweed leaves ‘til comes the time for their maiden flight
Then through the miracle of metamorphosis when the work of the chrysalis is done
A host of Monarch butterflies, from out the lowly milkweed patch, will rise to greet the sun.
An Ark was made by human hands
Constructed precisely to His plans
A seat with golden angels on the ends
Hovering above He directs their wends
For centuries with the tablets in place
His commands disregarded in disgrace
Since many forgot the covenant made
It was taken away, its memory to fade
But in time a new thing shall be upon the earth
God has created a woman, His Son to give birth
A living ark from conception, denoted with grace
For His Son to be incarnated, in the human race
There is a truth I've come to comprehend,
Life is full of twists and turns,
And outs and ins,
And ups and downs,
And zigs and zags,
And curves and bends,
And though it sometimes seems to follow guides,
Blind fate alone decides how long it lasts
Or where it wends.
Another truth I've learned of late,
One not controlled by Fate or trends,
Is that Time follows a different line,
One that just goes straight…
And never ends.
Pastel shades of morning,
glow as dark wanes to light.
Colors brushed in the skies
in peach and lilac tones
as dawn begins to rise.
Pastel shades of morning,
are emboldened by noon.
Inflamed as if on fire,
shining ever brighter
as sunbeams fly higher.
Pastel shades of morning,
darken throughout the day.
Amber honey hue wends,
deepens as hours go by
before the sun descends.
Pastel shades of morning,
suddenly reappear
when sunlight starts to fade.
'Fore drowning in the sea
soft colors will cascade.
Lilac is such a beautiful scent
A poem of fragrance that never gets spent
Same for you, my desire, it doesn't run out
It only keeps building, it will not see drought
Overrunning its banks, yet a self-contained flood
That wends its way, coursing, warm, heating my blood
A strong flowing current that brings me to you
And into your arms I fall, fall into mine too
Life is at best a twisted path,
A crooked line from start to end.
Often murky, sometimes clear,
With ups and downs and curves and bends,
Always unknown which way it wends
Until the very end is near.
But, however twisted, craggy, flat,
Strewn with stones or smooth as glass,
The path we take is up to destiny.
No matter how we may obsess,
To no avail we second guess,
What follows life will always be a mystery.
Time wends, stutters, stalls.
Time was when it flew.
Timeless are the dead stars
timed to the last moment
are the living.
Man is a faceless clock
on a blank wall.
In time, the deaf
tell the blind to see.
February or Feb-u-ary
Tooz-day or Tee-use-day
Wends-day or Wednesday
Say 'em like you mean 'em
else you'll demean 'em
The tide weaves and wends
its' way among the pier posts
where I will dig for tiny
shark's teeth and whelks in the sand;
I love making genuine oceanside jewelry.
Said diaries, said Google and Bing:
Rejoice, today’s the day of spring,
But city was in doubt,
Paved roads, not a green sprout,
Soilless bare, it can show nothing.
The streets’ tarred or cemented lands
Much like the desert’s parched up sands,
No blade of grass peeped out,
Spring failed to show its clout,
Sun cane and went as ever wends.
The glazed glass windows were all shut,
All of Nature outside to cut,
City folks oft as are,
Nature was left too far,
No one had any a clue, but
When someone asked potted flowers:
O did ye hear the day’s rumours?
Flowers of paper made
Naught had heard nor yet said,
And quiet left Spring in reverse.
_______________________________
Happenings |26.01.2023| Rhyme, spring
Poet’s note: Two days back arrival of Spring (locally known as Vasanta Panchami) was announced by the Moon calendar. Spring, but there remained wintry chill. To make it worse there was an unseasonal shower and Sun hardly showed from behind clouds. Whispers were heard on Global Warming, that seasons have gone haywire, and all… Anyway, in cities seasons mean very little, and people come to know of them only because of calendars.
"A person who has a zealous mind will gain knowledge, but for the one who lacks zeal, knowledge will be lost."
quote by the poet
I admire those people who are zealous
Happily living life
I do not want to be jealous
That would cause strife
To have my heart overflow with passion
Would be a wondrous thrill
Love is not something to ration
but to fulfill
With genuine zeal I will journey on
Welcoming each new day
Smiling at the first light of dawn
when hope holds sway
Zealously, I tend my garden of friends
Hoping we never part
Wherever my path in life wends
They're in my heart
For obeying God's righteous directives
I have religious zeal
Faith in personal objectives
holds great appeal
January 1, 2023
Writing Challenge - Zip, Zig, Zag, Zing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Just the other side of the river,
oaken sentinels rise to greet Sol;
a lone birth sits nearby amid river rocks,
time worn by the flowing aqua,
that wends and winds the bends upon
its journey across the rolling lands.
Athena's child hoots a "Hello" in
tones of contentedness and friendship;
as our eyes lock, my spirit instinctively
feels the elation of a crisp, late summer
morning. I lay out a freshly caught fish
near a tree behind me, turn and cast out again.
The swift flutter of wings resounds behind me,
the gift accepted silently by my watcher,
brings me the joy unimagined within the
hardened concrete abyss; real life is about
the natural order of things and blessings
that abound upon this majestic space-marble.
How pleasant, now, to think of times gone by,
Of childhood, youth, of family, and friends.
How strange, at times, to see where mem'ry wends.
How swiftly, now, with age those mem'ries fly.
Like fireflies, some glow brightly, then they die,
While some's incessant glimmer never ends,
And some with which I have not made amends.
Still pleasant, though, to think of times gone by,
And even if the bad outweigh the good,
I wouldn't change one of them if I could.
Each mem'ry's worth its weight in precious gold,
A treasure trove that's mine alone to hold.
Such lovely thoughts that time cannot erase.
Each gilds and glorifies its time and place.
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