Thick and lush
Buttery hush
To quell the fear
Silence the rush
I sit with tea
Or coffee swirl
A selfless moment
A priceless pearl
Inside my heart
A gem recovered
This wheaten slab
Has rediscovered
So take the joy
Of moment's grace
Imbibe to nourish
Silent space
Breathe in the warmth
Accept the cuddle
To straighten out
Life's crazy muddle
For in this crusty
Blessings taste
In solitude
No rush, no haste
A heaven slice
A time to pause
Seclusion from
Those daily chores
Simplicity's
Defiant fact
In hopeful rest
This soulful act
So lift it up
Let's make the most
To love and peace
We make this toast
Do you hear them in the dark sky; voices.
Can you see them? They're in the moist cold wind.
Strong feverish passionate rant noises.
It's pined and forced behind, on a whirlwind.
Autumn leaves move violently beaten.
Dancing deaf, blind, moving incoherent.
Storm; up, in, and under midair wheaten.
Wave, tossing, not surrendering errant.
Pedals follow upward like flaming tongues.
My love, can you see them? A kiss it asks.
It asks, my love, you my love, fireworks, comes.
A thousand sums and more under the mask.
It takes breath from our lungs; they mean no harm.
I need be back into your open arms.
Yes, I have called you callous
Garish and imperious
An inconvenient glare
Cracking apart the shadows of my sleep
The insistent inconsistency
Of the besieging and retreating heat
In your smoke stained fingers
Your blistering love peeling
My patience, my humor and
The back of my neck
Yet also, I have watched
My windows grow more golden
In the bask of your benevolence
Pouring your glory into
Precisely trimmed squares
On my kitchen floor
Your manes of wheaten hills
Crowning the coming harvest
With luxurious grain
So I will forgive
Your sultry swagger
Your stifling autocracy
As these dog days close in
For you are also
The best excuse
For ice cream
8/12/23
"The voices howl in the dark frightens even the brave."
Quote by poet
Voices, do you hear them in the pitch dark.
They drum from pressure within moist cold wind.
It's exfoliating and forced whirlwind,
Abstract heated amorous meadowlark.
Autumn leaves move violently battered.
Dancing, blind moving incoherent wave,
Surrendering to errant void then save,
In, under midair wheaten and scattered.
The voices in the wind echo louder.
Rose pedals flow upward like flaming tongues.
Rumbling voices which weave the ladder's rungs
Blow a slight prouder, dalliance power.
I'm going to fly,
and see Ireland,
The Emerald Isle,
My ticket's in hand.
Visit in a pub,
drink pints awhile.
Joke with the Locals,
carouse, laugh and smile.
Eat real Irish stew,
brown wheaten bread too.
Then go explore,
old castles of yore.
It's a must to make merry,
in walled London Derry.
All Through Halloween,
the Ghouls intervene.
Walk in fields of Heather,
A Musky purple scene.
Fragrance light as a feather,
Pristine and Serene.
Stay there at Galway,
for a few days.
Fish in the river,
or on the bay.
Have to see the Blarney,
and give it a big kiss.
Wish for some good luck,
but that's hit or miss.
I'm going to fly,
and see Ireland.
The Emerald Isle,
Spend time with Old Friend's.
Ted -Beloved Gift
We have walked so many roads together
Through sunny afternoons on dusty pathways with the breeze;
Traveled many miles through your fourteen years
To grassy fields of dogs shows where you became a champion;
Now the minutes and the miles - precious memories -
Playing Sandy in a production of Annie - never missed a cue;
To carry with me as I go my way
Your joy for life my forever companion;
You taught my heart the music of a love song
As you jumped up each day to greet me with a wet kiss;
Then sang each word to leave it in my heart
With a wagging tail in a celebration of perpetual motion;
When my road gets long, I will sing your song
Of chasing squirrels and toys - rolling over to scratch your back on the lawn;
Remembering my gift of God
Theodore Edgar Bear - your name means gift of God;
Now the time for us to part on an August day
Too soon to go our separate ways;
I pray that as you close your loving eyes
You hear your creator say to you;
Beloved - I cherish you - creation of my heart
Beloved - Precious one - Good and faithful friend.
For Hullabaloo the Masked Man - Champion Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier - Mr. Ted
Do you hear them in the dark sky; voices?
Can you see them? They're in the moist cold wind.
It's pined and forced behind, on a whirlwind,
Strong feverish passionate rant noises.
Autumn leaves move violently beaten.
Dancing deaf, blind moving incoherent
wave, tossing, not surrendering errant
storm; up, in, and under midair wheaten.
Pedals follow upward like flaming tongues.
My love, can you see them? A kiss it asks.
A thousand sums and more under the mask.
It asks, my love, you my love, firework comes.
It takes the breath from our lungs; they mean no harm.
I need to be back into your open arms.
5/1/2020
Glorious golden, wheaten, woven.
The Sunhive hangs, safe and secure, in the cradling arms of the old tree.
Full of syrupy sweetness, strength and wisdom of its small, mantled gold and black, dwellers.
At its warm soft womblike centre the bees, in safety and comfort, prepare their Winter Feast.
In peace and good health their Queen freely roams her golden halls.
A stately progression through her realm.
An empire free from earthbound unnatural cuboid cells.
Safe and sound and high above the ground
The bees happy and content,
Secure our future, selfless and without intent.
There where the sun is on the field
I walk aside its wheaten yield,
pathway strewn with golden ceding
of some growth beholden, deeding
violent gales to cast to earth
too soon to consummate rebirth,
some sterile grains of bread of life
beneath my feet a sacrifice.
Small death among the congregate
that feeds to us the common fate.
Summer’s golden blade does thrust
its effervescent golden musk,
and into wheaten fields’ did trust,
a volley of ethereal rust,
caught by tempered, evening gust
Cart and horse they trot out forth,
spilling damsels, on the stones,
clouds and mayfly drift off north,
bees for nectar send out drones,
later, honey over scones
Weary orchestra of light,
dips its day that comes to dusk,
all’s not well that ends in night
spins the web, the prisoner’s husk,
spider drinks the tasty rusk
And when the season’s hunting horn,
cries the chase to fox in den,
master, hound and prey forlorn,
skip by waltzing weazels ten;
like scented breeze, on watery fen
Written for English Quintain contest 15/8/15
In the fields of gold,
A wheaten radiance gleams;
Dancing with the wind.
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