Still stands the night,
an immovable mountain.
A light snowfall of moonlight
on its exposed terrain.
An isolated star shimmers and shakes
its avalanche of brilliance,
outshining myriads of lesser snowflakes
that adorn the night’s somnolence.
In the lee of this mountain,
amongst taupe shadows deep,
three riders their clutches tauten
halting their steely steeds, while other men sleep.
Their chill- wizened faces
look up to the sky
whilst blind night embraces
the three Magi.
Through centuries they’ve travelled
like astronauts through space
though men still hadn’t unravelled
the first mystery that had taken place
on the outskirts of this beleaguered city.
They gaze at the star questioning:
was man ready for the immensity
of the Second Coming?
The frosty light of the star
then started to melt and wane.
It was too soon for the avatar,
the world was still profane.
They re- revved their machines
and set off into orbit exquisite.
Astronomers observing the dying sheen
said t’was a star of hope that surely would revisit.
wily wizened lady of the oak has October ways
Stop if you must, but do not eat her craze.
Her pumpkin peach pies will put you into a daze.
Sounds perfect! Said my ghostly cousin Sir Haze.
He got the recipe, but could never make it her ways.
I think she left out ingredients said my Grandma Mays.
We should know, because she does it to others said Auntie Maize.
wonderful wizened lady of the oak has October ways.
Recognizing life's fields need steady crop rotation
Each of their grains harvested requires separatization
Safely stored in silos of compartmentalization
Red lights flash consistently on the horizon
Emptiness found in the words comprising
Tomorrow is another day or so, I'm surmising
Perhaps one morning, I'll wake up more wizened
keep old frail weak trees
for scars knurls holes and wrinkles
birds and bees call home
what planet could this be for boys of ten
and then one hundred
movement felt,
looking at the hardened grain
of hands caressed
with fingers pressed against themselves
absorbing stillness’ breath
suspended in each air a pair
of warm yet liquid-frozen thoughts
captured
then released with care
youthful power to devour light
whose distance now
becomes serene
a slow suspended scene
in the moment captured
stretched like bubble gum or taffy
compressed
into the thinness of a dime
time
rolled between the fingers
ridged and perfect soft
wrapped
as cigarettes unsmoked,
moving miniature rolling pins
of skin like bread
gathered sweet
and then,
a fence to sit upon, a wall to scale
grains of surfaced roughness
where the smooth compare
the toughness of their skin
to skin a shin
upon a polished youth
with broken glass of bottles blowing
tins and rolls all gathered in
their stripes and plaids
and paisleys worn -
attempts to humanize
collateralized machine
we all want out, sometimes,
we all want in.
Every tree has its sprite,
a living deity ever vigilant of its needs.
Great Yggdrasil
ancient tree of life
holds her sprite within
her wending, winding arms;
a caress of gratitude
for its warrior guardian.
An ancient sentinel
guarding the wisdom
of Gaia’s mind,
needs a soldier;
this recruit, at the ready,
studies “The Art Of War”
with considerable vigilance.
No axe will ever release this tree
from Mother Gaia.
6-3-2021
ALL YOURS (JUN 4) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Wizened leaves on windswept trees
Autumn comes to call,
In crimson hues and umber shades
Their time is nigh to fall,
Before then though the glory
Of autumn in her splendour,
A flourish of true beauty
'Fore arrives a bleak November
Entry for
Fall Into Fall Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
16/9/2019
A splendiferous sun slowly rises
into a pale periwinkle blue sky.
And at first light, dangling dewdrops glisten,
like wet shards of glass, only Dawn can dry.
Sol's heat summons up a sensual breeze,
infused with Nature's exotic perfume.
And as temperatures begin to climb,
lilacs and peonies begin to bloom.
Backyard cooks start flipping smoky burgers,
while campers pitch tents as Spring slips away.
And warm cerulean waves lap the shores,
inviting children to jump in and play.
Yes, the ubiquitous mosquitoes bite;
yet bug zappers will keep them well in line.
Summertime encourages laziness;
so, lie back and bask in the bright sunshine.
Think of Summer as Spring's wizened sister,
a devotee of sizzling hot delights.
The mistress of both humid, hazy days
and phantasmagorical, starry nights.
Over the years, I have wizened
as a writer and poet - now I pen
easily and can elicit the emotions needed for any poem.
Yes, there are days when the muse is shackled,
but in time is set free- so I hold my black cartridge pen,
ready to drip my words . . .
Some come to loiter and pause over my poetry,
I don't expect a horde or screaming throng to visit.
But, I am happy with some delightful commenting.
I love the visits but please don't trifle,
don't be "mordacious" with your words . . .
________________________
March 25, 2017
Verse/A "Wizened" Poet
Copyright Protected, ID 887355
Written for the contest, Eight Word Challenge
sponsor, John Hamilton
Third Place
Sarcastic words spewed forth. Such vile mordacious sayings,
Always arguing and scoffing in the square where she'd loiter
Ridiculing the gathered horde for their time spent in praying
Casting her leers and jeers to elicit their contempt in return
Anger had shackled her mind and body, wizened with age.
She sneered but no one heeded the horrid curses and the
Trifle mutterings from this sputtering unbeliever in a rage.
I heard the venom she fired, exploding like an overloaded
Cartridge shell. Deluded woman... on and on she goaded.
March 24, 2017
Eight word challenge
of John Hamilton
Words: mordacious-loiter-horde
elicit-shackled-wizened-trifle-cartridge
Honey For The Rose Says A Wizened Sage
I fancy a moment of quietest delight
nothing great, just deeply silent bliss
times like this, my mind takes flight
Day breaks with the softest little glow
crack of dawn I often so dearly miss
the lady that put on last night's show
Pausing next to reflect, life slaps me
why do you so often fail to see this
the kinder, softer man you should be
I reply, spare me the moral outrage
yes, I once stole many a sweet kiss
honey for the rose says a wizened sage
I fancy a moment of quietest delight
nothing great, just deeply silent bliss
times like this, my mind takes flight
Robert J. Lindley. 04-12-2015
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