Fade light on forest floor
Squirrel's footsteps quiet hush
Nature's wisdom softly speaks
Breezes of ancient tales told
Shade
Fading embers warm shade
Shadows hide the forest's shade
Squirrel's wisdom whispers fade
Sounds of memories shade
Forest's mystery abides fade
Tucked away glinting thoughts
like seeds beneath the bark
of half-remembered dreams
that echo autumn’s needs
tend to duck.
Pluck them out
under muck
stuck well fast—
they bring luck.
In the dusk of night,
My heart that yearns for joy and light,
In the hope of my Prince Charming, my Knight.
Twilight’s foreseen,
The unknown heartbreaks my heart has seen,
In the hope of true love, one of a kind and never been.
Has there been any better joy,
Than having your last bit go wry,
Yet all alone with no room to cry
Her answer was sarcastically wry
The look she gave out made me cry
Something so simple, went so wrong
I started to toot my own horn
Her eyes rolling made me sigh
My heart is a charcoal gray
With silver specks in the sun
Tomorrow is New Year's Day
And this old year, my dear, is done
A bit of moss on the north knoll
The hills of my heart burrowed through
And I'm cramming hope in the holes
Just like the woodpeckers do.
Musta woke with feelings of dread;
I bet that he thought he was dead.
Upon its unmasking,
The question I’m asking:
’Twas the ghost of white or wheat bread?
----------
H/T to The Ghost II by Daisy Ward
The man was strong
The man was bold
Didn't listen to the rest unfold
He took in his culture, pride
He wore his kilt, with pride
Did it make him less of a man? Sigh.
Did it make a lass of the man? Wry.
Forgo these ancient thoughts
That make the thinker less of a human
Drought over their eyes
To see a proud man in a kilt
spry within the shadows you come
wry amidst the darkness you haunt
i care not what it is you want
why is it my soul you still taunt?
do not taint my mind with your past
you have no power over me
spew your wretched words upon death
strew yourself in its lifeless sea
i'm bloodless of inked memories
chime of childhood pain has bled dry
time has a way to heal old wounds
climb back within your grave and die
January 26, 2020
Let's Write a Lento Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
So I drove the van down a walking trail,
and slid into a ditch.
The Officers with voices hale
Began the walkers to regale
With "Oh, no, he won't go to jail!"
My van was tilt at such a pitch,
We had to call a wrecker in!
No doubt they thought it quite a stitch
To think that I had scratched an itch
And missed the road, preferred the ditch.
But we backed the van back up the walking trail
-- I have to ask, 'who was the snitch'? --
Who told the cops, all breathless, stale
That I was blocking up the trail
And underlined my epic fail!
So, I've near reached the end of my tragic tale.
I pity the fool who scratches an itch,
And ends up half under an old hay-bale
And causes old biddies and snitches to wail,
...NEVER drive down a walking trail!
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