Standing strong and sturdy like plated armor.
He wiped his tears to banish the somber.
As a knight he bent down on his knees.
Too young a boy for fights like these.
His mother lays frail too weak to speak.
This sad story seems way to meek.
Her life slipping day by day.
To something so mundane.
No dragons or seiges will befall their castle.
For nothing is left but an empty hassle.
What a cruel fate it had in store.
Could only shake you to its core.
Pray for wayward doves heading out west.
For the single parent trying to do what's best.
Did anyone ever pray for those
with yellow stars sewn to sunken chests.
Predators simply see goodness as softness.
Something to be prodded, poked and diddled with.
Nibbled away 'til it becomes a black hole of mayhem and mischief.
Gift the young a firm and gentle hand.
The wisdom of age, how to engage
and the guts to debride out the bad.
Teach them the value of things
how to earn respect void of demand.
Keep them tight to the caring wing
until they can discern nightmare from dream
or a greasy, red beaked buzzard
from a silver songbird stream.
In golden rays of dawn's first light, A son is born, a pure delight. With tender eyes and tiny hand, A precious soul, a love unplanned.
From early days to years that pass, A bond so strong, it's meant to last. Through laughter shared and tears embraced, A son's embrace, a warm embrace.
In youthful stride and growing grace, A son explores life's vibrant space. With dreams alight, he takes his flight, A beacon shining, oh so bright.
Through triumph's cheer and failures felt, A son's resilience truly dwelt. With courage strong and heart held high, He spreads his wings and learns to fly.
In every milestone, big or small, A son's achievements stand so tall. His voice, a song, his mind, a flame, A legacy that bears his name.
With passing years, the son will grow, His spirit soaring, wisdom's flow. Yet in our hearts, forever young, A cherished soul, forever sung.
So here's to you, beloved son, A gift from heaven, second to none.
I’ll speak of me past of stories once told.
Of men that rode waves out in the cold.
Tales of the strong, the courageous, the bold.
Most of them died young, a few were quite old.
The things that they done sent chills up my spine.
They’d eat mush and swill and drink rum and wine.
When they were happy, they had a swagger.
When they were drunk, they could hardly stagger.
Over and over to battle they’d go,
They’d fight dragons and monster, toe to toe.
They faced their sure death with almost no fear,
They’d charge into battle with a loud cheer.
They looked for treasure, none was ever found.
Pirates ’til death, by their pledge, they were bound.
In a valley where the rivers wind,
Lived a lady with a heart so kind.
Her hair was gold, her eyes were bright,
And in her arms, a dragon’s light.
She found him young, a scaly green,
Lost and hungry, never seen.
With tender hands, she healed his soul,
And in return, he made her whole.
They soared the skies on wings of flame,
A bond so deep, it had no name.
Through forests dense and mountains high,
They chased the stars, they kissed the sky.
He roared when danger came too near,
She calmed him with a whispered cheer.
No knight could harm, no storm could fright,
For they were bound by love’s pure might.
In the darkest night, they’d dance and sing,
The lady and her dragon, taking wing.
No castle walls, no golden crown,
Just endless skies and love unbound.
Take one more step and you will die
She hesitated her foot lingering in the air
Turning her gaze behind her
Trust me one more time Hop
The look of concern sprawling over his face
He was young a bit unkempt
His eyes seemed to undulate in varying shades
Just hop
She smiled as she surrendered to his whim
Thinking just a prank played
It was a bee she noticed
wings unbalanced
but unmoving
She reached a finger
prodding the insect in space
I can explain
She swivelled her head
No motion of any kind from anything
She could see the slivers of sunlight
Her legs for a moment
Shivered and dropped her to the ground
Sorry but your the first person who listened
He smiled as he offered her his hand
I am an Ender
“So many things we know as true...
are redefined in future's view.”
-by Poet
What's happened to our measurement of time?
When I was young, a Summer was sublime.
From end of Spring to the first day of Fall-
that space of time seemed epic, never small.
Our clocks and calendars compute time well-
the way they've always done, to surely tell
the days and months we spend mete out the same;
but now, perhaps has altered its old game.
Oh, time has changed- for young and old now say
it's passing quicker in a puzzled way.
One week, a month, a year- advances fast;
presents an altered value from the past.
Perhaps time is a mystery unknown;
not bounded by our measurements alone.
At dawn still young, a grey throat on the go
Rests on a branch nearby swaying with ease,
And moves from deep inside to edge below,
To please me, or to call the mate of his,
To swing and bend, balance against sharp breeze,
Seek a foothold, await if wind should rest,
And settled down when, sing sweet melodies—
Furioso and forte, full throat and breast,
Moderato when Vaishakhi winds rise,
The climax coming lento, shorn of haste,
Never to vie with winds, opting t’be wise,
Ah, my morning alarm and summer guest,
Who, when I peep out to watch sleepy eyed,
Far away flies in thick foliage to hide.
______________________________________
Sonnet |08.06.2024| Robin, bird
Poet’s note: Vaishakhi winds: pre monsoon winds in the month of Vaishakh, the peak of summer in India.
A mother is caressing her baby
her happiness flows in tears…
As she holds her daughter’s tiny hand,
she kisses her forehead
then whispers in her ear…
“Would you like to know a secret? It may sound crazy but it’s true…
Long before you came along…I was in love with you.
You were a thought I had when I was young…a wish that persevered…
a dream that reached perfection on the day that you appeared…
There may come a time..a moment in your life…before your childhood is through
when you might stop and wonder…when I first fell in love with you.
I’m not sure how it happened…I’m not sure how I knew
but in my heart I’ve always had a place reserved for you.
A place both warm and comforting…where my love for you survived…
and where it waited patiently…for the day you would arrive…
I had an ocean of love stored up for you
awaiting the day our lives would intertwine…
and I will be forever blessed
that…with all the other mother oceans out there…
you fell into mine.
The brook is dry. The last time it let hear
Its waterfall was seven years ago.
When young, a thin stream of water was here,
Not very big, but nowadays no flow.
Without the vestige of a construction
Of a bathing place during the war,
Difficult to make such a deduction.
Thus drought cannot be ignored anymore.
Farming does not listen to our hunger
But the strong voices of cupidity.
Soils, wind, and temperatures no longer
Set cultures but profitability.
Not a lot of things have to be explained,
But Mother Nature will never be tamed.
I am young, a tough nut,
hard to crack.
Thick mud splashes half-blind me.
Bones are jostled, pushed into aching flesh.
I am spun around and dumped,
lifted up shoved back in.
A pummeled nose bleeds into my mouth,
stagger, run, beaten down by panting hulks,
heave myself to my knees. arms thrashing, finding
bodies to bruise. Chasing through cold air
stunned, brained, swapping pain thud for thud,
ear bashing clubs, yell for more, hack
and flay one sprained ankle dragging behind
a black and blue knee, plod on through the mire.
Limp away damaged and done.
Rugby is not for wimps.
I will tell you a sorrowful tale of an ancient time
when the turning years carved grooves into vinyl,
a time that changed everything and nothing.
He was a lad, a stripling, knobble kneed and roughly handled.
A youth with a common history told a thousand times
in any slum-clamped town.
A cultural weather mellowed him,
it gave the young a way to be poets, cynics, heedless pundits.
Rainbow children beguiled; they wed their minds
to a street corner weed, past its vows between them.
Then it was that mop haired songsters
again stirred his angry blood; he defied ruler and book,
forsook the hierarchies of the hard boiled,
long hair grew into words that shook as he danced
defying the soft shells of faceless egg men.
The boy drifted, still raw-boned, still trapped
by the rats in his head. Jail house beckoned;
bars griped his knuckles tight.
One night he became a storm in a windowless room.
They held his body down, beat it black and blue.
All he could think of as fists pounded broken ribs,
was if he yet lived, he would write it all out one day
yet still leave out the bad parts.
As that which lies above, so too does that below. Could not the same trait be shared by both the young and ol’?
Frail hands awaiting another; even if only to hold. Each given a role. Each sculpting their mold.
As though without rhyme and reason; the space in between the two seems filled with only the time of season.
Through the eyes of the young a soul will find bliss and through the eyes of the ol’ a soul sees all that was missed.
An ol’ soul is best reminisced through the way which it smiled. Yet, to the universe who isn’t a child?
Behold anew leaf
To witness; innocence nude
From seeds; came the roots
06-29-2022
Like A Child Poetry Contest
Reflections in the sky
Ask you to do something
No one else has done
Compassion, self-calming, democracy
All attempts for peace
Honouring our imperfections, our humanity
Tragic thralls
Have no time to learn new ways
Life is death, fear leads their way, to die of loyalty
Conflict helps us grow and change
No time to share our wisdom, our love, our kindness
Bodies bloodied red, countries souls lie dead
Yet still we dream
Of World Peace
So young, a simple one.
The lost class
I was watching a program called “Vera” when I recalling
I once I lived in the northwest of England.
What I remember best was the greyness of the place.
A council estate for the poor and working-class
Which often is the same.
Young skulking men with nothing to do their eyes told
me they had given up this was their life.
Young girls dress for dance hoping to get married
For love and a sittee and on the list for housing, but to do this
They had to be pregnant with one of the young men
in the street.
There are no flowers here and, a few gardens are a dumping place
for prams and broken toys.
They were not educated the system responsible does not care
To give the young a proper education, they are cannon fodder anyway.
A generation dumped before they were born.
Education for all should be free, mandatory a duty
Only then will roses grow and beauty not vandalized by those
Who has lost respect, and for those whose meaning of life meant nothing?
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