Lost in woods dark and deep,
Secrets I try to keep.
Where am I meant to be?
What is in store for me?
Then I run into you,
Skies turn a brighter blue.
You make my heart now sing,
I feel the sudden zing.
This heart now is healing,
Such a strange new feeling.
Once thought impossible,
Now it's so wonderful.
Old familiar tune of Happy Birthday,
Along its line I fell in love with May.
As long as I remember from the start,
It etched for good into my childhood heart.
On the same date as years sprinting along,
Birds orchestrate my birthday with a song.
In my honour tulips curtsy my way -
So charming that their bloomday bursts in May.
For every wish I make, the sun beams cheer:
“So many more to celebrate, my dear!”
Love’s in the air, in sunshine or in rain,
Yet something about May I can’t explain.
Born into blossom of prolific spring,
My month of May marks best calendar fling.
(If that month fell, let’s say, on February,
My heartfelt warmth would melt cold snow with glee!)
The awful gift was given to us in front of a bunch.
I saw my wife and her mother grimace, so I had a hunch
They were not totally in love with this ugly bugly offering.
But it came from my favorite Aunt, we call her Aunt Zing.
Aunt Zing had wrapped it with a flourish, a ribbon of red.
It was tied up with fuzz balls, pearls, and a stuffed doll cat head.
I knew by the wrapping that she thought it was a terrific lamp.
It was so ugly it was cute, with jingle bells fashioned to clamp.
My wife brought it out whenever Auntt Zing came to visit us.
Pretending it was always there, not to cause any fuss.
Aunt Zing took me aside one day and said it made her feel joy.
Never thought she’d like this ugly buggly thing, she is a keeper my boy.
We love those church bells,
do we not? Such chimes, such rings!
Are you a churchy type?
Or, like me, are you not?
Those bells we hear here
do have a rather angelic sound
(though, as we know, there are no angels).
But what a voice they have, those bells.
You don't do church, then -
like me and so many others?
But almost supersonic, those rings -
chimes that are quite a joy.
And they do bring to us
a historical flavour.
It enters our ears and hearts,
enters our ears and minds.
You have no religion, then -
that old-fashioned, out-of-date stuff?
Yet those bells send a sweet tang, zing,
almost a poignancy - sometimes sorrow, often happiness.
Ah, yes, we stand at that west end,
absorb those bells, that zing, that flavour.
We almost drink them, wear them -
yes, cherish and wear those rings.
(30 Dec 2022)
Just think, pops
With your voice
You could have been
such a lounge lizard...
With your eye for talent, son
You may yet find your calling
as a top birddog in Oz
for the Wizard
Feel within bliss zing in our bones
Rapture scintillating
Foisted scriptures not etched on stones
Shift from thought to feeling
Know that we are not weak
Be strong, humble, yet meek
We are that, who we seek
Word is not the thing
Feel within bliss zing
19-October-2021
Quietus
Life is a maze
That keeps me in circles
Around you go
Looking for the end
Some corners go nowhere
While others take you home
Where or when doesn’t make it
Just keep on going.
© Paul Warren Poetry
In my flower garden everyday,
Sun verily shines it's bright rays.
I dance, I sing!
I add some zing.
To the jaded flowers, what say?
Date of submission: 17/05/2021
Zip Zap Zung and Zing
Poem made with a ding
Hip Hop Hulu Town
Word Play goes down
Whip whir twis shou
Shake your boots all abou
Fine time you will have
Fun with most dim and lav
drop off a corn store
Iowa magi show bee fore
bun wag and ring toss
fun with word play keen goss
Zip Zap Zung and Zing
Buy in bulk ding dong ding
Hip Hop Hulu Town
Word play goes down
more often than not, a knightly surge
combs a pawn me,
especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,
where bats in the belfry
flap their wings at the speed
of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house
(which doubles asthma
Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
to economize on space,
especially during tax time
(as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom
Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
particularly speaking
on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,
particularly War between the States,
where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben
a fit to this American
Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
Yesterday, on the first warm day of Spring,
I heard a robin redbreast sweetly sing.
And it was a melody on the wing,
a beautiful, magical sort of thing.
Although Winter's hold continues to cling,
its effects are slowly on the downswing.
And I know that April showers will bring
magnificent flowers fit for a king.
It's time to move on; Winter's had Her fling,
the weather's not Her exclusive plaything.
And She is but one of Nature's offspring,
a bland duvet in need of coloring.
On Spring's arrival, She'll change everything,
putting you in the mood for anything.
And while disarming Winter of Her sting,
Spring imbues your soul with that extra zing.
I called a Mommy the other day.
With her 7-year-old son’s permission.
I always ask the student first,
Not wanting to violate their trust.
“I’m afraid,” he told me. “You do it.”
The minute he went back to class
I called his Mommy.
She answered on the eighth ring.
I could hear, Zing. Zing. Ding. Ding.
“Your child has one request,” I tell her,
“But he was afraid to ask.”
“I’m LISTENING,” she says.
“Hey, I got an apple basket!”
Zing. Ding. Ding. Zing.
“I got a free STRAWBERRY!” she yells.
I can hear a baby crying in the background now.
“Your child says that since the baby came,
He doesn’t feel as loved,” I tell her. “He just
Needs a hug sometimes, from his Mommy.”
Exasperated sigh, loud.
“I don’t have time for that!” she says.
Zing. Ding. Ding. Zing.
I feel sad as I hang up the phone.
When did technology replace Mommy?
Perhaps if I take a nap, when I wake it'll be spring
At this point in our Canadian winter I'll try anything
Have had it up to here
Where the sun don't appear
The warmest part of my bod where I still got some zing
It's the beginning of spring when robins sing
We're aware of our oncoming summer fling
With sunshine galore
Happiness to the core
The best time of year, we can feel life's zing
Love is a many splendored thing
It's the meaning of life, it makes our hearts sing
Without it we're lost
As our ship gets tossed
Till that person appears and you feel that zing
© Jack Ellison 2015
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