For today’s prompt, pick a season (any season) and make it the title of your poem; then, write your poem. For instance, your poem might be titled “Winter” or “Spring” or “Rabbit Season” (if you have a sense of humor and like Looney Tunes cartoons).
Here’s my attempt:
“Autumn”
even leaves
pretend they don’t care
releasing
from their trees
and letting the wind take them
wherever it will
*****
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My Discontent
Grey fog permeates
the ocular membrane
to swirl into depressing
visions
Icy chills creep
under the skin
to ensure emotions
remain frozen
Leaden snow
buries deeply
all that once was
happiness
gaiety
life
with no spring to thaw
a heart
encased
an imperfect crystalline hollow
Snarky Season
Lewis Carroll unleashed the Snark,
and I’ll expose him to the fullest,
as I know for a fact he’s kin to the Quark
and they’re both on a path to collude-us.
I have friends to whom I can turn–
They live and work on Mt. Palomar,
Amid the great eye that nightly yearns
To catch this pair before they go far.
Oh, I’ve known about them for many years,
I have solid proof of their evil intentions.
Their sneaky, snarky, evil sneers
As they zoom around defying convention.
They went into my office space
Careening, carousing, a frump of a pair,
Seeking all they could deface,
Scattering papers into the air.
Because it was the witching hour,
I only stood outside the door,
Listening, trying not to cower,
I heard them say, “It’s done, let’s soar.”
Through the window they made a retreat,
While I, now brave, entered the room.
Who would believe that I had been neat?
Alas, my reputation might be doomed.
What if no one believed this tale
And thought my habits were deplorable,
And proved the Snark did not prevail–
It was just me, no longer adorable?
.
Maybe it’s Spring
Mixed up seasons for some reason
this year. Maybe it’s the new sunspot
cycle just beginning or global warming,
but it wasn’t March that entered like
a lion roaring and I’m not sure which
month left like a lamb. May’s flowers
re-scheduled, arriving earlier, in April.
And summer’s been commuting since
February, unpacking 80 degree temps.
Today brought balmy spring weather
and a hefty wind. Tommy, not quite
three, scootering home from the park,
hit a bump: a tree root hefting the walk.
He tumbled flat and scraped his hands.
Back home during lunch, when asked
“How are your hands?” he held them
up for me to see and said, “See? They
okay. The wind blew the hurt away.”
Autumn
Autumn is my life.
Not quite summer, never spring;
Certainly not winter.
My Autumn Years
Leaves, not as fresh
Slightly dry and crinkly
Not as bright
As they were in spring.
Trees, A little bare
More worn
By the picking up winds
Violently shaking them
As Autumn leads to winter
The Earth, A little more damp
A little more cold
Not fruiting as effectively
A bit more barren
Than last summer
The air, A little colder
Raindrops starting
To spot the windows
Constipated clouds
Hover menacingly
Ready to break forth.
Turning away from the mirror
Sheet over my head
Is it really time
To confront my ‘Autumn Years’?
SPRING RAIN: TABLEAU
Verlaine’s rain comes down
spotting your windows,
clogging the gutters,
shimmering pavement,
reflecting old tears,
mirroring your face.
Italian Seasoning
I’m not much of a cook
and he doesn’t much care
as long as I wear his favorite apron
and a smile.
I’ve ruined plenty of dinners
taste testing from his lips,
adding too much spice,
and setting off the smoke alarm.
He prefers a long simmer to a
fast boil, and we pour on more
Italian seasoning.
Spring
By
Arrvada
Something happens to me in the spring
As if a switch is flipped
A light turned on
The colors flash and flare
Bright and bold my thoughts alive
I think, I feel and know so much
Coming awake along with the earth
I am me, alive and well
Smart and creative and beautiful
I see the orange of the poppies
And smile
I am me
I am spring.
SPRING, AN ETERNAL HOPE
it’s almost opening day on my first senior spring
hunting season for discounts, special shopping days
my Scottish ancestors cheer me on
my English ones chant “stiff upper lip”
as I notice more experience lines
showing in the morning mirror.
I should focus instead on the simple
joy of being, peace and wisdom:
here still and not there—there
some nether place where darkness
holds sway, blocking out the light.
Spring. Season of renewal, new life begins
and hope springs in its eternal feathers.
Carol A. Stephen
April 11, 2012
SUMMER RAIN
Born in July,
When the sun is as hot,
As the highest fireworks,
Blasting through a darkened sky,
Beaches are crowded,
People glowing,
With suntan oil,
Latest creams being put on,
With the intent,
Of being noticed,
More than to be affective,
Running with friends on the sand,
As the only way to not get burned,
While dashing wildly,
On the way to the raging surf,
Still looking cool, of course!
Birthday parties,
Were always in the sun,
At the local amusement park,
Children all running to each ride,
Screams filling the air,
Mostly in delight,
Unless their swirled ice cream cone,
Has fallen in the sand,
Or salt water taffy,
Accidently got in their hair,
Summer after endless summer,
The summer joy of July came and went,
Until she had her children,
When the cycle began all over again,
With her watching their play now,
Grinning up close while they laughed,
Playing and enjoying their summer,
Year after year,
While they became adults too,
And before they’ll have their babies,
She will once again,
Watch the smiling action,
Nearby yet slower now,
Remembering how amused she was,
Laughing and running with the wild surf.
In among her sun memories,
Now as she ages on,
Year after year,
With a quieter summer house,
Just holding her husband’s hand,
Gazing out the beach house window,
Watching the summer rain,
Dance and laugh as it falls hapless,
In no pattern at all,
Slowly erasing,
The fun beach memories,
Yet as it waters the sunflowers,
She smiles gently,
As it reminds her,
For each day of summer’s sunshine . . .
A little rain must surely fall!
Times and Seasons
Work hard play hard live hard hard life hard wife
Mow lawn pull weeds paint door fix bed clean shelf
Less of these more of those eat right eat out not tonight
Volunteer help friends visit Mum
Go to work go to church go to school (going nuts)
Time with kids time with wife time for self – when?
Sleep less rest more bed late wake early set alarm
See doctor plan trip book taxi catch plane
Get car fixed get house clean get yard tidy
Make build repair plan think decide do
Wait
There is a time and a season for everything
Checklist
1. Make to don’t list
2. Follow through
any season
any season
is ripe for love
two hearts
Spring
Spring has sprung
and I am done
Spring
Fresh mown grass
Daffodils and tulips
Easter lilies and amaryllis
Blooming profusely
Cool nights
Warm afternoons
Sun in all its loveliness
Gentle breezes one day
Strong winds the next
Oh the beauty and blessedness
Of spring
Any Season
Any season will due when you are happy.
The summer is never too hot,
Nor the winter too bitter cold.
The new foliage of spring is so delightful
When you have spring in your step.
And the Autumn is twice warm and crisp
It is hard to believe, – at the same time.
And life is good and sweet in all seasons,
When you are happy.
Florida Spring
Spring doesn’t come
to South Florida I’ve been told,
just summer, then summer,
then some cooler days of summer.
But in April the gold tree spills
yellow blooms and winter dry
turns emerald.
Scissors Season
Changes
this way come
like an earthquarke
everything
will be upside down
inside out.
For that, you must be prepared, my little child
to listen to your voice and follow her anywhere.
Summer Sanctuary
The heat melts thoughts
as El Sol lingers in the sky
like a tango played slow
and seductive -
we cuddle in the shade
of each others smiles -
content to simply be
RHYMING SEASON
I try and try to write in rhyme
Again and again on the paper
I dash word after word in vain
my noggin has nothing but vapor
pushing and drilling my exhausted brain
Maybe I’ll be able to write in time
Now my little grey cells are vacant
searching furiously for fine words
sifting through my dull, jaded mind
for nouns, adjectives and verbs
but no eloquent phrasing I find
between my ears remains dormant
Puzzle Season
The week at the shore
in another’s beach house
full of decades-old spined digests,
travel guides to Nowhere,
the American Heart Association’s earliest cookbook
and a pop psych tome
And when the rain arrives
as an unwanted guest,
we reflect, in this intermission
from on the hop,
upon how the
unexpected is woven
into every moment
We should know the pattern,
but so often forget to factor
in Uncertainty in the formulas
of Holiday
So we reach for the puzzles
the game of chaos control,
and, piece by piece,
we take this time to press
order back into our lives,
one knobby embrace at a time
as the rain pounds the land
in a suddenly predictable pattern
of soaking stanzas
Spring in the Deep South
And already the air feels
like it has tumbled too
long in a dryer.
Seasons imply
surroundings are temporary,
but summer arrived early,
like a favorite aunt with a big
floral bonnet and a wink
in her stride resembling
a beachgoer who seeks
to plop on the perfect spot.
Her purse: the horizon,
set on the Sea’s table
contains tools to fountain
nature’s pen, compact
mirrors formed by
raindrops and peppermints
for memory’s mouth.
Thank you De! Really appreciate the support and am loving my daily De-lightful poems:-)
Autumn
Comes early, right when
I am still getting my tan.
Expels the festive heat
turns away the sandals,
and the minis. Sun is down
and the cold blow reminds me
of pea soup.
It’s leaf-blower season.
Noisy, obnoxious tools
What’s the reason
of leaves moving,
and not removing?
Maybe they need a leaf-vacuum-cleaner instead
No, I am not mad!
I just like the leaves there
I think it’s fair.
It’s fall.
Yes, it’s getting cold, season loop
after all.
I’ll make pea soup!
Spring
Earth heats and humans pop up
Park full of coats and strange souls in T-shirts
The grass has barely woken up
Half-crawled out of the mud, fresh green
Stamped flat beneath determined feet
Of prancing children and dancing cows
No really, it was on the six o’ clock
An agenda heavy with events drops
On the mat. Too cold for the beach
So people go cultural
Reading a book is so last season
Art fair, ethnic potluck
Outside, but bring your coat
Lean against a wall out of the wind
Close your eyelids, a sunny orange
Not long now, summer, the flap of a pigeon
Nearly pooing on your head is almost a seagull
Autumn Air Spins Summer Samaras to Equinox Earth
in spring we emerged up high
branches provided home and shelter
all summer we drew strength from the sun
seeds of elm and hoptree in the centre
maple and ash to one side
hidden away amongst leaves
mostly unnoticed
until the time arrives to release and fly
sad to leave, but we carry future growth
from the canopy we are freed for one flight
spin for distance, more wind means greater range
each of us flying to provide future trees
delighting humanity
whirlybird on strong wind
helicopter rotates in a dizzy state
spinning jenny dances in tune with the season
polynose dives down en masse seeming to race
to Earth’s cradle we fall
and rest hoping our seed survives
To everything
Tireseus walks the summer wall
naked before the fish and waterfowl.
He is whatever the wind decides.
Before morning comes, the sun
predicts the day, I set the table,
prepare breakfast in tender light.
My journey has been full of magic
& visions, I only stopped to shower,
wash clothes, and break bread.
Spring.
I tripped and smacked my head against
a metal chair in the Spring,
when the weak pond breeze made me catch
a shoe in wooden grooves
as I tried to take it in, breathe it out,
make my head sprout red on the green
like blossom, like morning dew,
like a reminder that this season violently
knew that I’d just said Fall was my favorite.
CONSEQUENTIAL
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
-King Solomon, Ecclesiastes 3:1
The most difficult lesson to learn
involves the truth of opposites:
knowing that valley living
deposits respect for mountains,
famines alternate with feasts,
luxury depends on destitution,
and institution breeds the free.
Sunshine alludes to the rain
while a caress defines pain,
knowing that trust requires faith
and faith depends on evidence.
The preeminence of truth comes
through the prevalence of lies
and a haughty disguise, in time
will be tempered by the humble.
To spring up, one must fall down.
Slippery snow will line once-hot ground.
The once-lost, in time, will be found.
“Spring”
When the tornado sirens
cry wolf
every Wednesday noon
Pound for Pound
Spring comes in like a Cesarean section,
forcibly cut from winter’s womb.
The insulated, placental sound of April rain
and the scratching of a poet’s pen,
echo like an organ with keys tuned to the truth.
Each beat brings another endless bed of cloudy
capillaries to the surface of the evening sky. Just
as a bested boxer trills blood like a heavy shower
turning lilies into roses.
Mourning Season
for Melissa
It’s a living, breathing
thing in her chest,
this grief, this ache.
She lies awake every night,
waiting for her heart to pull
its shade, for the ticking of
the clock to still, for those
first few moments of forget
when morning comes. She
waits for the empty places
to refill, wonders if the
not him souls and frozen
smiles who try to help will
ever really help, somehow
wants them all to stay, and
go away. She feels her breath
go in and out despite this void,
this cold without, this brutal ampu
-tation of life and laughter and
love. She looks above, and then
her winter heart holds just enough
warm hope to do it all again.
Powerful. I like the detail and the line breaks.
Late, late, late! Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: Write a poem that uses the five senses.
Mercurochrome Summer
The third time I skinned both my knees
the summer I was eight, my mother
just shook her head. You’ll have scabs
on top of your scabs, she sighed,
as she painted them both with Mercurochrome,
that vile red liquid antiseptic that stung
worse than the scrapes themselves.
She eased my pain with a cherry Popsicle,
the sweet and cold in my mouth offsetting
the hot throbbing in my knees. Afterward,
I went outside and showed Danny next door
my war-painted battle scars, then stuck out
my cherry-stained tongue, and told him
I drank some of the Mercurochrome.
Yuck! he cried.
It was a day full of red: Danny’s big sister Julie
sashayed by to show off her new red sundress
and flip hairdo. I told her she looked like Sandra Dee,
but Danny said she smelled like onions. Later,
a fire engine screamed through the neighborhood
when Mr. Berry knocked over his barbecue grill
and set his lawn on fire. Fresh cut grass and charcoal
smell good, but not when they’re put together.
I read in my science class that when the sun
goes down, the reds are the first colors to fade.
By dusk, my knees were no longer bright red,
and evening sounds took over for the colors –
the ice cream man on a late run,
mosquitoes teasing my ears, crickets chirping,
and the Fisker brothers setting off firecrackers
in the woods. I got ready for bed, pulled my
pajama pants over my tender knees, which were
already beginning to heal.
OMG Bruce! You brought me back to those summer days when I also went around with red knees from the Mercurochrome. I suffer from arthritis in both knees due to all the skinning they had.:) Yet you described those summer nights perfectly!
I love it!
Hi one and all…. So many wonderful poems … fabulous community… The Street is bustling and I barely had the time to read never mind to comment today. Apologies and my own personal public regret. I’ll try to stay on top of things and get in more reading and commenting in the days to come.
Basketball Season
I liked my eyes, blue like my uncles,
Maybe not as vivid, but still, a rare recessive that placed me apart
From my green-eyed, brown-eyed friends.
And my clavicles, sharp, defined – I wore square collars at every opportunity
To frame those lovely bones.
And my breasts, of course, my breasts.
Not shallow “A”s like my sister whose long blonde hair, long legs, tan skin,
Lean waist were, let’s face it, hard to beat and hardly fair.
The first time
The boy next door noticed the furrow that had formed between the soft slopes of cleavage
My arms encircled the basketball that we were scrambling for.
That was the first time that I felt a Woman’s power,
When his gaze would not turn until I wrenched the ball away,
Spun past him, bounced it off the backboard, breathing hard.
He never looked at me the same again.
And I never looked at him
The same again.
Autumn
You swoop in with an impressionist’s palette
Putting the cerulean sky to shame when you smear
The forests with carnelian, ginger, ochre and dabs
Of every shade of green; the fields lay down carpets
Of unimaginable buff, wheat, and barley-brown
For you – autumn, the most regal of the seasons
Putting on an immense show before bowing out
Flaring bright as any Viking’s funeral then sailing off
Leaving earth fallow, ready for icy winter’s arrival.
S.E.Ingraham©
(year of the dragon)
He had been born in the year of the dragon. And while he so evidently possessed many of the positive traits typical of the sign; romantic, energetic, and intellectual, she’d often come to discover that meant he could also be fiery, intollerent, and unrealistic. Of course this hadn’t mattered at first, not when he was slaying her with unexpected tokens of affection and non-stop enthusiasm for all things, his relentless pool seeming to spill over bringing life to every dark corner of her world.
But that was months ago, when they first met, when the year was new. She on the otherhand, was born in the year of the dog. Straightforward, faithful, if occasionally stubborn and at times bothered by unwarrented anxieties. That must have been why she had warmed up to his energetic spirit so quickly, clung to his confidence, stuck by his side.
Yet now the year was drawing near to a close, and dusk seemed to be falling over them, concluding what she had somehow known all along. Dogs and dragons are not ideally suitable, and they were no exception. She could not find warmth in the hearth of a fiery dragon uncontent to linger too long at home.
Though as he drifted away with the year’s end she tried to look positively at the end of their season together. Next year would be the year of the snake, and she was quite certain, full of much potential.
Wine Season
I’m afraid I’ve had too much
wine
to write a poem
sublime
OMG, I had NO idea I could
write such funny stuff!!!
Linda Voit
LOLOLOLOLOL! Linda, this made my night!
OPEN SEASON
Dead mouse by the door.
The golden cat smiles nearby
Purring genocide.
Oh no!
Spring
All the lovely fragrances in the air
Beautiful colors everywhere
Spring has always been my favorite time of year.
As i look around, everything changing
Seems new life being breathed in everything around me.
As i gaze at the beautiful scenery
Fond memories of times past
Come back to me.
Night also is my friend
As i sit and gaze at the stars
They seem to be winking at me
So diffrent in the spring they seem.
Yes, spring is definately
my favorite time of year!
Samantha Tinney
Seasoned with Laughter and Love
Once upon a time,
a little girl lived
in a house on the
southeast shore of Lake Ontario.
She sailed through
sunny summer days,
gentle waves splashing,
fished small mouth bass and perch.
As autumn leaves painted red, gold, and orange,
she bid a fond farewell to feathered friends
with a kiss for luck, chubby fingers waved goodbye
until wings disappeared over the horizon.
She skated on winter’s ice,
sliding and gliding, silver blades flashing
bundled in a purple snowsuit,
knitted hat and scarf held in the heat.
She wide-opened windows, filled her house with spring music of
robin cheerios, sparrow chirps, chickadee dee dees.
Mrs. Mallard with peep, peeping chicks
pecked bread from her outstretched hand.
She picked daffodils in the sunshine,
Puddle jumped in the rain
Wished upon the evening star
Left her footprints in the grass wet with morning dew.
Once upon a time,
a little girl lived in a house
on the southeast shore of the great Lake Ontario
where she seasoned life with her laughter and love.
Favorite season?
At one time, I favored summer most of all -
time for swimming, sleeping, reading, imagining…
carefree as the butterfly, simplicity reigned.
But summer left me wishing, longing for what couldn’t be.
and as I pondered, the leaves changed, the crops ripened,
the butterfly tucked herself away.
The kaleidoscope of leaves fell,
with piles for jumping in, colors for contemplating, beauty to soon be blown away.
Trees came to rest, preparing for a long slumber.
It was a new time, and a new favorite season came –
winter brought crisp air and red noses, icicles for feasting, snow for oh-so-much.
This white medium allowed for building forts, creating stick-armed friends, molding angels.
But the angels melted into slush, the icicles became puddles, the world turned gray.
An inner voice called out, pleaded really.
Where had the sun’s glimmer been hiding? We’ve slumbered enough. Could the trees awaken?
The answers crept in silently, green shoots snaking their way up through the now-browned leaf carpet.
Not wanting to awaken the world too quickly, the first small blooms appeared,
White, yellow and purple crocuses making way for the smiling daffodils and flaunting tulips.
Then the trees joined the chorus.
Delicate redbud canopies, understated dogwood, sweet crabapple blossoms.
These were the harbingers of the leaves, the trees’ coats that sang, “We’re back!”
So a favorite season? Definitely spring.
The promise of new life, renewal of the old, and the welcoming of the butterfly.
She’s back!
Monsoon
summer rains fall hard
children dance in the puddles
the famine is near
Seasoned Greetings
Nothing makes your mouth water like
scents which permeate the warm,
humid air of a Low Country kitchen
in summer.
Fresh herbs from the garden
dance in a skillet with vine ripened
tomatoes and onions
harvested only that morning.
Swing low sweet chariot.
Bring that fork on home.
:-O YUM.
Spring Daze
Heaven sent us a new message.
Told us of great things to be.
Waltzed us through the cold dark Winter.
Shined a light and set us free.
Gotta love a new beginning.
Daffodils in a foggy haze.
Awakening earthly surroundings
born to us within Spring daze.
By Michael Grove
Wedding Season
(in India)
Perhaps it starts with
saffron velvet embroidered
with topaz butterflies.
Or indigo silk bordered
with tangerine vines.
Soon gathers into
an explosion of splendor,
a kaleidoscope of color,
the nights aglow in brilliant hues
of amber and wine and sapphire.
Shimmering garments
in parrot green and peacock blue.
Shades of apricot and ochre chiffon;
burnt orange and cinnamon brocades.
Silver sandals and raspberry rose purses,
gossamer shawls patterned with paisley,
long woven coats in mustard and copper.
Jewel-toned fabrics compete
with jewel stone adornments:
Garnets and sapphires encircle wrists,
opals and amethysts drip from earlobes,
diamonds and moonstones adorn foreheads.
Out-shining
One-upping
Over-dazzling
with fancy frippery,
with sparkles and spangles.
And in the midst of the dancing
and the delectable feasts
and the garlands of marigolds,
the brides and grooms emerge
through the cacophony of color
and walk together around the fire.
by Nickie Shah
Gorgeously, GORGEOUSLY described, Nickie. Just beautiful. Wow.
Thank you so much De — appreciate it!
Fabulous imagery. Love this poem.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting Sara!
Last Hunting Season
“I saw a deer up in the woods.
Some one shot it.
They must have lost it.”
“Yeah?” I said,
not sure if I should believe it.
In the afternoon, he said,
“I saw a deer up in the woods.
Someone shot it, must have lost it.”
“Yeah,” I said,
not sure what to do about it,
even if it was true.
In the evening Dad said it again.
For him to remember something
three times in the row,
there must be something to it.
So for the first time in my life
I donned a bright orange vest
and walked up in the woods
with him to see about this deer
someone lost track of.
Half the time he couldn’t
remember what season
it was, and he’d often ask
what was legal to shoot.
Surprisingly he walked right to it.
This was a man that carried a rifle
from the time he was nine years old,
had gotten over fifty deer
and couldn’t remember
the names of his five daughters.
He still knew the woods.
He tagged the deer,
pleased he’d gotten one for the season,
his wife and daughters relieved
he’d stay out of the woods.
The meat was bad.
We never told him.
It was his last hunting season.
Back-n-Forth Rag
Just one hundred miles between our two homes,
yet a change of the seasons readily comes,
two hours after the dry desert air
savoring moisture, our Bernardo lair.
We love our two homes, both seasoned with love,
Spirit surrounds us, within us, above.
The cats like it too, their joy adds a spice,
three parts of playful, one jigger of vice.
Our lives are perfect as any fine thing,
no matter the season, always our spring.
Hi! Been having lots of technical difficulties with this site–pw resets, “posting comments too fast” about to give up. Am posting my poems at saravinas.blogspot.com Our fearless leader once again made me stretch outside my comfort zone and set up a poetry blog. Thank you Robert!
Spring in Sacramento
Walking to school
‘Neath pink petaled fairies
Who danced and tempted
Scenting the breeze
With pixie dust
Designed to please
Or make you sneeze
Yay, you, Sara! I’m all subscribed!
And I love those “pink petaled fairies.”
Seasonal Kyrielle
Autumn sings a blustery note
which says you’ll need a warmer coat.
Leaves are orange and Bordeaux.
The seasons come; the seasons go.
And Winter’s icy counterpanes
are full of glistening crystal chains
and puffy, fluffy drifts of snow.
The seasons come; the seasons go.
Then Springtime blooms with daffodils;
bright pansies sit on window sills
and rills once frozen start to flow.
The seasons come; the seasons go.
The boys of Summer hit line drives;
the opening of pools arrives;
the sun, the beach, that golden glow…
The seasons come; the seasons go.
###
Seriously, RJ, is there a form you cannot master? This is just beautiful.
Admire this skill, so much.
I, myself, am formless, and void…in general.
Autumn
Dresses on trees
Sweatshirts seen on people
Birds flying south above our heads
Contemplation as ripples in water
Flowers take a much needed rest
Grass does a phoenix feat
My favorite time
Autumn
duck season
i am hunting duck
with chuck
hey i got one
before it ate the bun
i guess i have a lucky gun
and i have only begun
Season of Healing
I have come
to a place where
my threat no longer lives.
He is gone.
Forever gone,
ashes buried in the earth.
Still I find
I feel fear
threat
anxiety
washing over me
threatening to drown
waves surfers wait for
as challenge of their ability.
Depression so dark
it is impossible to see anything
in front of me
and I struggle between
living with it
accepting what he is still
doing to me
even in death
or looking up
toward the peak
seeking hand and toe holds
no matter how small
to grip on
my way back.
I decide to look up
even in the midst of a moonless night
and I reach
feeling for that small but strong
ledge to grab onto
and a toe hold
where I can dig my toes in
and push pull my way up
out of his death grip
moving slowly
with a goal in sight:
the peak of the mountain.
It is an almost impossible climb
from hell’s depths
to this season of healing.
I will make it.
The seasons will keep turning, moving you on into a lighter place.
This is beautifully shared, emmajordan. If it’s autobiographical, I commend you for your courage, and pray hope lifts you as you climb.
Rosemary and De,
Thank you both for your comments, most of all for your encouragement. Yes, it is very much autobiographical. Hope? I have several framed prints in my room with hope illustrated or illuminated. I need the reminder.
The allusions to climbing come from, of course, the deep pit I have lived in for many years, but also my love of rock climbing.
Again, thank you.
Emma
Tether to the right rocks, Emma. And keep those hope balloons in your pockets. You’re on your way out.
Winter
A cold wind blowing
Refreshing
Readying for hibernation time
Lulling
In this time of declining sun
This time of hunkering down
Crawling with the comforting zones
So weary from heated moments
Welcoming as life blood flows slow
Pulsing upwards towards skin
Warming from with everything
That touches with frigid demands
Pulling within and letting that natural
Follow the warmth and get warmed
Giving it a reason to really want to live
As everything decides to lie down in dust
This the time that renewal is bred
Laying down to sleep
Knowing rebirth is the next
Autumn in the Northern Rivers
Always so warm
the trees and flowers
behave as if it were Spring.
Wattle and bougainvillea
bloom profusely bright
along the roads.
Most years, even my roses
bud and flower briefly.
For a short while
we open blinds and curtains,
not keeping the temperature out.
The fans are off, the heaters
not yet switched on.
We let in the air.
Gradually the nights cool
after clear, sunny days.
The mountains stand out sharp
around the sky-line; the rivers
gleam, filling their banks.
‘Why,’ we say to each other,
‘Would you want to live anywhere else?
How could you ever leave?’ (We are smiling.)
Love this ending, Rosemary.
Lovely work.
Robert, I love your poem for today. Here’s mine:
April 11, 2012 – Day 11
Pick a season and make it the title of your poem
Seasoners
Seasoned gardener
in protective sun hat,
gloves to cover
roughened hands
used to wield tools
for digging, weeding,
seeding, and pruning,
ushers in Spring, fruit
of his labors, joy
on his face at birth
of careful cultivation.
Summer garden’s
pungent scents
grow ideas for light
suppers–pasta with basil
and oregano, potatoes
patted gently with rosemary,
and chicken sprinkled
with fresh thyme and sage.
Seasoned hands,
tender seasonings
from Spring origins
to Fall’s fruits.
Spring
Through these prairies
You come and you go,
Changing partners with
Winter to and then fro.
Such a tease deserves
Nothing but my disdain,
Yet every year I fall
Madly in love again.
Miss R, this is wonderful. So true!
Thank you!
After the Fall
Heart shattered
Into millions of pieces
Covering my path,
Nothing to do
But walk through the shards,
Slicing my feet
Into a bloody mess,
Another attempt
To keep me prisoner
In his private torture chamber,
No parole or reprieve,
Merely a captive
To his anger and cruelty.
I may be weakened,
Anemic and drained,
But the fire continues to burn,
Propelling me into the fight,
A fight I have no choice but to win.
The consequences of losing
Too dire to consider.
Spring Back
Spring bounces.
This spring
bounced right
into summer
and back.
Sheryl Kay Oder
After the kind of day I’ve had, I have to compose something stupid. So here it is:
The SEASON(INGS) ON MY SHELF
Basil, thyme, oregano, and bay
Springtime greens to flavor my filet.
Paprika, Chili, Red Pepper flakes
Add the sizzle of summer to my steaks.
Cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, allspice
Make the autumn soups oh so nice.
Sprinklings of sugar, granulated and confectionary,
The whites of winter in my baking sanctuary
All the season’s flavors on my shelf
But I’m keeping the cooking wine for myself.
Seasoned nicely,
May I raise a toast to you?
Winter will find you
This weather will bundle you
in sweet powdered warmth.
Winter trees its way to you,
rooting you in fleece and fire—
this season of birth groans
and lace, of steeped tea and fetal bones
growing and creaking
beneath the soil on a whim.
Pine spines will blanket the earth,
chasing nonchalance
on breezes wandering the world
for a flesh limb swing.
Hide yourself away
in the spiced scent of quilted cloth,
your feet hooked into its earth
like a cinnamon fresh crocheted
wing. Your skin will soak in
this January needling air,
crisp and fragile as the slumbering moth
frozen in sleep in some dim
oak nook.
Oh, I love this poem. For me, there is nothing better than a 32 degrees blue sky diamond sparkle on snow winter day. Your first four lines have me wishing for the winter we really didn’t have this year!
Thank you! Where I am, we’re pretty sure it’s going to snow this weekend … so maybe I’ll have a bit more time to enjoy my bundled warmth!
Holmes County
Yellow blossoms burst with pale cheeks,
exploding forsythia.
All the world is teeming
with tails that flush the sky in bright pink chatter.
Their chime
Laps at the breeze as a fresh, ripe sun
segues between time and hilltops. Below
Polliwogs dance the river.
Mothers gaze upon their cotton peeps,
the fresh thrown
apple cores and upturned eggshells
spun hollow. The barn, the field,
the blanched fence roar with life, beasts that till the night
with breaths and sighs.
Behind the barn, the henhouse is a rush of quivering white,
while newborn foxes yearn to tread
with momma in.
Khara, this is radiant! I love the beast that till the night with breaths and sighs.
Thank you so much! I’m glad you enjoyed it!
A SEASONED COOK
A seasoned cook will remind you of the time of year
The holidays near
Like a painter with canvas, the colors emerge from pots and pans
Or a sculptor molding dough with bare hands
Warm cinnamon autumns
Dark chili winters
Bright chive springs
Cool watermelon gazpacho summers
A seasoned cook has the ability to conjure
Laughter from that time Jeff spilled punch on his lap
With a batch lemon bars
Or the time Lily caught the flu after playing tag in the rain
With a chicken and leek soup
And the comfort felt from a lentil stew
When grandma died
A seasoned cook uses a recipe at first
Then shifts into secret ingredients mode
A seasoned cook has a gift
To bring the past to life
And ensure the future
With a cup of broth
Spring Awakens
Skin sighs
I unfold like a new leaf
Soul deep warmth
Frost puddles around stiff
Bones of winter
Now donning cotton
Bright as sun
Blue as sky
Ivy twines around
Graceful wrists
Clouds crown a feathered
Nest Scattered hair
In honeysuckle breezes
As light changes
We awake to the scent
Of grass
You have some wonderful imagery here; I really enjoyed this.
thank you so much – I am so glad you liked it!
Okay, so I wimped out with haiku. Too much on my plate today.
Winter
Popcorn ball flakes sail
With winds howling for fear’s sake,
Drifting to bring peace.
Spring
Seeds’ green heads waver,
Nodding to sky in joy,
Leaving Dark for Light.
Summer
Daisies keep cow friends
Company on sunshine days,
Giving selves as food.
Fall
Squirrels hurry on,
Gathering winter’s food choice,
Quarrel over safes.
© Claudette J. Young
haiku — hard
in any season
not for wimps
nothing wimpy about these Claudia! they’re lovely.
Wolfmoon Bay
Wolfmoon
Hung from a Northern sky
Lopes along
The Lake Superior shoreline
On a Shakespearean summer night
Of elegant words
and meanings layered
Within Sonnets and sighs.
‘Tis Always the Season to Love Her
She looks like autumn
She laughs like spring
She thinks like summer
But here’s the thing –
She’s never winter
She’s never cold
She is mature
But never old
She doesn’t bluster
Doesn’t hide
She doesn’t lock her warmth inside
But spreads it
Shares it,
Opens wide.
Aging gracefully like this is my dream. What an excellent guide, Marcia!
Yes, ’tis a worthy guide.
Beautifully said.
Thank you both. Today I had more chance to read and enjoyed both of you also. It seems this is the “season” for (mostly) good and kind nature-like poems. Angst and rage have their place, but today’s offerings were (mostly) so relaxed.
Planting Season
She smells spring traveling
on a winter wind, her boot toe
poking under frosty leaves
for signs of life impatient to begin.
A shoot of green sufficient
to quicken her old pulse
tells her it’s almost planting time,
to get her seeds tucked into sleeves
and yawning into life, tiny plants
unfurling, like a hand opening
a finger at a time, sun seekers,
green and reaching. When they beg
for transplanting into a world of soil,
the season will be here. She knows that
for sure, an almanac in her blood.
She can smell spring traveling on the wind.
Mmm, delicious!
I am counting the days until
we (yard) are dry enough to
work the soil and plant the seeds.
…then the new plants ……
Duck Season
He cleans his gun again, oiling
its parts and working the trigger
mechanism, prelude to flocks
in migration, landing on ponds
and lakes to rest.
His decoys are shined and ready
to float a promise out onto the waves
to draw tired birds in close where
they hover just before they drop,
his cue to shoot.
Keeping the dogs quiet as they wait
is key. But they are edgy, already
tasting feathers in their mouths,
anticipating short swims and
heroic retrievals.
He loves being among the rattling
reeds and cattails, and half hates
to kill ducks, pretty as they are
paired and paddling on the currents,
riding the air,
their necks extended and pointing home.
But it’s duck season, a traditional hunt
in these parts, followed by the smell
of roast duck, sauced to sharpen it,
and he lives off
the land today.
Wabbit season!!
WINTER
and Jamie and I became fast friends, bonding over
tequila and Spanish rice in the coop living situation
we found ourselves in; so when he asked if I wanted
to go with him back home to Argentina, I said why
not. He played guitar and had landed a gig in a cruise
line band. He found work for me in the main kitchen,
scrubbing. We committed six months, boarding July,
scheduled for leave in January in Buenos Aires. By
the time we landed, we had stopped being friends,
not through any fault of his or mine, but only because
the season of our being together had closed. He had
his band; I had the kitchen crew, who had taught me
a good deal of Spanish over half a year, and not a little
Portuguese, too. Jamie had decided to stay onboard
another year, but I disembarked alone into the city
because the night air in January was balmy and clear,
and I felt ready to be alone, if that was what winter
held, so long as I could be held by that warm winter
in a place where words, smells, electrical outlets, cars,
women and men, and the way we all related, was new.
FangO
Wonderful, Daniel!
Winterlong
I wait winterlong for you to wake
from a slumber that has kept your
long limbs immobile.
Your night stand has become a
mini mausoleum, nothing disturbed
from when you last touched it:
your alarm clock frozen at 11:14,
your hair brush with long, blonde
pieces of you half off the stained wood.
Every night I visit the sterile space
you encompass now, watch your fingers
and toes in hopes that they respond when
I sing your favorite song, fill the room
with tulips of every color.
When spring arrives, your garden blooms
and I swear I see you carrying a watercan,
hear the buzz of your name on the honeybees,
hold the hope that you will bloom again
among the machines that hold your breath.
-kab
Oh, Kendall – heartbreaking!
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/135351.html
Mine’s a bit sad today, but I hope you all enjoy it. It’s a haibun.
Hurricane Season
Tempest, she storms in
ready to blow, bound
to rain on your parade
heated, intense, hell-bent,
gale force spitting fits of fury,
lightning thrashes, thunder
crashing, tantrum unrestrained
abrupt cloudburst gushes
teeming torrents, pelting hail,
downpour rushes, rivers
rising, flood tide spiking,
while you scurry for cover
incremental shift in weather:
squall to shower to sprinkle
to mist, warms to steamy,
suddenly stunning
cloudless blue sky
don’t be mislead by her
soft balm, sweet calm,
sunny disposition
you’re just caught
in her eye
best you can do:
lay in supplies,
batten down hatches,
and hope you can
weather the storm
The alliteration made it better, and it was already really good! “incremental shift in weather: squall to shower to sprinkle to mist, warms to steamy, suddenly stunning cloudless blue sky.”
WHEN WINTER COMES
When winter comes savoring the warmth
With cold relish to eat up reminisces,
And mist swoops on my windowpane,
And frost attacks my garden’s narcissus,
Envying my wealth after I have become alone,
Coveting my pleasures of love I have known.
When the joyful images of yours before my pain
Becomes a treasure in my cold haven
After you have gone where souls go,
So I have believed, so I have always known,
Where pure spring jasmines lightly grow
In the world of innocence in heaven
In my sick heart, where you feel secure,
My dearest place, where you shall endure
My absence in your world of memories,
Where I shall keep your heart of dust
Above my burdens, beneath daggers of frost.
“above my burdens, beneath daggers of frost.” Lovely.
thanks, Domino.
Wonderful writing from beginning to end.
thank you for kind words.
The Fall of Man
Recline,
dear man,
and smell the dawn
from your comfy couches of incest.
Your season has ended,
blistering heat pouring from your mouths,
created in your bellies,
scorching the cities and rivers.
The time has come to recline,
dear man,
and smell the dawn of a new era.
Soon your leaves will wilt,
your mighty oaken arms will bend,
and your spark will find no fire.
Recline,
dear man,
and when you do,
seek not the warmth you have once provided.
Instead, find the chill,
the conflagration of frost,
and smell the dawn of a new era.
Windy Season
The petals in the portico
swirl and turn
turn and swirl
they make me feel
like a much younger girl.
A girl who would
laugh as she
rode her bike home
pushed by the wind.
A girl whose first thought
on a windy day
was of a kite
and that ridiculously
wonderful song
from Mary Poppins.
Diana Terrill Clark
truly amazing, I’m speechless!
Thank you, Jamal!
Lovely. Makes me miss windy bike rides from years ago…
Yes! When riding into the wind, one buckles down and just works, but when the wind is behind, It is such fun!!
Diana, this is phenomenal – beautiful, every word is perfect. WOW.
Autumn (for Rachel, who has been in Montana 26 days)
It was still winter
when you left,
and spring doesn’t
hold out much
hope for your return.
I doubt that
you’ll want to come back
to the oppressive heat
and smog of
a Moreno Valley summer,
so perhaps,
I’ll have to wait
until Autumn
for your return.
Autumn has always
been my favorite season
but if you told me
you were
coming home tomorrow,
spring would be my
new favorite season
of the year.
<3 Wonderful, Mosk!
Deliciously sentimental.
Another winner here, B.
Summer
on the beach
he gently kisses
my left cheek
then my right
ignoring the icy glares
from other nudists
Pure heaven!
Love it!
Spring
Newborn lambs
gambolling in fields.
How sweet and
delightful!
Especially with mint sauce
and roast potatoes.
Catchy ending, Tracy. I LOLed. ^_^
I can taste it now!
Whenever we come to vacation in Kelowna, BC.
We go to the Greek Resteraunt!
WONDERFUL – world’s best lamb chops
Worth the 250 mile drive
(NOT autobiographical)
Seasons
“Deer season,” he announced
as he loaded his equipment
into the truck.
With a quick peck on the cheek
he was out the door.
When he returned home
he carelessly left his camera chip
in the computer.
That’s when I learned his deer
were the two-legged variety.
I guess it was wabbit season, or more likely, Bunny season. O_o
LOL!
youch.
Midwinter
Icy reflections of moonlight
brightens a world subdued by snow.
4:00AM, I peer through my window
A young deer – rough coated, with two
nubby buds, the beginnings of antlers,
Quietly nosing through
the ruins of our garden
Smaller than our dog, I think,
Then I realize that he is standing
in snow that rises above his knees.
No swift flight for him; slowly he lifts each
leg from the snow, steps carefully-one at a time–
Where do the wild creatures go when their world
lies buried beneath a crust of snow glittering
in the icy moonlight? Listen as the coyotes
howl at the moon as they
And all the wild creatures go hungry.
SPRING WEEDING
Today we’re the wrecking crew
to tear out green grown wild in our garden,
weeds that take over the earth.
But wait.
Morning dew’s cradled
in hearts of miner’s lettuce. Here’s chick-
weed with its dainty
white blossoms, tang on the tongue.
Imagine all these greens
in a basin in the kitchen, crisping for a salad.
And here’s lace-edged purple vetch,
and filaree—beloved of sheep.
All these weeds, and others
whose names we don’t even know—
might they be the answers to questions
we’ve never asked?
What a good question. ^_^
Nice style – liked the question at the endd & all the descriptions
Channeling some Donovan today…
…
Season of the Witch
Must be this one: a young spring
whose cathedral sky has been draped low with
deep blue clouds, the rain beading in checkmarks
along windows and the sun surprising
out from behind. A soiled spring rich with scent,
magnolia turning brown on the branch, alley cats
wrestling behind the dirty grates, the trash man
stripping off his jacket in the unexpected heat.
A spring where everybody’s tempers are short
and sex drives are high, where winter’s
monochromatic quilt is giving way to skin
tone, farmer’s markets, unruly daffodils, laughter,
whatever color that may be. A rhythmic,
sensory spring that watches the flower buds
begin to swell with pleasure, thinks of the ground
wet with birth, delivering up its treasures.
Why would a witch wait for jack-o-lanterns
and frost-tipped evenings to work some kind of
body magic? Here are the wanderers,
punch-drunk on the world: tantalized and
tantalizing, hoping to capture some of this new
rainbow for themselves, being nothing
but biological joy, tempted by this glorious life
which is the simplest, strongest, truest spell of all.
Outstanding.
what Rosemary said.
Tantalizing.
Yoly
SPRING
It rained a lot
this winter, filling the roots
down deep, pushing the shoots higher
moving on and out, from under
the sidewalk, short shoots rise between
the cracks. Nothing gets lost here
where the city loves nature. Most of the time,
in these here parts,
come the first warm days everything
grows all of a sudden, shocks of yellow,
purple, tropical gardens dropped upon
a terrace just left there to be,
every thing green and colorful . . . and I lke it.
Zev Davis
That Spring
Spring came offering gifts
lush blossoms’ fragrance
filled my senses and
entwined with the new
feeling found suddenly
In my new grown body
anticipation as if each
moment should be
pressed and kept
the light soft and
desire bubbling like
scented oil inside
urges unknown
until Spring placed
her floral hands upon
my electric skin and
made me lay on the
moss carpet of new
grown grass as I
succumbed to the
dream
wrapped myself
in garlands of desire
and afterward wept for
the loss of my childhood.
what a beautiful imagery.
Thank you very much Jamal!
………A CHILDHOOD SPRING…..
—When I was just a little tyke
I raced through meadows green
and danced with floating butterflies
to a robin’s lilting theme.
—I wondered down a wooded glen
where sunbeams filtered through
to skip across a babbling brook
that fed a pond of blue.
—I used a wooden boundry fence
like a gymnast’s balancing beam
and acknowledged bobbing daffodills
that waved at childhood dreams.
—I marched with lazy bovine herds
that meandered with switching tails,
fed wobbly legged, spotted calves
from special feeding pails.
—I gathered eggs from hidden nests
and scattered fresh cracked corn
for a flock of hens and ducks and geese
that greeted me each morn.
—I knelt by tender shooting sprouts
of tomatoes, corn and beans
while veggies danced before my eyes
like Christmas sugerplum dreams.
—I traced a fuzzy caterpiller’s path
past half eatten tender greens
’til I found him snuggly curling up
to spin on butterfly dreams.
—I was so free to leap and dance,
to race and shout and sing.
I rompted about with month old pups
to celebrate the Spring.
Sports, Schmorts
Everyone knows
football season is in the fall
And football games from
all over the country
are played if you have the
right
sports
package.
One can root
for whatever team
one chooses.
And Soccer, don’t
forget soccer, that
the rest of the world
calls futbol or football.
It goes from August
through April.
Games are on
all the time.
Basketball season, too,
is so fascinating. And
NASCAR starts in the spring,
along with baseball.
Tennis and golf
have their day,
if they’re not
preempted by
some other,
more important
game.
And the Olympics
are coming again this
summer.
Luckily for me,
reading season
is all year long
and though one
may root for a particular
author,
there are no
real competitions
or time
constraints,
unless you count
the Hugos.
So while others in my home
are avidly pursuing
the sporting life
from the comfort
of the couch,
I am happily
ensconced in
my
book.
Our little family must be strange
we do not watch a single game.
Can’t waste my time to see it all
be it foot’ – basket’- or baseball
There;s so many other things to see
in books, outside and at the sea.
LOL Wonderful Marjory!! My current husband only picks and chooses a few, but I was once a sports widow!! It’s okay, though, reading, sewing, so many other things to be done!!
Spring Means
New life… eggs… babies
New life… flowers… leaves
Another year of planting crops
A fresh start for mother nature
Spring cleaning and fresh lemons
Summer’s almost here
The greatest time of year
At least for the children
Winter Wish
Winter has come with a cold wintry mix.
First snow falls then ice what shall come next?
We all wish for a White Christmas, but this is more than we asked for.
We wanted to make snowmen and angels with wings.
But with ice packs abound all we got were arms and legs in slings.
Winter set upon us with a wintry chill.
I hope that winter moves on more like the run of the mill.
With snowflakes and temperature up above, all I can wish for is a wintry love.
Season of the Wolf
City Streets roamed by destitute
tattered layers of clothes
pushing grocery carts
looking for scraps
sleeping in alleys
huddled on park benches
on layers of cardboard
Looking hungrily for hope.
*Kudos.*
Thanks
HAZY SHADE OF PRE-HOLIDAY
and in the late Pleistocene, names for time periods
related to earth’s passage around the sun formed
in the cultures of humanity. These names varied,
but over the ages—into the Holocene epoch—they
cooled and congealed, centering logically around
equinoxes and solstices. Names of seasons came
in sets of four—until the Commercial age began,
marking a sudden shift, a snap in geological time.
Seasons bifurcated and warped according to the
manufacture and dissemination of merchandise.
In this millennium, we mark the year’s passage:
Valentines, Mother’s Day, Dads & Grads, Wedding
Season, Back to School, Pre-holiday, Holiday and
New Year’s Resolution Season. Lately, the weather
itself has begun to line up with the new schema.
FangO
I am weary just reading the last four lines… What a tangled time we inhabit!
Oh dear, too true. And, as always, so well said.
Vivaldi’s Seasons
Vincent’s vision
Monet’s strokes
Bosho’s pen
violin’s
sunflower’s
waterlilies and ponds
scare crows and paddy fields
Birth, growth, withering, returning to Maya
treasured reminders
sacred beauty
each season.
Oooh- this is so wonderful, Dextrous! I love how each of the lines matches the other first, second, third, and fourth lines.
Thank you for your feedback
Like very much.
Thank you
Simplicity of beauty.
thank you for your kind feedback
Winter At Last
I lived my carefree youth in spring,
my freedom in summer.
autumn brought loss, joys fleeing
like leaves blowing in the winds of change.
and now, in winter, my will is gone.
I relax into a wisdom higher than my own
and wait
This narrates more than one may estimate or evaluate. Bravo.
This is wisdom in a wrapped package. Just beautiful.
Spring
Greenly growing
uncoiled seedlings
buds of breezing
bending bows
surging sap tides
succeeding star arc
extending cloud bursting
deluged miry rut
raking red breast
robin bobbing earthy
booty this
tumultuous high
seas season
pirates
stealing sun
Let me also point out a timeless classic by A.A. Ammons. Call it a “found poem:”
Beautiful Woman
============
The spring
in
her step
has
turned to
fall
… no edit button: A.R. Ammons, of course.
this is great
Springing
Buds on bare limbs
dream leaves
speckle vistas
of blue skies
cloudless clear
on a spring day
while fresh smells
of early morning rain
stir senses,
and the sound
of my favorite song
coming through an open window
greets me,
and I’m forever young.
The Calm Before the Storm
====================
Early April, and I
Stare down the barrel of a loded gun.
Blame the deadlines imposed by Uncle Sam
And the neverending hunger for relevant and fresh
Or thank your weary writing talents
For leading you into this career
Where fruit hangs low once every three months.
Either way, the facts don’t change:
Earnings season begins again.
Really enjoyed this one!
MAD MEN
Season five began
in March
with truly a
boring show
Out of loop
wanting the scoop
I watched
slow, slow, slow
Don’t get why
the story and set
captures such
huge acclaim
Is it cathartic?
Perhaps hypnotic?
Or a balm for
the insane
Late Winter
Just when you think
it’s never going to end,
it does.
There will always be
the last day you wear
your serious parka.
It’s like stages with
your children: One day,
you’re breastfeeding
or listening to them say
that funny thing you think
you’ll always remember;
the next day, it’s gone,
and you didn’t think to
write it down, mark it
on the calendar or in a book.
Nature keeps its own notes,
is always writing a book
we can’t read yet.
Brown slush becomes
mud on our shoes;
as quick as that,
the next chapter
has already begun.
Oh, this is terrific, so true and so well said.
Thank you, Rosemary!
Spring
Young leaves sprouting
A fresh green
A new look
New energy abounding
Dead of the winter gone
New ideas spawn
As the new season dawns
With winter descending
A new conscious
New resolutions
Gone are the dilemmas
New contemplations
Magic of the season
Nature’s precision
Call it science, call it nature
Call it God’s caricature
The luxury of being cold on summer
that unnecessary pain of holding ice too long
against a tongue alive with sweet and acid
is an M&M of memory, SourBall shock
of diving into cave-spawned rock-delivered cold
clear running water and bobbing to the surface,
air trapped against your back and legs and face like carbonation
rolling through the down to rise, silver
water skins of August sycamores minute
gray-green magicians fanning shuffled leaves
and whispering take one. To soak the cold in
like a beer or orange crush, a bottled self
the minnows try to taste with small translucent kisses
like the bites of timid lovers, is to promise
climbing into sun-baked, dust-limestone-water-honeysuckle
cashmere summer, sugar smooth.
I enjoyed reading this – great descriptions!
Wonderful!
Ooh, that was delicious!
Hunting Season
We grew up eating wild game
that dad brought home for mom to cook:
grouse in the spaghetti sauce
and venison meatballs;
venison steaks with white wine,
onions and green peppers;
rabbit stew, grilled pheasant, frog legs.
I will never forget the two times
the house stank
because he made her cook
groundhog and squirrel.
They went into the garbage
and we gagged for days.
Now, an old man in a wheelchair,
he years for the past
when he could walk for miles,
climb a tree, sit in a stand,
drag a deer home.
He misses the natural world,
looking into those liquid eyes,
mumbling a prayer of forgiveness.
Great! Very nuanced. Both the necessity — and yes, pleasure — of hunting for food, as well as the gross and violent aspects. I love your ending, with your dad’s strong and ambivalent feelings.
TURKEY SEASON
Oh, down to the woods I go, hi-ho.
Down to the woods I go,
With a camera and blind
Bobbing over my behind.
It’s down to the woods I go.
Oh, watch the jakes preen just so, hi-ho.
Watch the jakes preen just so,
But ol’ tom makes the cut
When he does his turkey strut
And the jakes’ only preen so-so.
Oh, when the mating time’s no mo’, hi-ho.
When the mating time’s no mo’,
Then the hens begin to set,
And the boys begin to fret
‘cause they’re not safe no mo’.
Oh, down to the woods I go, hi-ho.
Down to the woods I go,
With a gun into my blind
I’ll call in a gobbler find.
It’s down in the woods he’ll go.
April’s Celestial Shepherdess
She laughs
herding her wooly flocks
to farther pasture’s
with passionate
smile
Then she weeps,
her tears softening
earth-leather cusp
Her eyes beguile
the tightly clenched bud
She scowls
An icy stare
Conceals her mirth
hope turns to mud
as restless sheep
crowd about her…
trample her skirts, but
then she smiles
…sheep scatter
as tulip rivers
color the earth
I love the imagery of April.
CONSTRUCTION SEASON
Between the winter and the summer
the lack of spring (sometimes a bummer),
a time to fix the road destruction
during the season we call “construction”
It seems to happen every year,
every where when the weather’s clear.
Roads with potholes and far worse,
the annual infrastructural curse.
If it’s mangled, they can mend it,
if it’s straightened, they will bend it.
So, don’t expect to rush around,
this season’s made to slow you down!
Isn’t that the truth!
Season of Change
Is it good, this thing called change?
Yesterday I was free,
today caught in some
dark void
neither one thing
or another.
Waiting.
And then change comes.
Light!
Air!
Stretching!
Unfolding!
Free,
flying into the day
wing color like
jewels in the sun.
Yes,
this thing called change
is good.
WABBIT SEASON
Hewe it is anothew season,
to kiww the wabbit wiffout weason,
Kwite the wascaw; he a nut,
a weal pain in my Fuddian butt.
Ducks ow daffy, wild and weirwd,
in cohewent, so I’ve hewed,
but wabbits ow what weally bugs me,
at the howt stwings it does tug me.
Hunting does wewax my mind,
shooting cwitters that I find.
Twacking over diwt and mud,
have wifow will twavew, I’m Elmew Fudd!
Heh, heh, heh, heh,
be vewy kwiet, wew witing poetwy!
e-e-w-w-w! now weow did dat wabbit take my wewy, good woyds!!!
Lovely fun!
Be vewy vewy quiet…Wawt ith hunthin duckth!
Spring Waltz (Rondeau)
Waltz with me, beneath the boughs of trees
just budding now in the springtime freeze;
I breathe the fragrance that fills the air
and sneeze not once, but twice through my hair -
As springtime struggles to find its ease.
Through the forest move the lazy bees
trying to wake, new season to seize,
thankful the insects are not quite there –
Waltz with me…
Bending low, in fact brought to my knees
by glimpses of flowers first spring tease.
Their dainty blooms catch me in their snare,
with their beauty and delicate flare.
I will gladly pay the sneezing fees.
Waltz with me…
If it’s PAD, Michelle, you can rest assured, Walt’s with you!
hehehe
Harvest
Sow and Reap
the circle of life
beautiful
natural
Life before the Afterlife
Why fear the reaper?
This is a great poem, but now I’ve got That Song stuck in my head.
Seasonings
The start is tart
Early berries
Basil and Cilantro and Mint
Flirt with other greens
Then begins the feast
The salty tang of brats
Charred edges from the grill
The buttery kernels of sweet corn
Cooled by crisp lemonade
Swim through watermelons
Stick to cotton candy
Sweat from jalepeno spice
Fall into the richness
Of clove and cinnamon and chocolate
Pumpkin and sweet potato and other roots
Simmer in savory of stews
An apple cider bubbles
While the fireplace crackles
Finally the ending notes
Sugary cookies and candied nuts
Slow roasted meats and
Citrus surprises
Delicious!
I love food and enjoyed this romp through the foods of the seasons!
I just had lunch…and still my mouth waters. Delectable arrangement of words! m-m-m-m!
Oh, you make my mouth water!
ACL Season:
20 years ago
Left knee got patella graph
Now right knee gets one
This time from a cadaver
Gives new meaning to “rebirth”
Ouch. Hope everything goes well…
Season of Learning
Madame says it is Printemps
In France as if we are in a separate
Hemisphere from that place
She’s never been,
Where red is rouge
And blue is bleue
(Close enough)
I forget what white is,
And where five vowels,
Yes Madame, cinq vowels,
Are allowed to stand together
In mocking silence, daring me
To pronounce their existence
Into réalité.
Love this. I took French in high school and college…
Thanks, Laurie!
well done i learnt french in school vowels were so important to my teacher. this is really wonderful
Cosmic Season
outgoing
firefly pursuing
flirtatious
dithering
charismatic eloquence
zen is as zen does
~ Randy Bell ~
zen is as zen does… love it!
White covers
rusty pickup trucks
slanted sliding down
heavy in oily labor
where dog walkers
leave their mark
where the weary
of not working go
home to tilting
shabby houses
Yet snow persists
slips down the hill
straight to old town
square dotted white
The church steeples
bleed the clouds
and I feel clean
in a room ardent
a blanket warming
draws me down
these bleached walls
where I scribble
in dark chocolate
so not to forget
testing August heat
where dog walkers leave their mark
the church steeples bleed the clouds
and more, love this imagery
Really beautiful poem, Margot.
Fall
This too shall pass.
She knows this.
This tumblestumble of words
and will and way
This ebb and yield
and wither and fade
This decay
This brown and orange and gold
and looming gray
This spilling of herself to sky
This goodbye
This crunch of autumn
under mournful feet
this grieving
this leaving
pieces of herself behind.
beautiful
Another good one, De.
Oh-h-h! You know I love it! That bittersweet ending, the inevitable beauty of life!
Thank you, ladies. Appreciate the kind comments so much!
SPRING
Freshly mown grass
Permeates my nostrils
Instilling the feeling
That spring
Has sprung.
It is hardly an antiquated concept
To pass the seasons
Rather than hibernating
In more inviting climates.
Spring is the kindest season
When flowers bloom
Birds chirp
And the wind cradles butterflies
As they live out their journey.
Yes… I love spring, too!
Ok, so I actually wrote this in response to the haiku challenge back in the fall, but I absolutely love this collection of haiku and wanted to share it again. Hope you enjoy!
“Summer”
A Haiku Collection
Chlorine smells like June—
The green hair of the swimmers
Never washes clean.
The cicada sings
His song, a deep-throated chant:
Cigarettes, porch swings
The lake level down;
The shore twice its length:
Come, rainy season.
Watching the dance of
Will o’ the wisp fireflies—
The child within.
August, a lost month.
Forgotten in the hot nights—
Many memories.
The heat is still there.
I watched the first leaf falling—
Please make up your mind.
I love them too.
When Tears Spring to the Sky
Sometimes I feel like crying
for no other reason than your
cheeks as silky as the petals
of a rose which I caress
with the back of my hand
up and down, so slow
I could freeze
this moment in time
reach out and grab this memory
forever draft and store it
in the back recesses of my mind.
Sometimes I feel like crying
for no other reason than your
laughter filling the stagnant air
taking off to the boundless sky
like a helium balloon on a warm spring day
where tulips as yellow as the sun
line the path of our existence
with serenity, ecstasy
and we float away together
to a place no soul can locate
leave behind the bitter load
which lays us down.
Sometimes I feel like crying
for no other reason than you.
This is beautiful – the repetition in the form really fits the content.
Perfection!
Autumn in the Piney Woods
I am unbidden in this other world,
A fragment of a something cold and gray,
Small among sentinels who carry
The sky burden upon their boughs.
My presence is betrayed
By the sound of lusty crunches,
Each foot fall tamping shards
Of leaf glass and green.
Wow… lusty crunches…
Spring
Oh, April.
Later today
your angry winds will stir
and rise and whip their way
into our lives, causing need for
hair bands and Claritin and
anger management.
But for now I’ve got
this innocent breeze
these gossiping trees
a comfy chair
behavin’ hair
and a sunny spot
with my name on it.
I really enjoyed this. I loved “anger management” and “gossiping trees”.
Cute, De.
Good one.
Thank you, all, so much.
For yesterday and today:
Early Fall
Above the forest ravine,
a chaos of saplings,
below, roots like veins
on the back of our hands,
and everywhere, branches
to the sun, our life
in these limbs, entwined,
bark like scales,
the season’s weight.
Such a vivid image-
below, roots like veins
on the back of our hands
Springtime
Morning and pink glows her first blush of day;
like a dainty bride, she powders her face.
Morning’s blown fiery, blazing dewdrops
upon happily wedded, blissful scene.
Mischievous rays turn blossoms-in-waiting
to blistering, brilliant hues of blue-green,
while gloomy grooms huddle in a black slouch,
hearts bleeding for warmth of the bridal-couch!
Oh, heaven must wait, as Spring, she will preen;
often she glitters and wants to be seen.
I wait in the shade, in awe of her view
as glorious springtime makes her debut.
(bridal couch refers to the bride’s breast)
Lovely… I especially like the first stanza.
Yes, that one was particularly beautiful.
Tourist Season
Love – Hate
Need
Traffic Trauma
Price Inflation
Culture Clash
Cheerful Outlook
Thriving Commerce
Fresh Perspectives
Need
Hate – Love
Grudging Gratitude
Spring Surprise
In the foothills, the seasons tease,
flirting from the mountains
outside our window,
a ten-degree drop
just an hour drive away.
As each tree unfurls her colors,
flowering cherry
then Bradford pear
in puffs, our dogwoods wait
for Easter to bear the print of nails.
Daffodils and forsythia bloom
in spite of ill-timed snows,
defiant, a butter yellow promise
of change. We find hyacinths
first by scent then sight
before tulips push through the soil
to take their turn. In spring,
forgetfulness is a blessing,
each new burst of blossom
a fresh surprise, as the flower beds
explode with color demanding
to serve as backdrop
for photographs of children
who can’t help themselves,
picking bouquets for us,
so lovely they know we won’t scold.
So beautiful, Nancy. I really like-
in puffs, our dogwoods wait
for Easter to bear the print of nails.
The Four Seasons
Salt
Pepper
Garlic salt
Mrs. Dash
Great!
I miss winter white
But not the wind and the cold
Send me a picture
Brolly season
When you’re afraid of getting wet,
don’t fret – just take your brolly, Dolly!
With spring in England you can bet
when you’re afraid of getting wet,
you will. By lunchtime. But don’t let
a shower make you less than jolly;
when you’re afraid of getting wet,
Don’t fret – just take your brolly, Dolly!
Ha ha, a beauty!
Four day catch up complete!!
Season of Certainty
Long gone are the winters
summers, springs
and autumns of discontent
the age is ripe for the picking
full of sunshine and joy
these days of plenty
these days of glory
this new-born man
who shrugged on the hurt little boy’s cloak
worn for so long as such a burden
this man strides forth with confidence
with purpose
with clarity of mine
in this
the season of certainty
Iain
Great stuff!
Thanks ;:-)
Florida Seasons
In the spring
We Floridians
Rake leaves
Play golf
And go to the beach
In the summer
We Floridians
Rake leaves
Play golf
And go to the beach
In the fall
We Floridians
Rake leaves
Play golf
And go to the beach
In the winter
We Floridians
Rake leaves
Play golf
But, the beach??
It depends
Dear Moosehead,
My dear friend and companion,
there is only one season a year that counts:
baseball season! Right now it also
happens to be bird-roasting season.
All the better for it too! We are magnificent
and I can’t wait for the home opener
especially as your harpies will be down
in Atlanta with Jimmy the Greek et al.
(Did ya see what I did there?)
Let’s watch our boys make it 3 for 3
surround by wings, ribs, beer and
fellow travelers (no! not communists – Yanks fans!)
down at the bar. also fun seeing your cousin
earn her tips in her own unique way. Pick ya
up at 6.
Yours seasonally delighted
Ringo the Howler
Excellent to see Moosehead and Ringo are alive and well!
Yes, it is!!
Thanks guys-
Spring’s Offspring
To give breath to all earth and sky conceive,
to bring light to all corners on the day,
to spread peace to each word bold visions say,
to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve,
to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay,
to color in the drab and the dim and the gray,
to make true love the promise all achieve,
may she who turns her circle round to spring
and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure
fill we who dance and they of whom we sing
with life reborn in innocence right pure
to melt through bitter winter’s icy sting,
for death itself to offer certain cure.
I love how this flows…
Bravo!
SPRING
rainy sky
pink petals scatter
blossoms lost
Jane Beal
AUTUMN AND ALL
Across the river from the nuthouse
under the gush of grey
sodden sky flirting with the
sun—a fickle breeze tumbles
autumnal leaves through the last gasp
of meadows, golden and rusted
Brambles and milkweed
the glimmering of winter berries.
All along the river the reddish
leathery, stubborn, snaking
stuff of vines and other creepers
once verdant, persistent leaves sprawling
over hapless earth.
Yesterday the grass, now
the lace of frost traces maple veins.
Tomorrow the stark solemnity
of leave-taking—Then, the end
creeps upon them: surprised, they
burrow into deepening frost.
***
I have been reading a lot of William carlos Williams. This, homage to one of my favorite poems of his: Spring and All. Peace…
Lovely… nuthouse made me do a double take. = )
What Laurie said.
Greetings from the groggy west end of the world.
Early Season
Awake and make
the coffee. Wait for
brew, sun, and muse.
Use spoon to stir the words.
So evocative. Love the word-stirring!
Thank you, Andrew!
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy…
“A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken.” ~James Dent
Ah, summer doth approacheth soon.
To be exact, sometime in June,
which means, my yard will need some care.
Dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.
Yeah, pulling weeds in summer’s sun
ain’t my opinion of what’s fun.
I’d rather sit in my deck chair.
Dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.
Of course, I could employ some guys
to trim and edge, but that implies
some service fees. So I declare,
dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.
The summer is a time of growth
for grass, weeds, and a neighbor’s oath
about my backyard’s disrepair.
Dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.
###
Terrific, love it. (Great quote, too.)
WINTER
I could tell
we would separate
when we first
began curling away
from each other on
the couch, the
one place where
we had sat
with interloped arms and
entangled legs.
Now all I can see
are white cushions
like massive islands
of ice swaying
on the sea.
Ah, a dying winter love. So sad. Love your last line.
wonderful!
Winter
Flakes fall willy-nilly
Pushed about by the wind
Swirling, spinning, falling
Sticking where they land
Slowly all that’s visible
Begins the metamorphosis
From what they were
To white
Winter has arrived
And it’s beautiful
Winter
frozen glass landscape
faithful chariots entombed
a long walk uphill
Spring
Winter white has run its course
Its beauty turned ho-hum
It’s overstayed its welcome
Can’t wait for spring to come
I do believe it’s warming up
Snow melts before my eyes
Grass growing on my septic tank
It’s enough to make me cry
What’s that I hear flying overhead
A V-shaped flock of geeses
Honking the news of winter’s end
And dropping smelly feces
I wonder if they plan their drops
I almost think they do
Sure glad I’m wearing my baseball cap
Or I’d be wearing poo
I know ‘geeses’ is improper, but I had to make feces fit. Know what I mean?
OH, yes – time for a cap!
Also isn’t ‘all’s fair in rhymn’?
Christmas Season
Bows and tinsel–
jingle bells galore,
all hanging on my front door.
Buying and baking–
being jolly for no reason,
the joys of the Christmas season.
“Autumn”
The tree shadows groan and she asks me
if the autumn sky opens the day in thanks
for the winds that shake the forest throne,
do the leaves blow, she wonders, with
smiles and hugs as they roam the wood
for laurel mothers inside the forest home.
I have no eyes for stormy dreaming, I tell her
I only hear the shadows moan.
The day rains soft with dancing yews and
tiny gnomes huddled inside mulchy domes,
but in the night,
inside Autumn’s forest throne,
I can only hear the shadows groan.
Beautiful, I love the sounds and the flow.
This is definitely one of my favorites!
This is lovely.
Tax Season
“Taxation with representation ain’t so hot either.” — Gerald Barzan, humorist
‘Tis the season to tax our souls
according to consistent polls;
as time approaches, we must file
and do our duty, with a smile.
We wait until the end lurks near
and fill in numbers, but we fear
an audit or a tax court trial.
We’ll do our duty with a smile.
Deductions, thou art circumscribe:
Sweet April’s ripe with diatribe.
But oh – resistance is futile,
so here’s to duty with a smile.
And then, the filing season’s passed
(unless extensions were amassed.)
We sigh collectively. Meanwhile,
next year? More duty, with a smile.
###
*
*
Amazing…
Applauding!!! truly brilliant…yes, how do you do it?!
Open Season
I think it’s time we declared Open Season.
Aren’t you tired of the closures?
We’re closing schools, denying education.
People are still being laid off.
Why? Because we got greedy, and
we elected the representatives we deserve.
It’s time to open some windows,
let in some more light, and see.
I’m tired of the talk, the rhetoric
and the platitudes, the hypocrisy.
Or, if we must talk, instead of act,
then let it be frank and candid.
Let’s admit we don’t always know
what we’re doing. Honest talk.
Rather than the I know exactly
what I’m doing talk, and when
it all goes downhill, I was only doing
what I was told talk. Blame talk.
I’m tired of the closed talk, the exclusive
talk, the you don’t belong here talk.
Closed talk from closed minds,
that doesn’t say anything.
Oh, yes, I’m even more sure now
that we need to declare Open Season.
I hear ya. And it doesn’t matter which side of the aisle … it’s all the same.
So true… lots of undelivered promises shooting all around us.
Mr. Walker, do you have an evil twin living in Wisconsin?
Glad to see this kind of poem here…
thanks
Good use of the prompt!
Perfect use of the prompt, Richard.
The Last City Autumn
The city autumn has bared her cold breast,
Breathing in gusts, a withering of years,
Whose call is for you dear father, brown guest,
Who in a whirling dervish of leaves, fears.
For cloistered, the city has left ungleaned
A father’s true loves for city forged dreams,
A rust of spirit turning gold from greed,
His green life blown to fallen ember leaves;
Blown to where turning feet on wet cement
Churn his last lingering leaves of hope to moist oil,
The seeds of his ash remains to a silent,
Soft, lubricating spring of city soil,
Where I weep not for autumn, no dying thing,
But for you dear father and wild delivering spring.
nice metaphor
beautiful
Really lovely. I especially like…
A father’s true loves for city forged dreams,
A rust of spirit turning gold from greed,
… and great ending.
Thanks. I did fudge because I wrote this poem a long time ago, but since I had already written one this morning and this poem is more formal, I wanted to include it. I will work harder on my comments of others poems….
Continuing our story from yesterday (I am connecting all my poems, from April 10th to at least April 15th, into a continuous story. Refer to yesterday’s poem if you are lost).
CHAPTER TWO—The Slash and Burn Season
The fire roars.
The axes bite.
The trees scream in silence.
The refugees of the forest floor scatter.
The birds in the canopy explode into the air
In flocks of flustered flight
The wind hisses as embers and sparks
Blaze hotter in its harsh breath.
She stares, as petrified as her arboreal sisters
Never having known the heat of flame
Never having known the sting of steel
Back in the safety of the deep woods’ silence.
Yet she does not run, does not scream.
Those who are born trees do not have
The instinct of flight.
“Are you quite dumb, little one?”
Asks the fire-eater sitting on the stone
At her feet
(Now where did he come from?)
An odd, lanky sort of fellow
With eyes of trickery and hunger
And colors of red, orange and gold.
“I will profit from the slash and burn season
As the farmers clear the land
For her majesty’s orchards and vineyards.
I will lick away the lingering flames
And gorge on the ash and embers.
But you will only burn and die.
Perhaps you have no love of life,
Or perhaps you do not understand death?”
She scratches her head, her hair
As white as the down of swans
And peppered with pink plum blossoms.
“There is enough land for all to share.
Why do they steal it from the forest?
Why are the fruits and nuts that the forest provides
Not good enough for them, that they
Must burn it away for their own intentions?”
“Her majesty believes the land here holds magic,
Deep in the depths of the soil,
And she would possess it all,
Through the grape vines and the fruit trees
That she would have her farmers plant, that by law
Belong to her, not to the world.”
The fire-eater adds, “Plus, she loves wine.”
“Come with me, show me this ‘her majesty.’
I will show her the error of her ways.
Yes, there is magic here. I am proof of that.
But the magic is life, it is beauty.
And she will regret burning it away.”
The fire-eater grins, stands and spins,
Singing, “Oh, foolish little tree of plum,
So far a distance you have come
To face the iron wrath of her majesty.
You’re destined for only tragedy
And you will burn too, if she wishes.
When you do, I’ll find you most delicious.”
“But plums are symbols of youth and courage.
For me, your warnings will not discourage.”
So they walk, fire and tree,
Towards the royal city to find
Her most mysterious, manic majesty
Leaving ignorance and innocence behind.
Beautiful, powerful imagery.
Life Seasons…
Season of Trust
Since we are not heavenly creatures
but of dust
we go through times and seasons
where all we can do
…is trust
When you asked me the if’s and why’s and ‘but’s
I fell upon my knees
and cried out, God, oh help me trust
You; please, please, please
Janet~
***
Season of Forgiveness
I can hold onto resentment and anger
refusing to forgive
or I can accept your apology,
and know what it is to live
Janet~
***
Season of Hope
A new day dawns
Opportunity waits
The best to come
Pours from its gates
Janet~
Season of Patience
We cannot rush
the bud from its pod
The bloom would be mangled and marred
We cannot push
Beyond the will of God
But wait: even when it is hard
Janet~
Season of Love
It fills me with pleasure
But even greater pain
It drives me to hope
When hoping seems vain
Oh beautiful, tormenting
Mystery
My hollow, my fulness
Joy, misery
I strained to see Love
As I wept of its loss
God opened my eyes
And showed me a cross
Janet~
Oh, Janet…Season of Patience…perfection.
Beautiful seasons, Janet. I especially like trust, forgiveness, hope…
I never asked for patience,
but I was granted yet a season
that seemed to last forever.
I suppose there was reason,
my extra time for growing,
that His plan might bloom.
Marjorie…stunning in every way!
~SUN-SPUN-SEASONS~
Oh, of swirling
sun-paved path,
star-strewn roads.
Oh, of cyclic galaxy
gathering us forever in,
radiating of eternity.
Oh, blessed moon
causing water to swoon,
wooing wave forward.
Oh, precious planet
grant us, grace us
with your tilting axis.
Oh, bring to us again
each tempting taste,
sweet semblance of seasons.
© H.G. @ P.A. 4/11/12
o-o-h…and the readers swoon as well with this luscious tribute!!! Thank-you, Hannah:)
So uplifting and beautiful, Hannah!
Wacky Season
It happens -It comes out of the
Blue you’ll know it you’ll see
It coming to you
You’ll know when you see it
All of it true
Chairs balance on closet
doors and never do not fall
cereal rises from milk into
crisp clean columns tall
all manner of things shoes tied
flapping free -A lunch boxed unpacked
a grinning butterfly on Mother’s head you will see
Yes you’ll see it – You’ll see it
It will happen to you
If you have brother or sister
They’ll see it all too
And as chairs dangle
And cereal lifts into
Butterflied air
Laughter will bubble
And milk shoot from your
Nose – til of course you’ll be asked
“What is happening there?”
And you must pull on your mask
for as laughter volcanoes escaping
from deep in your chest
You’ll look all about you
And see a morning
Just Like All The Rest
The chair sitting silent pushed
In its place on four square-
Cereal floating bowled completely unaware
when you look down and look down you will do
on your feet you’ll find neatly as it should
Laces tied in place just as Mother would
Just you and maybe a sibling
or two even three
will ever
recall
all
that you saw
Certainly?
And just when you’re ready
to shake your own head in
rolling confusion
from a corner of
eye comes a laughing
Flash of in flight
teeny grinned colored profusion
then you will know until
Grown Time coats you with Reason
the secreted joy of the Wacky Season
Dr. Pearl Seuss, may I presume?
Very funny poem for early morning.
Funny memories there childhood well done
Delighted you enjoyed
Oh high praise J.lynn… happy you got a smile
SUMMER TAKES LEAVE
As earlier the moon begins to rise,
and sun sets in the peached and purpled sky,
so even birds and animals surmise
that fall is in the air — though slightly shy.
Don’t let her cool appearance disconcert,
for she can be as warm as amber‘s core.
Her sun, no longer brass, will toy and flirt,
as dazzling colors soon come to the fore.
As summer takes her leave, she bids farewell.
Yet I, for one, cannot feign grand despair.
She failed to cast on me her storied spell
I’ll welcome autumn’s palette, and brisk air.
As summertime releases sultry hold,
I watch for autumn’s magic to unfold.
(Sharing two older ones for now … It’s a Sophie Day! Will return this evening with a new poem, and some great reading! ENJOY YOUR DAY, POETS!)
Oh, I remember this, Marie! Oldie and a goody….Love these closing lines. Beauty!
Love your Sonnet Marie. Enjoy your day with Sophie.
It may be ‘old’ for you…but new to me and oh, such a lovely one! thank-you for sharing!
Delightful, Marie. Enjoy your day with Sophie!
Bravo MEG, Bravo! Simply exquisite. You’ve just satisfied my palate. Tasty dish. Enjoyed your peach and purple sky.
Lovely lovely the sun toys and flirts love this line almost dangling our emotions wonderful Marie
Thank you so much! Such kind and generous comments!
“warm as amber’s core” – I love this, Marie.
Brisk Autumn Morning
Tread lightly. Today she has a cool air about her.
Tread lightly, indeed! She’s like that sometimes.
(Me, too.) :- )) I like this, Marie!
lol! Thanks, PSC!
Nice!
here in Cleveland winter means snow
the clouds store up baskets of flakes in their
whispering arms
until there are too many to hold
so they drop them
buckets of snow falling to earth
to lie in pools on the casual hills
glimmering highways
moonlit woods where deer flit in and out
back home winter had white freckles of snow days
singular blizzards speckling the calendar
one day the yards would turn white
the next day we drove through the film of snow on the street
our tires grinding it into slush
while the empty sky watched us
but in Cleveland winter means flurried weeks
blizzards that don’t know
they are only supposed to last a day
but wait
maybe i have it all wrong
this year was hardly cold
hardly snow-kissed
I guess I need to redefine Cleveland winters
after all
or maybe God forgot?
jumped right to spring from fall?
nice twist in the ending lines love the white freckles attachment
thanks!
Cleveland? LYNNE, I LIVE IN MAUMEE, AND MY SON LIVES IN CLEVELAND! We could actually meet face-to-face sometime … and cool is THAT?
Great poem, btw …
ah, small world. I’m from Findlay, moved to the Cleveland area less than 3 years ago. So I definitely know Maumee.
Sounds like Ontario too…we all thought we hated Winter until he didn’t show up, then we began remembering what we missed! I enjoyed this, Lynn.
Marie & Lynn, my hubby comes to Ohio a lot in the spring, hauling liquid fertilizer for farmers:) It really is a teeny world! Some day, Lord willing and there is something left to haul, I shall tag along with him!
thank you!
First of all, I love your name “just Lynne”. Originally from Akron, so I’m familiar with those white freckles and snow kisses! Yeah for Ohio! Nice write.
thank you
We all need an Ohio meeting place!
I love this one. It sounds like a Norman Rockwell painting.
Spring
Spring is no fun this year, no
Pause between taxes and sneezes
Ragweed already in bloom, while
I, I cope with
Never ending forms to do over and over
Gah I hate this what exactly is form 23ba-27?
Megan
Nice job – smiles. – mosk
I hear you! Gah!
Inching Into Spring
It’s the in-between time,
not this nor that,
when steel grey pillows heavy with rain
roll across a glimpse of pale blue,
colliding with gulls like billiard balls
off flat tables of sky.
It’s the in-between time
when spring is neither
this nor that.
Oh! Liking this — AND that!
“colliding with gulls like billiard balls.” loving all of it!
*Like*.
Winters Breathe
As winter freshen our airways
Its cuts out the light
The days are short and worn out
The thoughts of rushing around to use the up the natural dim lit sky
Warm clothing hugs our bodies
Gloves grasp our fingers
Hats smother our minds
Cold takes hold of our skin
We run around like crazy to get in from the cold
The children wish for snowfalls
Wish for no school
Of stories to be told
As we breath out a foggy shadow of breath
Our dried up lips clung together
Our pathways dried up and icy now
This is our stormy weather
Cars clutch the frost
Dew it hits the grass
I can barely see out my window
For there fog waving over the glass
Fires lit wildly
Smears of fingers tips
Cold shivering society
Smells of fresh bread and soup
What a variety
Warm woolly socks like fishermans
Throat sweets sucked till no more
Here we fear the flu and colds
The doctors at the door
With every season had cause
As winter animals nest
They hibernate and migrate
To natures wondering hand
As we sip the warm lemon whiskey
To fight off the germs of the land
We nestle in our homes
All cuddly and warm
Running in from the snow
The lightening and the storm
I fancy the first stanza. Especially the first line.
Thanks very much
Joseph Harker, Jaywig, Jane Shlensky and Sara McNulty all asked for more to my Day 8 poem, so thanks to so much encouragement, here’s more:
Restless Season
I had a love whose heart is the sea
Forever and never coming home to me
As shore I contain him
On maps, not in fact
Restless, relentless, resentful-less he
Yea!
The Killing Season
In crisp creased-still uniforms
they march orders knife-folded
in still-soft hands
smiling sweet goodbyes
over turned forward shoulders
straight shouldered to promises made
now called to keep
I can see this and understand it.
Much appreciate your sharing the vision …
Spring Green
Two flavours of green
Asparagus spears the sky
Grass dancing with rain
(modified from one I wrote earlier for Haiku Heights)
Sweet, Misk! Nobody says green like spring.
Lovely. And thanks for the reminder of haiku.
Richard
My youngest and I were just talking about the lovely shades of green.
not much time this year to read all the poems (much less write) but glad I paused on this one.
Hi Misk, I’m loving your spring greens!
Finklestein Season
there was a time
when with new
hard shining shoes
the stooped shoeman
smiled and with a
flourish straight pulled with
Finklestein magic
a sliding plastic
pencil box holding
two perfect Number
Twos precisely
pointed nestled against
pink eraser sweet
grasped as talisman
scenting first uncertain
days with Finklestein familiarity
love it imaging the shoe shinning shoe man my was a cobbler so it hits home for me
So happy you enjoyed
I got lost in your images today! “bowered blossoms drift/ filigreed in filtered light” Then, “hard shining shoes/ the stooped shoeman smiled” The last one brought me back to my experience of preparing for the first days of school. We always had that hard plastic pencil case.:) and I remember buying shoes with the old shoe salesman. Thank you for the trip through my memories.:)
Oh Barbara thank you so much for the comments – I am lost in my own images today! Where am I anyway? lol ….
to each
there is that
season
when ripples
flow in unseen
gathering tides tilting
in timed certitude
irresistible
urgency
Loved the releasing leaves, Robert!
Four Seasons Of The Corner
russet leaves
crackle shiny shoes
to the waiting bus
treeless branches bend
over childrens’ heads walking
cold bent to the bus
elbowing in fun
laughter raining in the air
warm skip to the bus
bowered blossoms drift
filigreed in flickered light
flushed faces fly by
So sweet, Pearl. = )
Thank you Laurie
nice capture of the year on a corner!
Nice one, Dr. P.
Uninvited Guest
Arctic winds push
Sly wintry mixes
Weathering limb, life
Feathery masses
Of crystal flake
Dominate the landscape
Dressed in snow white blankets
like snow caped mountains lovely covered in white canvass this is lovely the feathery masses picture perfect
I enjoyed the haiku-like rhythms of this one
Glad you enjoyed it.
You have painted a beautiful image here, Benjamin.
Hi Laurie, I think every poet loves to poem to the tune nature.
Summer, I never cared for her.
A dry lecturer. Others love her courses,
I know, and she teaches all
the requirements. Couldn’t get along
without good old summer. But
she just drags on and on; last year
she devoured Fall, who is usually
a breath of fresh air. That rushed
everything so much I barely caught
a glimpse of Winter, much less
made notes. They cancelled exams
and gave everyone a pass, can you
believe! Now, this year, she shows up
and mutters something about
Spring and expecting and bedrest
(as if Spring weren’t always pregnant:
that’s what she is: blooming
pregnant Spring) and took over.
I hear there’s talk of a revised
curriculum, Summer 24/7X12.
LOL Excellent! A unique take on this one, Barbara.
Barbara, I heart you!
Really clever and well done. I enjoyed it a lot.
Love your course outline here!
Love it! And sadly, so true,,,
I love the viewpoint in this…
I adore this!
Not my favorite class either. Nice poem!
“Spring”
As Spring settles
into her beauty
her song begins
to change –
Allegro to Andante.
She walks
hand-in-hand
with the gray
clouds
and long
slow breezes,
kisses you
with chills
in the morning
but loves you
with cool,
cloudless nights.
Only
for you.
Love your imagery and the spring weather too!
I don’t tell you often enough just how much I look forward to seeing your to-the-point little gems. I have Internet rituals in the morning, and finding your poems is on the list. Thanks for this, and for the whole body of your work. It brings me joy.
Love the musical expressions!
The usual kick-ass good quality, this was quietly splendid.
Sweet.
Beautifully done, Jerry.
Mating Season
when chickadees tweet
rabbits quiver even more
cats sing opera
even you hrrrumph with unique allure
LOL Only you, Pearl! Made me laugh. Thanks!
)
Ha ha! Yes!!
:0)
LOL
Glad you enjoyed
Squirrel Season
squirrel season’s fast approach-in
read in the Tribune-Georgian
so stop that stealthy poach-in
go legal, go forage-in!
I liked this.
Day 11 – a season
Autumn
Bolting home from choir tonight
feeling that still air invade face
and: bite!
The stars almost crackle,
they’re so bright,
and sunset brought fire
to the palette of light.
A self-sown apple tree
undresses with delight.
The rest of my garden
prefers holding on tight.
High pressure bringing
warmth from the Bight
promises just one more week
of welcome respite.
But Autumn is adamant
and spoils for a fight.
“You can have nice sunny days
but I claim the night!”
Cardigans gripped around
naive bodies, tight.
Lamplight, & chocolate:
a welcome sight.
Autumn is a wonderful time of year. I love how you captured the essence of autumn and how it makes you feel. The stars almost crackle so very true love it so detailed
and sunset brought fire
to the palette of light
Yum!
Delightful, I love.
The fall trees are a comfort
She’s a new student, a freshman.
She drops her bag, and
Props up her bike, and
Sits under a large tree.
It’s autumn, so the leaves are brilliantly hued.
The green was vanquished by the new shades and colors,
Quick as a wildfire.
Just like home.
The trees are a comfort to a new student who
Misses home so desperately.
She can look up and see familiar leaves now
Just like home.
the things that remind us of home and what we miss amazing well done
Awww … I feel this one, Kaitlyn!
I feel it, too… and remember that homesickness.
Beautiful.
Holiday season
Born of uncertainty
in the darkness
of the shortest and coldest
day of the year,
we seek family
and stand with strangers
needing the warmth and light of
these little suns -
all of our giving and receiving
a grand gesture to the universe
that we understand
that all that has been given and all that has been
taken away
now stands in the balance
and this small holy re creation
is all we know and all we can know
of spring and hope
and that this not be
one last unending winter.
Love this one too, uneven steven! Beautiful! Haven’t had much time to read this month, but I’m keeping your name in the back of my mind for revisiting when time allows.
Yes … have been enjoying your work and, in case I haven’t said it yet, get a kick out of your moniker!
Thank you very much. I appreciate your comments and enjoy reading everyone’s poems.
lovely
Oh, this is a beautiful poem!
* I am mainly exploring poetry this month to help my prose. This is a possible snippet from my current novel – It doesn’t fit my story in many ways, but I enjoyed writing it.
Spring
I was a newly opened flower in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by tall, foreboding enemies. I had been trembling. Was it the early morning cold? Was it fear? Or was it the winds of change buffeting my tender life like a dory on the open ocean.
I think I understand my fears now; my place in the forest is clear. Bill and I are just two little forest flowers bumping around together, into each other, but those trees never really move, never change, never step forward to threaten, or to befriend. They are static, stuck by their firm roots.
I now laugh at them; because I’ve discovered they are as afraid of me as I was of them. Big hulking trees afraid of this tiny, fragile wisp. I’ve feared the unknown, the monsters I’ve created in my mind, but I know them now. I see them for who they really are, and I feel pity.
We all need to break free of our roots, step out of our roles, break our unperceived rules, knock down our unseen walls, grab the hand of the person beside us, and say ‘It’s alright; I care.’
Oh …. all I can add is “amen.”
And thank you for this.
Prose-poetry!
Robert! I loved your start!! Can’t wait to join in today.
I agree.
Thanks Robert! The prompts so far have been really stimulating.
Summer
As we are entering Summer
And the skies are turning blue
We want to soak all the sun
We want to buy something new
The birds chirp happily in the trees
Kids fall, cry and scrape their knees
Laughter and smiles fill the air
Everyone is happy Summer is here
Trees flourish leaves are green
Dry dusty ground no rain to be seen
Smells of cut grass hits our senses
Men out fixing and painting broken fences
Rivers run cool to quench our thirst
Run quickly everyone I want to swim first
Long are the days as are the nights
We love to eat the fresh fruits
The children long to fly their kites
Beaches will be full from all destinies
Suntan, lotion and cooling down cream
Red burnt tartan of patches we see
Oh how the summer can damage your skin so quickly
Animals take shelter to warm from the sun
Music it plays we are having some fun
Barbeques at the ready food plenty
Drink to good health
And a summer of wealth
As I look to the sky right above me
I imagine the clouds there shapes amuse me
I can see every plane that positions my eye
Off to their destination way up high
Crab apples and hay stacking the cutting of the corn
Bales piles up high bulls blowing their horn
Sheep grazing and cows to
Pigs slopping around in the mud as the cows go moo
Fresh water as cold as ice from the tap
Salad on the table
No mouse to fill my trap
Only the ones that fill the field
Sure their only harmless
Away from our shield
Wonders of the summer
How we long for long days
Of watching our children having fun
In the summer sunny haze
THe images are so iconic, I love this “painting” of the season.
Me too.
It amazes me when you poets can pen something that rhymes and flows in so short a period of time. Good job!
Thank you everyone for your lovely comments
Nice summer feel to this…
BREAK UP THE METS
Dynasties, like records are made to be broken,
This early in the season, you must be jokin’.
The Mets begin it undefeated,
Hope are high and we need it.
Soon we’ll crash back down to earth
and get all the bad press it’s worth.
So for now, I think I’ll savor
baseball season with a brand new flavor…winning (for now)
dynasties like records are broken i like that has a lovely ring to it lovely
WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT
Gone with the wind
we haven’t seen it.
I haven’t missed it
and I mean in
Hardly got a lick of snow
at least so much I’d need to blow.
I’m not sure where they sent it
so there’s no need to lament it.
well done no snow indeed thank god a little would of been nice
I feel it Walt. I only shovelled three times this winter. Last year was more like twenty+.
Dis content is da write stuff.
Well stated!
LOL Nice one, Walt! (My grandmother would have said that she missed it… but it was a GOOD miss.)
)
When Robert is followed by you, I feel like the rest of us are following the dynamic duo! Good stuff, you guys!
Not a lot of snow here this year either.