Warblings.com

The River

The River

 

Like a ribbon untethered and crudely sown,

 Tied round the neck of land unknown.

Sweeping past in drollity and ferver,

Draping banks of crystalline sand like minerver.

A name  given  to it, but it’s birth  divine,

Wilder and more fickle than the trumpery vine.

A sage old man? Or a capricious youth? One and the same,

Whose course  angels  altar, and time cannot tame.

Sweeping, vast, narrow curves, like drunken sailors each bend swerves

The deer, beaver and egret, mark the change without regret,

The tributary’s only accurate chroniclers. 

©

Memory's Picture Of You

Piercing those expressive eyes,

Deeper than the most succumbing skies.

The propensity of light, its beckoning gleam,

Reawakening my fondest dream.

Portrait so vivid, the paint not dry?

Betwixing, Oh my deceiving eye.

Like a thin blanket , memory tries to keep me warm,

Reminding me of when we walked almost arm in arm.

My heart’s echo repaints the portrait, with regret its brush,

 I gaze at the face I cannot touch.

In the absence of your voice, the more I see,

You walking though life’s door to me.

 

In The Wake of Bitterness

Darkness like a creeping fog has drawn its precarious veil

Leaving only a fleck of blue sky in view, a mere pixel,

The pillaged heart divided between hope and despair

Has become jaded, contemptuous and fickle.

Bitterness, acrimony; poisonous fruits, one bite and the senses dim

The unblemished zeal, the romantic soul, are a feeble match for them.

Unresolved anger bars the doors and unrenovates the mind

It promises justice, and satisfaction, but leaves only debris behind.

The pleasant earth of the imagination   scorched by the offense

Transforms into an island without trees, the unsuspecting victim gazes at their absence.

Anger’s ascidic demagoguery like bile becomes hope’s silent assassin,

Armed not by fidelity’s terrorist, but by the accusing self’s harassment.

Providence fingerprints are not seen, but not because of gloves

Peace of mind’s barricade is breached due to the lack of love.

The winds of a hurricane are formidable, but the surge contains the wrath

It’s not the storm’s fury that is of primary concern, but the soon coming aftermath

Look up you deft and witless, remember the speck of sky ……Do you see?

Reach up your steely arms and grab for it and it will lower itself to thee

Hope descends the ladder of forgiveness, and forgiveness will set you free.

 

The Mole

The Mole

 

Trampled leaves beside a dusty road,

Fields of maze freshly sowed.

Bees abuzz in a willful breeze,

The sun says hello, the sky “if you please”.

There’s the hill , and there’s the hole,

Dare not trample the bustling mole.

 Off he goes, watch him run,

To shield his face from the burgeoning sun.

©

I Should Have Been A Bird

 

 

I Should Have Been A Bird

 

I should have been a bird, but I’m not,

I’ve no beak, no bill, no bite.

But if I had been, a bird that is,

I’d always emerge in flight.

I’d bolt high above the tree tops,

Impervious to the air,

I’d soar beyond all intrepidness, oblivious to the glare.

I’d peek down below the tree skirts,

Still soaring all the while,

And buzz lazy boys a laughing, as I whip a precarious smile.

I’d floop and scoop water for drinking, no true effort to apply.

With never a squall, in the order of it all,

Majestic fields and waterfalls,

And the simple need to fly!

©

Pain's Predisposition

  

Pain’s Predisposition

To confer with despair is to welcome it. When a hearts resounding hope gives way to broken dreams, and sedateness to a fear of life then every available path becomes precarious, and every opportunity a potential pitfall. We must struggle not merely to persevere, but to persevere without anguished anticipation of all that is possible both good and bad.  Echoes of past pain always call out to us from behind the rocks. When our ears, once open to the audible voice of hope choose to not hear its pleasanter prophecies, the only voice that we can hear in its absence is the pitiful cry of our past failure as it reflects off the wall of our own negative image of the future. Cynicism then becomes an only child, and dreams become our stepchidren.  Pessimism is the crockpot of unbelief. To let the fear of future pain prepossess us is to elevate it, and deviate from the natural occurrence of growth. If we are always looking over our shoulders, we cannot rightly look ahead, and if we constantly stare at the ground we will never see the sky.  One sees the mud and one sees the stars.

" every since I fell down into that hole everyone has said I was Alice,  or that I wasn't Alice. I have been stretched, I've been shrunken, I've been stuffed into a teapot, and I've been scratched. This is my dream, I will decide how it goes from here"  Alice in Alice In Wonderland

©

Melody of the Heart

  

  

Melody of the Heart

 

Vanquishing sleep, oh impatient night

The disturbing silence, piercingly quiet,

As thoughts blanket the air, vacant but breathing

Invoking the heart's song of love’s bequeathing,

Towards love’s melodic splendor ears do reach

The notes of unfulfilled silence to impeach

Such is the lonely heart thirsting for grace and love.

It desires a tender verse of hearts, of lovers true

A tranquil composition of which nature’s choose

A long awaited song to win not lose

The melody of the heart sings of grace and love. ©

The Winds of Love

 

The Winds of Love

 

The winds of Love fraught with indignation

Scour the gardens with replete agitation

Leaving barren what was once lush and green,

Love’s galaxy mindless and perplexing

It’s potions mysterious and vexing

Betray us to the false light of the moon,

It’s irrepressible gall of tempest

Surmised as a sweet caress

Leave the scars so deep, wide, and roughly hewn,

Blindly we seek through love peace and pleasure

But with open eyes find the full measure

The threshing, beguiling force of pain,

Wine bittersweet, we toast love tete a tete

As tacit tears course down our cheeks in vain©

The Past Outworn

 

 

The Past Outworn©

 

In history’s tattered pages, smudged, yellow and worn,

We strive to find the essence, the very reason we were born,

From Caesar’s symbolic reign, On to Budapest

The past is stealthily breathed into us, and never put to rest

But is it within these pages, that true relevance relies,

Or is it our fear of foreboding that the future is despised?

Oh gallant Arthur, and righteous Abe, whose deeds are widely known.

Isn’t it the soil they have trodden that is left to be resown?

Should we as tomorrows cultivars, choose history to reside?

In glimpsing at faded photographs, is it our own face we hide?

Talks of lessons learned, wars fought and won

We stare blankly at yesterday’s moon, instead of to the sun.

Surely there are remembrances, worthy of this hour

But the longer that sits the vase of milk, the more apt it is to sour.

The leaves of the past have fallen, and today new buds are sent

They think not of leaves that died,  but frolic in the wind.

Is not the end of the old and rustic track, where steam and engine have run,

Really just a beginning place for new track to be added on?

Tradition kept, tradition swept, the dust will never leave

But the freshness of life’s renewal is in every breath we breath.

The past is not to be mummified, the corpse of fear to which we repent

It is merely a simple message, that today in goodness be spent.©

Spring

Spring

Spring, Oh marvelous season!

Whose splendor graces all that is seen or heard.

The whispering breezes, coaxing and full of the fragrance of precious blooms.

Flowers closing, and reopening as God dips the brush into fresh paint and slowly, miraculously the landscape is refurbished,

Coloring the world anew.©

The Wonder In My Eyes

 

The Wonder In My Eyes

The world and sophisticated lovers

Give their affection one to another,

With charmed presentations of gifts and praise.

As if the flower’s smell, or the words poets tell

Can reveal the emotion my heart conveys.

Can a sonnt’s pure and sweet resonance?

Or a bracelet’s jeweled extravagance,

Tell what my implicit love for you implies?

Neither pearls, or words quiet majesty

Can show my love for you so inherently,

As does the wonder confirmed in my eyes.

Suitors prove love’s effect with exhibitions

But you can know without remission,

Your love’s fascination is in my eyes.©