Finally, Going to Branson…

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I’m finally going to Branson,
climb Ozarks, stroke the eagle,
witness transformation on canvas,
and breathe air like a new born.

Drift down the Mississippi,
join catfish perched under barge;
deem dreams of great explorers
and history across new land.

I’ll be a gypsy traveler …
a Finn, a Sawyer, or a Twain;
tie up planks and settle in a
search’n for adventure.

It’s there in rural Branson
friendship will renovate as
newer friends I embark;
a porthole to discovery .

I’m finally going to Branson,
climb Ozarks, stroke the eagle,
witness transformation on canvas,
and breathe air like a new born.

Doing some traveling over at dVerse… below you’ll find a piece written last winter, but now I’m going to Branson

Going to Branson

I’m gonna go to Branson someday
to meet a friend and share southern warmth;
let my pale skin soak in golden sunshine,
wake up early to hear the song birds melody…
eat grainy grits, ripe peaches, or meaty pecans.
Whatever they may eat in Branson?
Leave the land of frozen tundra where
trees are draped in winter scarves and
land it covered with a snowy quilt.
Critter prints dance atop frosty drifts,
smoke curls from burnish chimney tops,
and peaks of snow adorned parking lots.
I’m gonna go to Branson someday!

December 2013

Death

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What turns the leaves?
In each vein runs life’s blood.
A hand with pointed finger
stretched broad against grey sky
pumping, pumping, pumping;
till nothing remains
to nourish a soul’s unrest.
Breathe… until none is left,
the color slowly fades,
and fallen are the best.
 
Such vibrancy in the end
redden blushes, sun-bright yellow
filled with hope before they slip.
The eye cannot behold
such glamour when they peak;
awe, before final death.
Where it not when they are piled,
one upon another, then mislay
their hue; become fragile
and crumble into rich soil.


Who makes the decision to pull the plug? Each may need to answer this difficult question. I do know God’s science decides when Autumn leaves fall. Linking up at dVerse where we are extending the Metaphor

Before the Light

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There’s a time in life
locked as folding hands
drawn across all lands.
Empty is brittle pod;
battles a world in strife
 
‘tis time draped in dark.
Hope sets with the sun;
yet seeds and wind run
as day’s dawn occurs…
a new voice of the lark!
 
Hide not the light of hope
among the dying leaf.
Storms past their grief
for rains can cleanse.
Rainbows help us cope.


Over at dVerse… we’re bringing up the light. Also, check out my earlier piece Darken the Days.

Darken the Days

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Sky is thin, as crest moon hangs.
Dangling deep within night sky;
charming as Cheshire Cat’s grin.
Night by night clouds float by;
’tis then I know day grows shorter.

Berries in clusters cling claiming
last of tepid seasons harvest;
tempted to heave moon from
high. They not knowing a new king
reigns in nighttime autumn sky.

Darker still… as autumn ushers
along woodland’s stoic aisle.
Once a bride of golden years,
now mislaid maiden who claims
last of summer’s sun as moon grins.

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

In Shaded Wood

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Twin fawns nestled in dark places
like spotted mushrooms rooted deep;
with stealth as crafty shadow stretched.
My muscles misplace their motion.
Years… I’ve sauntered this craggy path;
seeking only enough riches for one day.
Amazed in this extraordinary moment;
wondering how many years will pass,
if again, my eyes will gaze on such a site.


There are times in life, unexpected times, when we’d wish the moment could just happen again. Revisiting the time or place only to seek the shadows of the past. This makes life exciting! Linking up at dVerse where Claudia has us writing about everyday life.

Yellow… a Porch

A yellow porch… a place called home,
unlike palaces built in old Rome,
red geraniums fixed to part Sea
where sands of desert thousands did roam.

He always painted yellow that porch;
a childhood haven where sun not scorch.
A few chairs, we’d travel anywhere!
All awhile, was he who held the torch.

Why bright yellow a porch, you may ask?
Decades of painting no easy task;
made to bring sunshine on autumn day
or erase the pain behind his mask.

Lost his dear family at only ten,
viewed the pain of dying wartime men,
no sweet samisen sang that dreadful day;
only log written with drying pen.

I’ll paint my own yellow porch someday.
Embrace the notion we must also play
to make life loose, a shedding skin,
unlock rusty chains and wash them away.

 

Linking up at dVerse with a open menu; my dish a memory from the past of a man I’ll always think highly of, my Dad.

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