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.

Garden Gate

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It’s here in fall garden I sit;
with bug and bird and butterfly
all munching on late summer blooms.

I dare not cut bruised stems
with long gone bowing petals;
for stragglers quench their appetites.

It’s in fall’s early garden I meet
with my eternal Maker and Life Coach;
who brings a wellness to my aching soul.

I cherish these early fall moments,
His breath in cooling autumn winds,
and strength in altering of the seasons.

It’s the garden which beckons me
to uncluttered worldly worries and woes;
then replaces all with stable nature sounds.

I am cleansed through eye gate;
from the garden’s massive bounty
and His still small voice in the folds of wind.

 

At times I unwind in the wood or meadow. Infrequently, at the shore or through the mountains; yet it’s in the garden, a few steps out my door, I can often visit. Just where I am working off a double bacterial infection; while over at dVerse things are winding up with Rubayiat. Stop by and visit.

 

Listen…

butterfly

As summer sands slip slowly by;

when butterfly wings have faded

and song birds sing a last hurrah.

A hum, hum, hum is left behind…

As summer sky fill with storms;

when chicks no longer fill nest

and cicada song has gone to rest.

A hum, hum, hum is left behind…

As summer splash is no longer wet;

when playgrounds are vacant

and children now sit behind desks.

A hum, hum, hum is left behind…

As summer moon mingles with stars;

when I thankfully rest my head to dream

and summer seems to become dull.

A hum, hum, hum is left behind…

As I finally hear the hidden sounds

of crickets everyone; hidden behind

veil of night… as summer slips away.

I can’t help wonder what else I’ve missed!

My tribute to a cricket… then linking up over at dVerse later today talking about patterns.

In Late July

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They came in late July; the three.
When peepers no longer peep
and cicada sing their lullaby;
on tight rope wires high.

Came in late of day… home;
when roses take a second bow
and zinnia’s crowd the garden
bed on tip toes oh, so tall.
 
They came for one last fling;
when chicks abandon nests
and bugs gather in relief,
on sultry summer breeze.
 
Came home in formal wear
bobbing and stretched necks;
wings as fans spread wide
for one last passion dance.
 


Linking up at dVerse where things are coming home; like my Sand hill Cranes who came home for one last mating dance!

Slip N’ Slide… a French Paradelle

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The tiny droplet, almost glides, slides down,
the tiny droplet, almost glides, slides down,
a massive aged tree where few have traveled
a massive aged tree where few have traveled
Slides down massive aged tree; the droplet
glides where a tiny few have traveled down.
 
Downward it teeter-totters from one transparent leaf,
downward it teeter-totters from one transparent leaf.
Vertical veins drooping in beaming morning sun,
vertical veins drooping in beaming morning sun.
Morning sun teeter-totters with transparent veins
one beaming leaf vertical from drooping downward.
 
A leaf-at-a-time enjoying the ride down,
a leaf-at-a-time enjoying the ride down,
its nomadic life is a brief inspection; a new view.
its nomadic life is a brief inspection; a new view.
A new view is brief, leaf-at-a-time enjoying
a nomadic life a ride down, a ride down.
 
One drooping morning the sun teeter-totters;
a tiny droplet glides… slides down enjoying
a nomadic life with a ride down massive tree.
From a brief new vertical view, at a time
where few have traveled downward, is aged
leaf veins and one transparent beaming morning.

Note to Brian: May I suggest you allow Form for All duties to others… LOL, you really had us working at a Paradelle. I prefer crepes from France. Check out this form at: dVerse

In the Night

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Long past twilight’s ending day;
when firefly’s torch spreads glow
to a place where wild things roam.
Giants extend and stretch across my path;
weighty gasps and gripping arms.
While spongy earth oozes chocolate soup;
there’s sweetness in hunt of fear.
 
My eyes well dim yet ear can hear
the hum, drum, hum; something creeps
within the wall of coming dread.
Who hangs high where moonlight glares?
What foreign critter goes unseen,
as twigs SNAP…. my breath does seize?
This journey I wander not alone.
 
I remember every frightening thing;
some which once roamed earth.
Demon’s trapdoor of the unseen world;
where true light’s flame has expire
and streams of blood no longer surge.
The smallest sounds become a peril;
long past twilight’s ending day.


Strange things are happening over at dVerse today…Poetics on DMT

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