March…

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March… you walk about like an aged bag lady;
holes in your stockings, shoes battered and worn.
Wrapped in shawls of winter-wear you clutch
about your chest; as your breath rises and falls
with fingers swollen and blue and bony.
 
Do you not know the Lady Spring will come?
 
Shuffling frozen toes you slip through forest lane,
among dormant branches, down sloped kettled land
where only ice thickens; as snow begins to melt.
There are no handouts here… they’ve been taken;
tender shoots by rabbits and tasty bark by deer.
 
Do you not know Lady Spring is near?
 
I detest your presence; you’ve overcome your stay.
Take your bleeding heart, your layers of dated ice,
and blankets of snow and just go! Your work is done
you’ve replenished frozen earth; napping is finished.
Yawns and stretches are stirring in warming sun.
 
Do you not see signs of Lady Spring, Aged Bag Lady?


Going south to find some spring warmth…

Ticker Tape Parade

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Parade confetti is shattered atop the crunchy snow;
gathered in pools down path and track and trail.
Weathered wind’s have blown about its wintry sail;
down alleys where nature’s refuse reveal a superb show.
 
Sheets of bark off aged trees; pine cone’s empty seed
and needles short and long in tones of tawny to sea green.
A collection too grand, fallen as if trees can preen;
I wonder if among the wood there is a nature’s creed?
 
It’s there under my snow shoes lie remnants low;
which wind has groomed off elderly trees now frail.
Will no individual draw close to mourn or wail?
Perhaps, this is a party in the woods; I don’t know.
 
I’m listening to the music; voices on the streets
of creaky tree branches, cardinals echoing call,
whisper of pine needles creating a song as they fall
no city scents… but a ticker tape parade treat!


Over at dVerse this is a bit of a competition going on; sorry Brian, us ladies need to stick together!

Sorry

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See the forest ablaze with fire;
started by a spark from man’s tongue.
Beast of the field and creature of sea
tamed by man, but no man’s tongue.
We build with words of sweetness;
tear down with cures; does a spring
bring both fresh and bitter waters?
Two little words: I’m sorry, siento
entschuldingung, or je regretted.

“Out of the same mouth proceed
blessing and cursing. My brethren,
these things ought not to be so”
James 3:10


Ah… that old tongue gets in the way once-in-awhile. I hope all the translations are correct; if not, I’m sorry. Check out Poets United!

Medieval Scents

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Medieval man’s knowledge of fragrances…
herbs, flowers, and perfumes; medical treatise.
The Queen cradled sprigs of rosemary
and the King lingered with dry cloves.
While bowls of rosewater stood on noble table
and floated in pools of bathwater, telling fables.
 
Damp castles and dark manor house;
herbs strewn on cold floors over mouse.
Sweet Flag in Fenlands of Norfolk;
back home in stony castles ascended
rosemary or meadowsweet mingling
along with incense down church aisle.
 
All a sweet memory of aroma’s from
a time when dragon’s wings soared,
and ladies, in waiting, for men’s battle roar.
Back then, the world sang a sultry song;
fused with rich aromas and sweet perfumes.
Along with crowds who merged in throngs.


Over at dVerse we are going back in time…

The Day I Fell in Love

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I sit, a half-a-century-ago, on stool
perched high in musty garage attic;
on piano I play chop-sticks robustly.
It’s throat rich with webs and dust,
as flies dance on dirty window pane.
 
I’m drawn to the voice of wind’s score;
push back the seat and listens to more.
Step-by-step, a magnetic link, I reply
by walking toward the open garage door;
outer walls of tar paper create rainbows.
 
It’s then the meadow’s in waltz royal.
My dress flaps in spring breeze, as I
stroll to where things are fed by soil.
The earthen ground is my play pen;
snails and spiders are at a steady toil.
 
There’s no traffic, buildings, or crowds;
I’m stranded in the heart of country miles.
Never-ending acres of woods and wilds;
out of my busy city surroundings I discern
there’s more than urban places for this child.
 
The grass calls me back; tickles bare legs.
I’m in total awe of this wondrous place
till bumblers, with wide stripes, come
scolding for I’ve imposed on their space.
As I turn, there a new smile on my face.
 
I am charmed beyond, to the woods where
Aspens clap with cymbals a tenor-type band.
I don’t stroll, but dash toward woodlands;
where lanes are made by critter’s hands
and rooms await among wild wintergreen.
 
A memory relived again and again, I’d say,
as I travel down life’s steady sands of time.
It was the day nature became my first love;
where painted butterflies sip, flowers sway,
and lofty trees beckon me in natural ways.
 
“Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad;
Let the sea roar, and all its fullness;
Let the field be joyful, and all that is in it.
Then all the trees of the woods will rejoice before the Lord.”
Psalm 96:11-12

Do you ever have that childhood dream which never seems to go away, but gets richer with every day? Writing for Poets United today.


Ticker Tape Parade

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Parade confetti is scattered atop the crunchy snow;
gathered in pools down path and track and trail.
Weathered wind’s have blown about its wintry sail;
down alleys where nature’s refuse reveal a superb show.
 
Sheets of bark off aged trees; pine cone’s empty seed
and needles short and long in tones of tawny to sea green.
A collection too grand, fallen as if trees can preen;
I wonder if among the wood there is a nature’s creed?
 
It’s there under my snow shoes lie remnants low;
which wind has groomed off elderly trees now frail.
Will no individual draw close to mourn or wail?
Perhaps, this is a party in the woods; I don’t know.
 
I’m listening to the music; voices on the streets
of creaky tree branches, cardinals echoing call,
whisper of pine needles creating a song as they fall
no city scents… but a ticker tape parade treat!


Much wind swirls about the forest this winter; it gave a nice show from the voices of my treeline streets. Sorry Brian, us ladies need to stick together! Over at dVerse, there’s a bit of a competition going on.

February’s Call

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I must go the woods again…
to placid meadow, drowsy sky
to trek about powdery drifts;
to feel ice sprinkled on face
as wind’s sign speaks of grace.
My feet dance atop rigid snows,
as February’s chilly wind blows;
a song of infantile forlorn cry.
 
And yet, I must go the woods again…
snow as down upon thick thistle,
to feel crunch in cumbersome boot,
sweet Chick-a-dee in thorny branch;
far from wild mountain’s avalanche
to hear land wail, wheeze, and whistle.


Over at dVerse we are working hard with 14 line poetry and inserting a volta about mid-way.

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