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 Feb 2016 am i ee
Wallace Stevens
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
Brown yellow rusted pages
None read
None would for ages
Lying on the pave

Blurred is the title and name
Lost dream and never born fame
Wisdom of long bearded sages
Dumped in the grave

Dusty old forgotten write
Feasted upon by termite
What to author full of sense
Fetch not any pence

Should I buy take home to read
Not treat it like just **** ****
Spend some time in smelling old
See if bring some gains?
A sea of gratitude splashes
onto the inner walls
of this humbled heart
within me.

Seasons, poets, places, people,
singing, devotion, faith, trust...

Years have rained down like
petals from a flowering tree.

Abundance blesses me
in true simplicity.

As my soul enters the womb
of renewal, unexpected blessings
wing across the world to say hello
from where our sun already shines.

Manila, New Zealand, Delhi, Chennai,
where you are it is already morning,
  and the warm sunlight of your day
shines in your greetings and wishes.

May the bliss that you bring me,
dear world family, splash all over
your own dear hearts, and may
peace and harmony be ours
on this beautiful blue planet!
A very special thank you to all my new poet friends around the world! Even poet to poet, you mean more to me than I can ever say!
©Elisa Maria Argiro
 Feb 2016 am i ee
Nevermind
Lost children walking in a single file line
Nervous hearts beating so perfectly in time
To unconscious footsteps, thumping gently on the ground
Sleepwalking aimlessly with no one around
No one to guide them
No one to say
"Child are you lost ? Come along this way"
Lost children walking in a single file line
No one to wipe their tears, to stifle their cries
I worship the mattock that tends my Spring field ..
The Apple tree with it's Fall yield ...
The tractor that criss crosses the meadow ..
The firewood keeping me warm in the hard months of Winter ..
I pay homage to the Summer rain ..
Give thanks in May before our pollinators every day ...
Pay respect to my water well on parched evenings ...
Most grateful indeed for every change of Season ...
Copyright February 5 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
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