Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
When a myriad of shooting stars sparkled bright,
sped by in a glittering display, one Autumnal night,
they quickly traversed - as is their universal right,
to the Milky Way, I was overtaken with delight!
Being warmly wrapped - for the night was cool,
wearing a heavy old coat, that was lined with wool,
I was snugly warm. Dozing off, I began to dream,
where in my stargazing reverie, a beckoning beam
from a passing comet heading out into space,
beckoned me on a journey to a far distant place.
One where I’d visit worlds - in galactic profusion.
At this, in the midst of my kaleidoscopic confusion,
it seemed my dream became transformed into reality,
as planets and stars in great numbers, sped by me.
Though I knew not how to tell, one planet from the other,
I suddenly saw one passing, that was earth’s twin brother!
It was seen a speeding planet, flying by in blurred haste,
but from what I could see, it looked a lifeless, waste!
Even today, I can clearly recall my dream as I write,
and shudder at the sight of that lifeless, barren sight,
for it was the bleakest landscape I have ever seen!
Heaven forbid it was a sign, that earth’s verdant green,
will be looking like this, unless we change our ways,
and end the senseless spoiling, that’s rife these days.
If not, soon our unique oasis, could drift in lifeless state
a victim of the same perceived, barren apathetic fate
that has befallen every single planet known to man.
Today, we should appreciate the pleasures we can
enjoy today. Often taken for granted by you and me.
As for my dream? May it never become stark reality!

Rhymer September 25th, 2020.
With all the wild fires - both here in North America and greater still, in Siberia, one has to wonder on what our space adventurers report when they get a 'close-up' of the stars and planets we see from a distance.  Great food for thought!  Denis.
  Sep 17 Jim Musics
Denis Barter
Always a country lad was I,
and in the country I’ll hope to die,
for there’s nothing like solitude
found in a land, ruggedly rude,
which thrives about and around.
Where spiritual serenity found,
is removed from noise and bustle
of the endless metropolitan hustle,
that chases and constantly chivvies
office workers and menial skivvies,
who chase a hopeless dream.
All part of the urban scheme
that promises followers gold,
if they trample the lesser bold!
Me?  I let the world go by,
as I idly sit and gaze at the sky,
to watch fleecy clouds pass on.
I blink.  Suddenly they’re gone!
I never wonder as  to where they went:
what of their destination or their portent?
for I know others will follow as before,
as I spend hours doing nothing more
than watching, enjoying the day.
Such is this country lad’s way!
Some say I’m wasting my life,
but hours spent free from strife
I’d say with all honest sincerity,
have made my life, in all verity,
a journey of lasting pleasure.
With special moments, I treasure,
captured in my hours of solitude,
I allow no one or thing to intrude
that might spoil my sacred reverie.
This is the life well suited to me,
and not one I’ll swap readily
until I go to eternity - happily!
Until that day, I’ll be content
to see my hours and days spent
in the serious consideration
as to what in all creation,
I’d do if I were city bred?
The very thought hurts my head:
how would I endure the noise?
Now as thinking upsets my poise,
I’ll quietly ruminate again today,
and listen to what nearby birds say
in their knowing country way!
Yes, I’m glad to be a country lad,
for rustic ways ain’t so bad,
and as I regard haste a crime,
I take each day in slow time.
There is much more I could say,
but feel I’ve said enough today!

Rhymer. September 17th, 2020.
I wrote this years ago when I first came here in rural Ontario to retire.  A laugh really as I've not stopped working on my two acres as yet, and will - hopefully - continue to do so until I reach my Century.  Not so far away! Rural peace with my wife of over 65 glorious years,  as we enjoy it in our two acre estate, far from the crowds and Covid19, is our source of life.  One we do not intend to change!  Denis.
Jim Musics Aug 16
By whatever silly person is giving thumbs down to comments on my poems.

Give the poem thumbs down, that's fine. I know it's because you have no talent of your own.

As for the comments, thumbs off ye small mind.

Thanks! :)
I know, this will just encourage to silly one.
Jim Musics Aug 15
The cusp of Spring/Summer is when I already think Autumnal thoughts. Even before a not-green stray Sassafras mitten or two falls, the Black gum lets go a few red-orange leaves.  I see them on the back path. They silently shout to me, “Here come the Fall!”. I'm saddened. It's not just because I used to lament having to go back to school in September, It's more than that. It's only just yet Summer. I didn't finish. 'Didn't go back the live the life that I could have had if I hadn't made those foolish moves. 'Didn't make most of those smart ones. 'Hadn't wasted all that money on beer. I sort of tried to do it right when I got a little older. 'Did some good, coulda done more though. 'Expected my good work to be more rewarded. I didn't, “sell out”, or climb up some ladder stepping on backs. I never gave up, but I just didn't do enough. 'Didn't make them listen. 'Afraid to speak up. That's what this is; the confession of a 70 year old. I'm not unburdened. I don't need forgiveness.
Not a poem. Just some old guy whining about his privilege.
  Aug 13 Jim Musics
Denis Barter
My Soul suffers a bitter agony within,
To watch the devastation upon my kin.
To see Hope die under such fearsome strain,
As Alzheimer’s invades, to despoil their brain!

We see them fall under its inhuman spell,
To wander lost, alone in a private Hell!
For who can follow the path they now tread,
That leads to where?  ‘Tis known only to the dead!

Who can know the realm to where they’ve gone?
No sign points the way!  No light shines on
Their tortuous path!  There is no respite
To tangled thoughts plunged into darkest night!

Desperately we seek answers to their plight,
But none are found!  No reason sheds light
Upon their persecution!  Each afflicted breath,
A further step along the road that ends in Death!

Their fierce passion, though it might burn inside,
Lacks purpose or direction. Heartbroken, we hide
Concerns, lest we deny them Love they need.
Though we anguish over futile lives they lead!

Their ailment advances.  We know them no more!
They return to be the child they were before!
Though whims and desires demand fulfilment,
Reason is lost, as is sane discernment!

Next, into cataleptic state they retreat,
Needing constant Love and devotion to defeat
The grim effects on their tormented brain.
We pray for their release and peace again!

When freed of those chains, by which they were bound,
Should we celebrate the new freedom found?
Are we shallow hypocrites to rejoice this way?
As their torment ends when Death takes them away?

Rhymer.  August 13th, 2020
Though written earlier for my Mother,  My Darling wife of 89, shows some symptoms that seem similar.  So many are so afflicted.  As yet, I am just a little forgetful . But I've had a good innings and have no regrets.   A 90 year old kid at heart!. Denis.
  Aug 12 Jim Musics
Denis Barter
I’ve a coat with many pockets,
that’s special in its ways,
Although young when I first donned it,
still fits me well these days.
With a host of special reasons
for wearing it today,
It's  gifted to my chidren,
when I reach my final day.

It’s got pockets full of memories
and others full of dreams,
from my ninety years of living,
with more to come it seems.
there’s a pocket for the future,
into which I hope to add,
all the moments I’ll enjoy,
be they jubilant or sad.

Should I feel downhearted:
an occasion that is rare,
I’ll recall a favoured happening:
or a moment I can share
with anyone that’s listening,
that has befriended me.
With a moment that I treasure,
I deem a priceless memory.

When friends have come together,
a common human trait,
we’ll reminisce on our early years,
and how we faced ill Fate,
We talk of our successes
and times of yesterday,
as for achieving the impossible?
We’ll brag the livelong day.

But there is a pocket hidden,
it’s one embedded deep.
Within it, lie my broken dreams:,
that have hurt me rather deep.
They rest with irksome memories:
that make me sad and blue.
as do my angry thoughts,
that I'll not disclose to you.

There’s memories that are cheerful:
there’s others that are sad.
Whilst others make me wistful,
for the better times I’ve had.
When I think the world’s against me,
I’m alone and feeling bored,
I’ll rummage through my pockets,
for the memories I have stored.

In its pockets by the number,
there’s many treasured dreams.
Amongst memories I cherish,
there’s a host of madcap schemes.
Despite pockets overflowing,
and others fully filled,
there’s plenty more to fill,
before my life is stilled.

Yes, my coat of many pockets,
is a cherished one I wear.
Though somewhat worn and tattered,
about it I really care.
It may not look inviting,
when hanging on a hook,
but Memories therein stored,
invite your second look.

Rhymer. August 10th, 2020.
Justa little thought I've had as the year progresses and life gets a tad tougher due to the pandemic.
  Aug 11 Jim Musics
Denis Barter
In the forest, there’s few things I find more to please
Than to walk woodland trails, strewn with fallen leaves.
But by their rustling underfoot, they sing a sad lullaby
Which serves to remind, that autumn, in the short by and by,
Brings closure to our delights, now summer’s passed.
Though it too, as do most things in Life, will not last.

My walk under branches, when bared of all leaf cover
Allows an observant eye to search for and discover
Abandoned nests of last spring’s long flown brood,
Or a squirrel in his lofty drey. This agile and shrewd
Forest dweller, is ever prepared to take instant flight
Should an untoward move of mine, cause him fright!

Moments later a ruffed grouse takes off in panicked flight
Though its presence was sensed, I’d glimpsed no sight
Of this woodland denizen.  At home within the forest scene
It haunts the undergrowth but often goes, sight unseen!
Next a snake, sunning, poised alert, quickly slithers away
Having sensed intruders were abroad and coming his way.

Unexpectedly from overhead, staccato sounds startle me,
As a busy downy woodpecker, intrudes upon my reverie.
Whilst a roving shrew, in never ending search for tasty prey,
Snuffles through the leaves: pounces, then scampers away
Replete with a fat slug delicacy for its brood of young.
Though its actions benefit man, they frequently go unsung.

The leafy paths of forest floor are bustling alive this day
With various sights and sounds.  When time allows, it’s my way
To fill hours that all too swiftly pass. But reality encroaches
Upon my walk.  I hasten my step, for darkness approaches,
So with one last lingering look, I take my leave and steal away
Determined to visit these arboreal woods again, another day.

With the virus pandemic restrictions followed faithfully by my wife and I, a small forested area close by my garden, is the perfect place for social distancing. Hence my poem.  DHB.
Next page