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MindMooring Sep 27
Sun shines even though it dances from
East to West.
Bhill Sep 23
The cricket was only doing what crickets do
Walking slowly up the walk looking for more crickets
Looking north and south, east and west
He or she appeared to alone
Where were more crickets
Where was the orchestra of fellow crickets
What happened

The wonderment stopped when this cricket let out “crick-it, crick-it”
The orchestra followed suit and sounded out in cricket harmony
Cricket harmony so welcomed by this once lonely cricket

Off it hopped to join in the symphonic noises created by the once hidden fellow crickets

Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it......

Brian Hill - 2019 # 239
Felt a bit silly this morning..
Let your cricket orchestra sing out!
a troubadour
till aghast
with crime
that apolitically
is verselet
with cabal
and state
pore fourth
their rot
and an
ulterior land
when imperial
country broker
the peace
process that
descendants may
repeal this
year again!
Steve Page Aug 20
you could call me Larry
you might call me Shaun
but I will look Eastward
and wait for the dawn

you may think me seasoned
you could call me spring
but I'm looking Eastward
while the morning birds sing

you could call me silly
you might think me dumb
but when I look Eastward
I greet the dawn sun
Each September comes BEAT Borough of Ealing Art Trail - Art shown in artists homes. And each August poets are invited to write an accompanying poem to a piece of art. This is one of my BEAT poems.
Star BG Jun 13
I look to the East with deepen breath,
freeing soul inside love.
I look to the West with dancing steps,
freeing my soul inside dreams.
I look to the South with open eyes,
freeing soul inside visions.
I look to the North with hearts song,
freeing soul as my mind follows.
I look up to the sky with gratitude,
freeing soul integrating light
I look down to Mother Earth,
freeing soul as my feet ground.

Ground in celebration of a new day.
Love connecting to directions. Each one houses different aspects of greatness
down bilsdean creek where fresh and salt water meet
the bladderwrack rehydrating incoming tide chases
tiny trout upstream  to the overhanging hazel branch
sanctuary of dappled dancing sunlight where they flit
back and forth under the ever watchful kingfisher
shimmering blue glints of nervous anticipation

by whelk denuded tidal pools, Freddy the refugee
with his rusty bike, tin can kettle and bent safety pin
waits patiently for his stream water to boil
a hip flask of vinegar and folded envelope of pepper
are produced with theatrical flourish from a tattered
baling twine belted overcoat and placed on the rock

from Fife the haunting groans of the fog horns echo
around the mist cloaked cliffs where Glasgow boys
once set up their easels and squeezed red ochre
onto pallettes of roof slate to sing praises to nature
the water boils in the smoke blackened tin can
the mussels open in surrender among the whelks
the tide inches forward grinding empty shells to sand
All birds fly towards the north
When the weather goes to be hot
And fly towards the south
When the cold spreads the wings
And destroys all nests

Except my birds
They fly towards your heart
Asking, screaming and shouting
You are the worst spy
When they meet your birds
They sing a deathless song
Making every poor land converted to be kind
And the loosing mind returning his mind
The old trunk gets strong
Branches covering with colored and smart

The bees put their honey
Making me taste it as your honey
Love, that makes me in happy
All the world gets funny
And the birds dance with harmony
The fishes swim in circles
Making the water spreads atoms
All over the world, that makes the flies tends
Once the left and the right at once

The important my birds get wide
Not distance, but from my sight
And I will whisper at your beauty ear
I hate my birds as they go to yours
That is obvious for all viewers
But I wish to be with them by yours
the love changes every look and make one forgives all worst from his love. if the love governs the world the beauty will spread
annh Apr 15
Wind to the west,
From the east blows cold,
Bringing tales of lost ships,
And sailors of old.

Wind to the east,
From the west blows warm,
Carrying the promise of summer,
And friendships reborn.

From the north and the south,
Opposing forces collide,
Threatening snow in September,
And gales in July.

But here in the centre,
Is where I like best,
Where the air is familiar,
And my heart is at rest.

For here in the centre,
Is where I call home,
Many miles from the places,
Where the winds do roam.
‘A breeze will always blow in the direction it wishes to go,’
Anthony T. Hincks
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