A fairy
who
only
flew
under
the fall
of night
met her
lover
under
the songs
of stars
in choirs
of light,
they rest
under
the petals
of a white
rose, her
lover asks,
“how can
I find words
to paint
beauty
with my
lips?”
to which
the fairy
says to
him,
“why do
you feel
the will
to open
your
lips?
all that
slumbers
awaken
when
the eyes
alone find
beauty”
they
gaze
upon the
white
lanterns
of the
dark
in a
ripple
of tides
in the
leaves,
the wings
of a bird
drifting
as a
dream in
awakening,
the fairy
rises with
her lover,  
amongst the
moonflowers
and violets
above,
they flew
by lunar
guidance
towards
a field
of indigo
shades,
they descend
and softly
rest upon
the yellow
hearts,
the fairy
turns to
her lover,
and says,
“the
leaves
sing as
our own
tale, in
symphony
with the
delicate
branches
of our veins,
we lie
here and
hear the
music we
once had
sought to
hide, we
wished to
write about
it, rather,
we closed
our eyes,
for the ones,
as us, who
tightly
caged
their  
words are
the ones
with the
deepest
wells of
feeling,
we are
living,
breathing
oceans,
clothed
in skin,
living tiny
moments
of poetry
every
hour,
don’t
you
see
this?”
to which
he says,
“I do,
and here
it comes,
the
golden
light”
it arrives,
in touch
of all that
it sees,
and the
fairy
whispers,
“let us
sleep,
and
return
as specks
of time”
they close
their eyes,
the bird
rests upon
a lone
tree,
the peace
of the
Idyll, in its
picturesque
eternity,
still prevails.

A sultry wind surges o'er the Mediterranean.
Rosy fingered dawn wakes the world,
As I habitually walk the lonely path to labor.

A melancholy song sounds from the barley field.
Hypnotized, I follow through undulating grain,
Which lithely tosses back and forth in dance.

‘Neath a willow, amongst the barley, sits a girl,
Garbed in a white tunic, playing her angelic harp.
Her hazel hair weightlessly sways in the wind.

Her olive toned fingers pluck with mastery.
Nobility marks her solemn dark brows,
That sit atop commanding, umber eyes.

The harp's supple bends are a tribute
To the lady's long limber figure,
As she directs wind and waves by ballad.

She looks up from her earthen dais,
Eyes aglow with a playful, sultry look.
Pierced by her gaze, I awake...

With her, my wife, beside me.

Harvest is over,
Crops are in, and
Falls's first killing frost
Stirs feelings of melancholy
Sustained by winter's cold,
With its bare trees,
Migration, hibernation,
Wisdom of fallow fields and
Mice attempting entry
During long, cold nights.
Yet farmers are never idle,
Caring for their animals,
Cleaning and fixing equipment,
Checking their fences,
Cleaning fields and
Clearing tree lines.

cuando la noche
nos cobija, nos esconde
no importa lo que hagamos,
si al salir el sol callamos
la luna y las estrellas
serán los únicos testigos,
que no quede ni una huella
de lo que hemos compartido

Have you
ever noticed
how beautiful
the clouds are?
they are the
ethereal
breathe of
dreams,
I wish, I was
not the only
one who saw
their once
hidden strokes
revealed only
to the eyes
opening for
the white
ocean,
holding
one sliver
from their
day to see
the beauty
of what they
are a part
of and
becoming
the idyll,
what they
had been
seeking
was found
in one
moment
in time,
reader,
I will tell
you now
how the
clouds
are as
the simplest
touch you
treasure,
the holding
of hands
you wish
to keep
forever,
the first
kiss you
share as
the petals
of roses
caress the
wind of the
moon, and
you will say
to your loved
one, as you
would whisper
to the clouds,
“the existence
of you is my gift”

There is a light that likes to turn on
when I lay my head down for the night,
toss and turn with my dreams now forgone
no matter the yawn, this bulb is bright

not with so much as ideas but, words
and small phrases that I rearrange
that will fly away and cause me nerve
so I spread their wings, pin and arrange

their beauty captured and put in frame
so finally I can hit that switch
and try to win at this sleeping game
I will wake up in a few, poem rich

and so repeats the boundless cycle
capturing metaphor butterflies
in this restlessness bed of idyll
sleep late, wake early, a compromise

He wrote of the light of the world,
a testament, a lamp to illuminate
the place from which he came —

    I saw his lighthouse coalesce
    out of the cloaking mist, its blade
    shearing the sheath of darkness.

    I inhaled the dusk bloom scent
    - Four O’Clock Flower, Poinsettia, Frangipani -
    beguiled by a road, undeterred
    by calls in the night, the rain, the unknown way.

    I sang with one thousand night-drunk tree frogs
    proclaiming an equatorial cycle to the stars,
    choristers intoning a chant of existence.

    I rode balanced between
    the cycling engine's torque and the
    reflective cast of my foreign skin.

    I felt the grip of ignominy constrict the stir
    of my drink, amongst hands toasting
    the crush of entitlement’s bearing.

    I walked where people dwell, and stop
    to greet and tell news of the market
    or of their nets, bearing the sea’s returns.

    I savored the song in his speech,
    a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue
    to ring like the steel of a drum —

a tapestry unfurled: a world
paced by sirens of wind and wave,
embroidered on the earthbound side
of heaven's abiding blanket.

Copyright © 2017 Gary Brocks

Go to the park with me
Lie in the grass on the ground.
Stay out until dark with me
And watch the sun go down.

Before the sun goes away
Let’s watch the clouds above
And look at them to see
Images of things we love.

Let’s be on the lookout for
Rainbows out of nowhere.
Let’s remember to cherish
All the glory that we share.

Go to the park with me
And let’s roll downhill.
Then watch all the birds
And listen for a whippoorwill.

Let’s take advantage of
This beautiful day we see.
Let’s count our blessings;
Let one of them be me.

I hope you feel as grateful to
Have a life of love and beauty.
Let’s look upon enjoying it
As a kind of welcome duty.

Go to the park with me
Like a loving Jack and Jill.
Let’s make our memories here
In this park, on this hill.