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Mark Toney Nov 2019
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.
11/20/2019 - Poetry form: Idyll - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
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
breathe of
I wish, I was
not the only
one who saw
their once
hidden strokes
revealed only
to the eyes
opening for
the white
one sliver
from their
day to see
the beauty
of what they
are a part
of and
the idyll,
what they
had been
was found
in one
in time,
I will tell
you now
how the
are as
the simplest
touch you
the holding
of hands
you wish
to keep
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”
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
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
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
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 tasted the song in his speech,
    a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue,
    to ring like the steel in 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
Brent Kincaid Apr 2018
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.
I ran the risk of this seeming to be only for city folk, but I know from small town life, we had parks there too. So, enjoy!
The Wordsmith Jul 2015
He was born with a builder's hands,
But has a poet's heart,
In reality he is a slave,
But in his mind he is free,
The shackles, they bind him to these lands,
They exist, but they are not for us to see,
For they are mental constraints, and they cannot be shaken loose.
But there is freedom in all things, even in slavery,
We cannot see this though. He can.
He's different from us. Where we see endings and walls, he sees milestones,
Who is this man, who will wait for the night, till the cold claims his bones?
Who is this man, who prefers the night to the day for it bears the audience of the stars?
Who is this man, who knows not the art of speech, but makes men cry with his words?
Who is this man, who gazes upon a girl and sees not a girl, but a universe and perfection?
Who is this smith who craft's blades strong but forges hearts adamantine?
He is a wordsmith.
Maggie Emmett Nov 2014
There walks no Daphnis with his mournful song
Blinded by the vengeful nymph, whose love was unrequited
He does not wander in the hills above this place
Playing his pipe and singing of his sadness
Aphrodite can punish him no more
For he is gone to the quiet land of shadows
Taken by Hermes, herald and messenger
Of the mightiest of gods, to cross the river Styx
His soul guided by his father’s loving hand,
to Hades and the final still of time and season.

In the quartz sculpted gorge, beneath the waterfall
Naiads lithe and languorous once bathed
Alabaster skinned, in the crystal brook
Auburn ringlet tresses were shaken free
When they stepped among the mossy rocks and ferns
Their peachy cheeks flushed vital rose
Their strawberry ******* raised and glistening
Their teasing laughter that once echoed in these dales
Through verdant pastures and the bluebelled wood
Is heard no more, for they have passed into memory.

It is silent now, the Jackals are not howling
The threat of Wolves and Lions gone
This pastoral world of goatherds pining
Is but a world of dust and dreams.
This poem was written for an Idyll section competition. It was first published in Yellow Moon Issue 17, Winter 2005; p.39.
It uses all the traditional Greek images with a little twist or two.
Gaby Lemin May 2014
The  eerie warmth that comes with the calm before.
The unnerving shade of black that only clouds can claim.
The heat that rises from tarmac on empty, open roads.
The scent of petrichor from the passing of earlier rain.
The first rumble starts somewhere unknown and distant.
The suggestion, an omen, of the beginning of an end.
The first drop of rainfall from another night of storms.
The thunder waking creatures from their beds.
The sounds increase slowly as time crawls and passes.
The night is young and roars keep rolling in.
The dark, as such, so early in the evening.
The set of warm goosebumps rising over skin.
The colour of the sunset behind their eyelids.
The blood of Gods is soaking up their breaths.
The momentary post apocalyptic sense of living.
The moody skies catalyse thoughts of untimely deaths.  
The passing of the clouds seems dangerously fast.
The growls now thick and boisterous, vehement and clear .
The dust that whips past legs and arms and faces.
The shelter is no barrier for the splitting of an ear.
The tranquillity of standing up in air now still.
The peace of opportunity to look over horizons.
The aftermath of rain and wind and thunder.
The silence of one mind becoming enlightened.
I like thunder storms.

— The End —