#idyll
Tears of skies felt on my skin
Moisture of lands so within
Notes play as bars begin
Staring at the ceiling, daydreamin’
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 6:41 AM UTC
Metaphor, analogy, parable, et cetera; literary device(s).
Things we can live by,
But not things we live by.
Speaking to the philosophy expressed in it
And of like & such, of like such.
This true is much;
Truth of an expression
Is an as important
As truth in expression.
Then, much the same;
Accuracy of intention
Is as important
As accuracy of interpretation.
Have patience,
Be compassionate!
Be compassionate,
Have patience!
Having honed discipline,
Sharp is focus.
Well-tempered,
With definite resolve.
Having nurtured unfamiliarity,
Stranger is vulnerability.
Well-understood,
With respect of our distinctions.
There is time to be "idle,"
A time like idyll.
In that time together,
Understanding one another is taking out each other's bridle.
It's universal!
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 11:50 PM UTC
interwoven hands,
they walk side by side
along the lane of sand.
beyond the retreating waves,
everything else is hushed;
the sense of isolation, of
being away from the hour’s rush
makes for a breathing space.
“the whole world is waiting for us,” she says.
“let them,” is his response.
“the world belongs to us.”
and it did.
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 11:50 AM UTC
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.
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 2:18 PM UTC
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.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 3:12 PM UTC
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.
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC
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
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 12:56 PM UTC
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”
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
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
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
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
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
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.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
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.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
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.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
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.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC