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 May 2017 Golden Scarf
Rainnymph
At the inn
Really needed salvation
She cried out loud
Loosing her voice
There was nobody to hear her
And anyway
The violent rain outside
Would have made it impossible
For the sound to break through
Even the odd monk
She met today
Blessing her with the holy oil
Promissing to meet in heaven
Cannot save her from herself
Here, in the middle of nowhere
She says 'welcome'
To her dear demons and fears
And prepares for the fight
 May 2017 Golden Scarf
Rainnymph
Roll down my cheeks
Tiny fairies living inside
Caress my face
Singing a lullaby
#sadness
In the present...
there is no fear.
there is no sorrow.
there is no regret.
there is no loss.
There
is
no
lack.
For in the present...
is where
GOD IS.
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.
I did not die.
The 1st poem that Mary Frye wrote, in 1932, for a friend who had lamented that she couldn't even weep at her mother's grave, a mother who died in a concentration camp then.  Check youtube for a flawless rendition of this by a choir boy and many others, too.
English seems not his native language
Destroying grammar and meaning
His ear to steve bannnon’s right-leaning
Propaganda’s ignorance offends

Denying evidence and logic
Tweets, “These leakers are disgusting!”
Dodging questions is your main project
“Is Truth already dead?” Time portends

The Beast In the Face of Evil says
Protestors get paid to protest
But the POTUS is wearing no clothes
Like a Preschool Playhouse Let’s pretend

“I’m President”, (straight from Chevy Chase),
“and you’re NOT you know."
Trying the Bref Double poetic form, using what's on my mind; it's 4 stanzas, #3 quatrains and 1 couplet, the C rhyme is the last line of each quatrain, and line length should be consistent for each poem.
It’s not that big a surprise
How much I adore Amsterdam
Like immigrants long ago
So welcomed here just as I am
In the historic Lloyd Hotel
To witness a wedding so swell
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam

Canals and bikes aplenty
Whizzing past on every street
The Keukenhof gardens amazed
VanGogh’s Museum made me weep
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam

We walked for miles & took the train
Our flight home I made not a peep
It must have been that Space Cake
We ate it and went right to sleep
A fond farewell to Amsterdam
Just returned on a 10-hour flight from Amsterdam to Miami, after witnessing a magical wedding of my niece Karen & Fabian, her now Dutch husband, who shared their vows on a boat ride to the Skinny Bridge where they kissed to seal their love. The' Space Cake' made the plane ride back less painful!
Sitting in a restaurant
Over a cup of coffee
And silently having our dinner
With hardly anything exciting
Either to brag or blather
My eyes got hooked
On the occupants of the table, next

Two kids, seated on small chairs
A boy and a girl, obviously a pair of twins
Adorably cute, their father, so young
Who having placed the order
Were in wait for their turn

Carrying a tray, as the waiter arrived
With something of the plainest kind,
Small cartons of French fries,
Bottles of sauce and plain ice cream
The little faces gleamed in excitement
Their beaded eyes riveted,
And their heads bobbed in happy approval

As their Dad opened the carton
And placed before them
French fries sprinkled with some sauce
The children, sprang to their feet
With an upsurge of delight,
Jumping up and down,
Clapping their hands and shouting!

At a small distance, sat we
‘Solemnly’ consuming our meal
With nothing to titillate our palette
Or excite our toned nerves

I thought;
How, in course of time,
Everything becomes a routine ritual
And what stark difference
Between our subdued composure
And the overwhelming excitement of kids!
They haven’t learned yet
That such open expression of emotions,
Is not in keeping with accepted norms

To what peaks of joy, they get catapulted
With mere trifles and silly baubles
While we remain ever at the bottom
Unable to be lifted up

Is this what we call aging?

Or is it

The death of spring
The summer’s dirge
Autumn’s mellowing
Or the chill wave of winter’s blast??
I don't know if it is a poem or a simple narration! But this can be read like a story. Life presents so many such interesting scenes if we are watchful ! Observing children's artless behavior is always a pleasure!
 May 2017 Golden Scarf
Star BG
I am an artist
painting ones eyes with colorful jargon.
Red for passion that strikes a memory.
Green for the abundance of words that allows reader to think.
Blue for open sky that leaves room to drift in visions.
Purple my favorite to tweak the imagination
with peaceful vibrations.
Orange for the juice that flows inside a poem.
giving place to roam.
Pink like cotton candy that tickles the taste buds
for expansion of heart.
Black for words that tempt one to look within
and face the dark for cleansing.

Playground of colors flow for a writer artist to color with
as the reader sits to enjoy, ponder, and celebrate in their own space.

StarBG © 2017
inspired by Yasaman
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