Good-morrow to the day so fair,
  Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair
  Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too,
  Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
  Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!
  Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
  Which bore my love away.

I’ll seek him in your bonnet brave,
  I’ll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they’ve made his grave
  I’ th’ bed of strawberries.

I’ll seek him there; I know ere this
  The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
  By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
  He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
  And who do rudely move him.

He ’s soft and tender (pray take heed);
  With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home—but ’tis decreed
  That I shall never find him!

The moon tonight
Was like all the others
That had walked beside my thoughts,
A silent witness, to my slow progress
The faithful Argos of the heel
Whose eyes were as keen and waning
As dying dreams.


It reminded me of an unknown many
Whose once distinct luminance
Was now lost beneath lights.
But still displaying a numinous power;
A silent murmur of ageless charm

The moon one night
Which drew galleys through ancient harbours
And whose tips of light bestrew the sea
And lit the narrow alleys of a dust choked city
Where soldiers tumbling from the arms of a *****
Would lie beneath it and remember their mothers

Be there Wrinkles at; Age by Time bestrew
And either Body will soon Decompose
Be that Prudence fit; Permit what you knew
Behind the Proverb to Reap what you Sow
That such Mind be the Player of this Game
As Father his Scythe's Traitor fell Conserve
To Lust for your Past; Then Future's insane
Once the Prince shows Signs of his own Disperse
That the Desert we plant our Mirages at
Then expect Turtle-Doves to Quench and Fly
Till they Return not by our Feeling's Spat
Then beg for the Truth which is all but a Lie.
Come. Prove me Wrong. Once your Stars polish Youth
Revive your Preppie's Face though such Un-Couth.

‬

Thick snow
covered the hill
hand of white
birch he took

Merrily flirted
slender fir
teased playfully
mighty pine

High hill
cowered snow
paths bestrew
of lonley village

Mine handsome prince-
you cut me so deep,
the thorns on your edges sharply carve me,
your touch like petal,
your smile blooms like a rose,
oh how statuesque are you, my love,
so enticing are your looks,
Like a rose-
you bestrew  in each and every corner of my heart,
conquer the vague parts of me,
and dissolve my weakness's making them yours,
how pulchritude are you, my dear,
how striking are you,
as fresh as the fragrance of a new rose,
Your love-
oh how unconditional is it,
it drowns me in it's depth,
like a stem its *****,
stays there till its very best,
without it I may collapse,
but you my love, have always stood by my side.

In April when the first cool days
Foretell of winter’s coming frost
And waning sun’s soft golden rays
Shine weaker now that summer’s lost.

When morning mists in veils of grey
The trees along the river cloak
Until the breezes blow away
The clinging mist like clouds of smoke.

Then under skies of palest blue
In these clear days before the cold
The trees that shed their gowns bestrew
The fading green with flecks of gold.

Oh, those mounds of gold that bestrew my yard
Are piles of crisp oak leaves I raked this fall.
Ere their deep hue of verdurous beauty
Belonged to the summertime, I recall.

When all the migrant flocks return
flapping and cawing,
and the remnants of snow
melt to feed the thirsty earth;
when the rivers trickling in a gentle song,
join in the symphony of spring awakening,
and the puddles of perfume
infuse the air with dewy scent;
when green buds bestrew anew
the barren branches,
how the bitter winter cold
is so quickly forgotten
and forgiven.

Ah... already the summer
approaches closing time,
but yours truly can squeeze
one more rhyme
before September first,
thus the following lines after...

Brainstorming, concentrating
panning... for poem
idea shattered brew
tilly by deafening seasonal
greensward cutting crew
contracted throughout summer to mow
leaves of grass
every Tuesday, which drew
attention toward fragrant aroma
seeping into nostrils
of me - match hew,
heavily negated true

quiescence courtesy ear splitting
soundcloud of driving
mowers even moo
ving bovines would
clap cloven hooves
over soft as lambs wool

sensitive hearing micro corkscrew
innards, viz their *****
shaped audiological
anatomical accouterments -
cow word lee lowing Jew
pitter Io sliver by jove whew
once silence returns
(after cessation rip snorting bedlam)
savoring the hum of nature anew,
and moost likely relish
fresh cut leaves of grass
as I inhale analogous

delectable waft of homebrew
albeit molecules borne aloft
after sharp heavy duty blades
of industrial riding mowers bestrew
higglety pigglety, helter skelter
juicy fruit chlorophyll rich
plants releasing nectar
sweet as honeydew
olfactory imbibing nostalgic view
of yesterday, when agrarian farmsteads
populated landscape picturesquely
anointing, exuding, messaging...

perfuming faint clue
intimating rural lifestyle forebears
hapt tubby privy too,
where deer and antelope played
unaccosted by impending urbanization,
hence such idyllic serene rue
man nation - visage you

would probably concur
as most divine comity
worth more than any buckeroo
could purchase - vestiges vanishing
without a trace adieu
mother nature nowhere found
except caged up within human zoo.

Whom then to love? Whom to have faith in?
Who can there be who won't betray?
Who'll judge a deal or dipustation
Obligingly by what we say?
Who'll not bestrew our path with slander?
Who'll cosset us with care and candour?
Who'll look benignly on our vice?
Who'll never bore us with his sighs?
Oh, ineffectual phantom seeker,
You waste your energy in vain:
Love your own self, be your own man,
My worthy, vulnerable reader!
A worthwhile object: surely who
Could be more loveable than you?