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C Oct 2013
Laying flat on the shadowed ground
Of the meadow that holds my sanity, 
I stare up into the glistening moon
As it glances upon the wet tree tops.

The grass scraping the back of my neck 
Begins to freeze to that of an iceberg 
With the cool crisp wind 
With the shivering leaves.

My mind begins to wonder from my surroundings
To what clenches my heart at night, 
To the devils that tore me down,
To the angels that tried hard to fix me.

My thoughts numb as if from the temperature,
Sending tingles up my spine
And horror into my mind
As all feeling ceases to exist. 

A rapid breath escapes my chapped lips.
A rapid breath like the harsh wind
Now whipping through the lonely willow,
The one weeping loudly by my side.

The sky turns into a black mess,
Flipping from its once clear blue state.
Blinding lines fill the sky,
Imitating the roots of a flower.

But it is not a delicate flower.
It is destruction
As it hits the shaking tree,
Forcing it to crash onto the once sunny meadow.

It hits the dancing grass
With a bang and a thud,
But not before the scream,
My scream, escapes from my throat.

I do not fear for my life here; I fear for the willow.
The willow that is so much like my beaten heart,
The willow that I care about more then the voices 
In the forest behind me that command me to run.

Getting on my knees,
I crawl across the mud
Until I reach the dying willow
That rests surrounded by clanging lights.

Stroking the trunk of the tree, 
I let out a sob that catches in my tight throat.
The willow's brittle bark crumbles as I touch it,
Leaving a brown dust on the tips of my fingers.

With blurred sight, I search the tree.
I search it for any sign of life.
One lone catkin hangs from the side of a branch;
I reach for it with my stained hand.

Delicately, I wind my fingers around the dry flower.
Smiling down at the last thing to bloom from the ****** willow,
I pluck it from the branch and stare at the storm above my head.
I start to wonder what the thundering storm meant.

Tightening my sweaty palm, I crush the catkin.
I crush it with resent and a need for revenge.
Revenge for my ****** willow;
The one that will never return to health.
This is another poem I did for school. I put some heart into this, and it is like a part of myself. Or, my old self. I still mourn for the willow that had died in the storm. I would like to believe that I have changed a lot since then, but I still hold onto the parts of myself that were always important, including the meadow that used to hold my ****** willow.
Dreams of Sepia Jun 2015
a love song
by O. A. Unwin

for Joseph Rembrandt Clarke
poet of the Bronte Country


Immanuel Kant
'' We are rich not in what we possess
but in what we can do without''




I.


Midnight hospital rooms flicked eyelashes
off the slow duel of hours

imagine tall lynch mob grass
or Sing a Song of Sixpence or Bye, Bye Miss American Pie forever

Today I remembered my upbringing
spoke of Turner,Ginsberg,human rights,
painted, swore,tore up a newspaper


the Nurse looked at me and said
' Not doing very well now, are we''
Dear Roman Empire, Tribunals


Otherwise this Southern town's
all hills, steeples, clouds
unsteady heartbeat of sandstone swept sideways


occasional channel fog krimi & arthouse
and lives ending whiskey half way to the sky




Welcome,set down your bags
to you I am a stranger in your land
to me you were a visitor in my town

Recently I have learnt that those who love
live life on the wrong side of the looking glass
and are forever being given speeding tickets


I also wander Redcliffe Wharf these days by the swallows' nests knowing that Angels tread the earth in the form of people like you

I have been there.
I have seen the Light.
I have drained my soul
out in tears Absalom oh Absalom
I have known the Wall
of my prodigal body a Tempest
Angel wings clipped by old ladies
on Old Market bus stops
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night
under the Arsenic Wheel of Stars
I have gambled my future
on the mere shout of your name
I have risked my very life

I should be a woman serene as a fish by now in a pond by a mansion house beneath Redwoods

this is not dignified.


Dearest, did I **** up
may I call you this
or shall we be
empty footsteps
Stasi hallways
a disconnected phone

No. Wait.
I am doing this all wrong

Dearest, gentle zeitgeist poet
of Yorkshire and the North
the way your writing
fleets me of your subtle frame
remembered briefly from one night
the inner fire of your face
and eyes mysterious as pagan gods
or lonely hermit huts and bright
as Northern Seafront lights
blinking renegade the dusk
amid the heady din of amusement arcades
the smog lilt of your lovely voice
now I know these things about you
I am a Matryeshka lost
but at least it's easier to write
of imagined boyish swagger to Elvis
or the way you might also sing jazz
I belt out Duke Ellington in the bathtub
oh lets dance lets dance


Turn, turn
Sunset on Sunset
pages, pages back
I am an August rose
in bloom over you
in Welsh view suburbs
A Brothers' Grimm fairytale
that mother cuts down
and I tie it back onto it's stalk
with a vial of water
as if it's calling to me
to say  'thanks for letting me die here'
red, red, Russian red
that's no way to make your bed
but it reminds me of my Grandmother's garden
so it's also English
and then there's the thought of you
so it must be French red,
the color of love
Existentionalism and Rousseau
Elinor and Marianne
hothouse flowers or wild
I was always the latter
wild, wild
a bold freedom of a child.




in Jane Austen's ' Sense and Sensibility'  the heroines, Elinor and Marianne's contrasting characters
are described by their love of flowers. Marianne prefers wild and this
is a tribute to her free, delicate spirit, the stern Elinor prefers hothouse.








I.I


This is bad.
I'm done dancing.
actually I was recently a mermaid
& my legs still hurt on land
I can't write good poetry about this.
It's too serious.
It's all je ne sais quoi
& unknown potential of star signs
I've read of the way you wrote
of a girl all bells and incense
and think now that oh you are Love, love
love itself-fragile and kind
beneath that manner bold
and cheek as a Sunday brass band bright
' Your name's a bit of a mouthful isn't it'
that's what you said,right?
but you can't fool me,Love
are you the all the vibrant flair of gentleness in my Soul

your trance of attention to detail
the way you've loved places and people
the thought that there is such a man
pierces me like Van Gogh's last hours




dearest, dearest
you're my drug
that's just the way that I am,
or used to be
I'm a Romantic.
Neither capitalist
Nor communist?
Me too.
Soulmate.
Yep..
Drastic.

But that's
all the word that's left.
Now I'm just in trouble
and need wine.

To think I'm usually
quite good at Scrabble.
I don't normally do Kitsch.
I promise.Be Kind.
I must remind myself of this:

Love is a house of cards.
could we just be a plane trail
a radio signal
a satellite
forbidden bliss.




I.I.I


You're right
the Southern middle classes are ****** up.
as for me Dad all kindly alcoholism
and Kolobok* frame died
Step-Dad walked out.
All my umbrellas broke.

I've tried

but it was pointless loving my parents
poetry and paleontology
just can't live together.

*
I should have been an heiress
but my mother
lazily lost the place
and kept me poor & this stings
or did till I grew a backbone.
Our landlord's in New York.
Our house
is surrounded by cypress trees

You only live once.

or so I thought.
but I've lived and lost so many times
that I'm simply glad that I just bought a typewriter
for a quid
and am proud.

* Kolobok - a character from a Russian folk tale, made out of dough.

I.I.I

**** this curiosity.
A question.
Arise, arise Atlantic dreamer.
Why are you you
America, Europe and England
and goodness knows what else



By Descartes's* fire
I beseech you
are you a dream
Am I Ariel,
or else
a marvel comic heroine
pick and choose
toss your dice


Lets face it
we are both gamblers
because we're not afraid to feel
& we are both Kafka
when I read you
I'm the Zen
of my transnational dreams
I can't help this.
Where are the boys I used to kiss in my head.
This is maybe just how the Mad are.
I'm mock bubblegum brains.
You are my roman candle


as I said
I'm not a little Bristolian
& Southerner at heart
so I'm a pirate.
that's that.

I am sewing our flag in neon thread
I am eyeing you up
the way Smugglers eye up cargo
the way Kings draw up maps
the way salt melts in water

& the way books looked and felt
has always been important
so you must know
my mother read me Ruskin as a child.



Tell me, friend
could we be Northern lights
by whom & what was the last film you saw
Woody Allen,
Wim Wenders,Gatsby.
lets make a list
have you seen
'Goodbye, Lenin'
it's hilarious.
tell me of yourself

Berlin, Berlin
einz zwei drei
no, this is not the Polizei

or Blitzkrieg grandmothers
just hide and seek
Do you like gingerbread
Why is my neighbor called  Pete.

* Rene Descartes - 1596-1650, french philosopher
* Ariel - Ariel, a magical spirit from Shakespeare's ' The Tempest'
* Ruskin is one of Rembrandt's favorite authors
* I used to live in Berlin
* One, two, three, no this is not the Police
Please be kind. This is a highly personal poem. There is more to it but it's too long to post in one go. It's the true story of my love for a fellow poet & how I wandered 3 days & nights through the town of Bristol in the rain, without sleep, calling his name & later ended up in hospital against my will for what they called psychosis just because for a while I was scared for my life. A diagnosis I hope to overturn someday. The poem starts off talking about the hospital. At about this point I told Rembrandt of my love & of my tragic experience & he rejected me. This was 2 years ago now & I'm still trying to get over it. I hope to publish this poem someday as testimony to my love for R. & this experience.
Dave Robertson Mar 2022
Bookends with fatty livers and bad backs
squinting at instructions
for another **** fool distraction
and the laughing, thankfully

On the walk, bees, butterflies,
catkin reminders of time and loops
and irregular pooping
as constants

Thankfully, laughing
requires just enough muscles
from those that still work,
but I’ll feel it tomorrow
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
Love is this...
.......
............
,,,,,
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night under a casino wheel of stars
..........or else a Tempest of Soul loud as a fishmonger
...............99p cola bottles & lonesome underdogs
.............that time you laughed on helium
... '**** me' neon signs in the street
...................sweet onion breath delirium
.................Millais's Ophelia all wasted & peeling from suburban billboards.
......................the time Virginia Woolf drowned & all the birds
forgot how to sing in Greek.
..............are we there yet
..............are we feeling the beat, beat, beat
..............of this raindrop
.........................do we need postage stamps.
................................why is your neighbor called Pete.
.........why did you kick a dog, Mamma.
............nothing is that which is understood
............why are you staring at this poem.
CA Guilfoyle Apr 2013
When the earth in Spring
and all the yellows are nearly green
exploding ripe the catkin maple seeds
hung for flitting sparrows

When swift the clouds
dark, with pelting rain
of droplets wet pooling
in the hollows

As the clouds give way to sun
move hurriedly to fill the day with light
there where tiny budding leaves
are greening in the shadows
Hakikur Rahman Aug 2021
Shine..
Shine like the morning sun
Shine like the dazzling meadows
Shine like the autumn catkin
Shine like the spring Delonix regia
Shine like the evening star
Shine like the full moon
Shine…
David Tollick Apr 2011
(for Glynn)*

Singing breeze
Singing breeze
Carrying nothing
Kissed by sunlight
Carry my wishes
Scatter my troubles

Leave the grey highway
Slip through the forest
Birch and pine
Needle and catkin
Shutting the sky out
Speckles of sunlight

Evening sky
How many colours
How many colours
Woodsmoke and silence
Unsleeping river
Silence and river

Wanting to share this
Beautifully lonely
Only I saw it
Only I held it
Stop this stone rolling
Let the moss gather

Living as leaf-fall
Living as boulder
Keener than snowmelt
Fuller than August
Cradle of tree roots
Mantle of mountain

Granite horizon
Breezes will soothe you
Whispering breezes
Will you be listening
Do you hear singing
Do you hear forests
This is primarily a song lyric of mine; the tune has a kind of rythmic, chanting quality. An Laoigh - (Scots Gaelic - the calf of the red-deer) - is a placename from the foothills of the Cairgorm Mountains.
Joe Cole Apr 2015
I rise aloft above the springtime scene
Of ***** grey browns and softest greens
As from the twig new life is born
Of catkin,leaf and newborn fawn
And dotted here and there clusters of white
Mewling lambs born in the night
Busy birds encumbered by grass and twig
Eager to create a place to live
A nest so architecturally built
Lined with down so soft and sweet
And so the golden daffodil
A golden jewel in springtime sun
Her face a picture of delight
From dull green to gold in dark of night
This then is natures way
Gone now winters grey cold
Welcome springs warm days
JP Mantler Jan 2014
When I sing my songs by the willow tree
He'll listen to the words and smile down at me
The willow tree, he loves to groove his dance
As he sings our songs in a loving trance

The dwarf willow joins and sings the song and dance
He's so odd, he never had a chance
Dancing willows groove to my guitar
Dancing willows move as well as the stars

Male catkin grows right by my side
The willows smile, keep the groove on the grass
The pretty earth's sentiment will never die
Observe the natures through our looking glass

We will all come as one and sing the beautiful song
Willow trees and flowers make up my only world
Dancing, singing, jamming makes my mind just twirl
Nature is my nurture, it is where I belong
Hakikur Rahman Feb 2021
The drizzling wind delights the mind
Snow white cloud floats in blue sky.
The white catkin has covered the forest
Looks like another world.

Morning of autumn is very charming
Drives away pains from the heart.
The martins are playing in the field
Rows of boat are tied in the quay.

The boys and girls are going to the school in groups
The shepherd is running towards the field with the wicker hat on his head.
Farmers thrive in the field with all the sickles
The village wife is washing the child, in the pool pond.

Water lily blossoms in big pond
Jasminum flumie, jasminum sambac and mimusops elengi flower fill with sweet aroma.
Can you ever see this sort of scene, elsewhere?
There is no limit of beauty in the beautiful Bengal.
Michael John Aug 2018
i

what are you up to speakman
or what are you speakman
as my teachers might say..
then

the wart on their nose
that will never go away
oh i know you hypocrits
we look the other way..

pacif
agressive
as the happy catkin
sway
the lith blossom
in the breeze..
Alzet Weideman Nov 2017
Full Sun

Into delicate aerated soil
an age-old seed was planted,
an eye destined for greatness.
With the slightest spillage of
amendment an adventitious
spore awoke.

A tuber started to grow;
a thriller spreading into the
beautiful composition of
a bicolourous family.

Pollination is a pest known
to most every gardener,
but propagation shall subside.
Mulch to conserve is a heavy
yolk to bear, but,
with determination,
pistil too shall become weary.

O, Biennial,
how I beg thee for more time.
Clench thy inflorescent fist,
a catkin do not become.
Thou hast spread thou roots
into my being as an epiphyte.
Lo! Single flower, wear thy crown
and top-dress with pride
- thou art everblooming!
A prose about cancer
Sumit Ganguly Jun 2017
cool January
soft sound of chattering teeth
night of painful rest

faint tunes of dew drops
hazy February morn
sun and transport wait

first song of cuckoo
melting snow of mountain tops
a cool transition

bees drone busily
spring festival unites all
colorful April

groan of nor'wester
May carries storm and heat spells
month of thirst and sweat

tunes of first rain drops
sun and cloud play hide and seek
June brings hope of crops

downpour all day long
raindrops play a symphony
July helps sowing

rivers run in spate
August plays cymbals of flood
water everywhere

month of September
spread cough and stomach disease
catkin flowers bloom

crop harvesting songs
October brings festivals
smiling faces roam

yellow barren fields
songs of fishermen
cool November air

month of snow and choir
hail storm plays the Dholak drum
December- year ends  

27th June, 2017.
Nargis Parveen Sep 2023
As autumn begins entrance,
Nature shows its elegance.
Lovely catkin and air,
Make their artistic pair.

Lotus opens her mind,
Can sky remain blind?
Moon the silver fairy,
Looks drunk cheery.

Mountain sends mail,
White clouds sail.
Dewy morning flowers,
Attract beauty viewers.

Delicacy all around,
From sky to the ground.
Colorful leaves fall,
Making allured all.
Imran Islam Oct 2020
In this autumn, to reach your hands
Don't mind me please,
Look at the old catkin fields
They became white flowers,
Then why aren't you with me?

On this dewy morning
I'll take the night-blooming jasmines
just for you my darling,
Ah, don't feel shy to come alone
in my courtyard with your scarf.

The Togor, Beli and Jaba flowers
are like your beautiful ornaments,
and you're the smelled hiptage.
Oh, the lotus dies in shyness
for your happy smile!

Darling, I will give you
the white clouds of autumn
and the blue of the skies.
At the river on this beautiful night
Let the moon smile on your face!

On this autumn evening
I dream of your soft hands
and some lovely moments.
Or let's walk together on the dewy grass
in the early morning.
BE
Togor/Crape jasmine, Beli/Arabian jasmine, Jaba/China-rose
Nargis Parveen Sep 2019
In this lovely charming autumn
I am a light object,
Often vision is blurred without him
Whose presence I can't reject.

I feel intense eagerness
Only to see him,
When he comes in front
Instantly I am dim.

All day long mind's flying
Wearing wind-anklet,
Applying hue from vast sky
Rolling along its blue net.

Nyctanthes asks smiling
What is his name?
Who makes you elegant
From wild to tame?

Catkin also asks drooping
Reason of my gaiety,
My mind attempts to tell
But vanishes like diety.
Nargis Parveen Sep 2019
O soft white catkin flower!
A trap of love in autumn bower.
You make my mind swinging gently,
I feel someone loving me deeply.

This is a paradise holy,
An abode of happiness truly.
I search happiness elsewhere in vain,
So close to me it does remain.

Two eyes are not weeping,
Emeralds of joy are leaping.
In eyes I kept it hidden,
To enlighten the autumn garden.

Happiness spills out around me,
I wish not to catch but to see.
Methinks he is here who boarded last train,
Happiness is lurking at the turn of my pain.

I say happiness to leave me solitary,
It embraces me hard to make me fairy.
O happiness! I never cried for you,
You came willingly to give me autumn hue.
Nargis Parveen Sep 2020
In autumn all rudeness ends,
The blue sky lovingly bends
To the white catkin soft lacy;
What a divine beauty full of delicacy!

Multicolored lilies smile in lake,
Moon takes magical form for autumn's sake.
I hear nature singing lullaby,
Say goodbye to shock and sigh!

O autumn, sweet artistic dear!
You teach meaning of life with tear.
It's morning dew on grass and leaves,
A lesson of briefness that really gives.

Life is short and beautiful must,
So forget past suffering just.
Don't regret for losing something,
Remember for long stays nothing.

— The End —