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Make my life a hollow reed
That will bend now in stormy breeze
For in numbers I find my strength
Beneath the willow tree

Make my life like the rock
Piled high upon , top to top
A stonewall that runs for miles
Around my lands it stands

Make my life short and sweet
Give me peace not dire defeat
Give me love and woman's sigh
Amidst the clovered fields

Make my life a Godly song
One that knows right from wrong
With wisdon as old as stars
I'll dance inside the fire

Make my life to unfold
I am tired , my shoes have holes
My dreams are seeds cast to the wind
And just the husk remains

Make my life now come to end
It's my time to propend
I'll walk among the ghost's remains
And willingly I quote

Hollow reeds will bend not break
Holow reeds will not forsake
Of hollow reeds my death bed make
And lie amongst the stars
Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly,

Hovering above the clovered knoll,

Swaying like wheat in speckled sun.

Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream,

The bleating goats exchange existential crises,

Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset.

Behind me,

In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts,

Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak

Rekindle and animate in the orange beams.

I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter.

A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain.

Somebody loves me.
Imitation of “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” by James Wright
Ma Cherie Jun 2016
7 o'clock
a light summertime dream
just before dark
unfolding it's scheme

painted in sandals
clovered kissed toes
lovely green shamrocks
are standing in prose

a fierce looking cat
Amber eyes
silver fur
bunting her leg
and giving a purrrr

getting back home
nearly hour gone by
look to the tree
playing ball in the sky

it looks like the moon
nearly 3 quarter size
outlined in countries
is neatly disguised

it's actually a ball
playing with leaves
That thing called the moon
has some tricks up its sleeves

she saw it glide down
and bounce off of a cloud
tipping it's hat
and bowing to town

See you tomorrow
her group of new friends
this just the beginning
we're far from the end

No need for luck
with her beau in the sky
a 3 quartered boy
with love in his eyes

she bows to the moon
as her Gypsy skirt flows
silver cat walking
wherever she goes
shamrock tipped pom poms
will twinkle her toes

Another summer time walk
with his dearest of Maidens
her toes and her eyes
are moon dipped and ladden

Goodnight Moon.

Cherie Nolan© 2016
Went for a walk this is what I saw.
At one time, I had a secret place.
Full of mystery, of light, of grace,
An architecture of stone, wrapped
In silken vines and flowers

Clovered rock and broken pew
Abandoned but innocent, anew
It bloomed from the destruction
It had been carved from, to peace

To serenity, a dark past forgotten,
A new hope in silence, begotten
Yes, peace, serenity, new life,
Of these traits it sparkled through streaming sunlight

Last time I was there however,
I thought it to be the last, forever.
The rain had pounded relentless
And when I went to take shelter there

I found no soothing safety.
No evidence of serenity.
The clear beige stone painted then
With the blood of fifty bullets.

I dropped to my knees,
A new pain unleashed
A dark past repeated, the devastation,
Of what had once been good there.

Broken stone that had held
Warmth, life and strength; melds
Into cold, hard stone
Hewn from pillars with the bodies broken against it

War happened there, brutal and complete
And I crumbled with the walls, as sleet
Plundered down through the halls
And upon my shoulders, pinning me there

This place, my best friend, my escape
Had turned into a place of pain, even hate
Of self torture, of visions of blood
To relive the beheading of all that was good.

I ran from that place, I tried to never look back.
I let the home fade with the light- to black.
I made a new place, small, quiet and safe
Hidden from the world, forsaking my place.

Today, while staying in that hiding hole,
One day of now months, alone, but whole,
Used to this new refuge, safety in solitude
Secured in darkness no one can find

I heard the smallest of whispers, a flute
On the wind, familiar, but frightening,
Coming from within, a place I knew silenced
By gunfire and rain, I stood from my shelter, and I walked again

I left the dark safety, as if caught in a trance
Feet following a path, I once had tread with dance
That way was becoming overgrown, from so long unused
But I knew the way, naturally following the muse

Every step forward, quickened my breath
Do I dare go back and look, at the life turned to death?
Would it hurt all over again? It was cold when I left…
But that sound if coming from somewhere… if I just look-

Look! There… beyond the last turn
A glance of sunlight on stone wall, and my heart starts to yearn
My pace rushes with my pulse, to see the place still standing
In my thoughts, since leaving, I'd only dreamt of it crumbling

Through the forest, and onto the stone,
My best friend is wounded but… no longer alone.
The pain is still here, and I still want to cry
The blood stains are browning, fading since 'goodbye'

But I still see them, I remember the first
I remember seeing the blooms when they'd been dying of thirst
Bullet shells and broken chairs still litter the floor
Glinting in the sunlight, revealing even more

Pain, yes, but as I cross to the middle, a change
Something different, something new, something little.
The center of the courtyard, broken cobblestone had been torn
From the fighting, the battle, the tantrums, the storm

It had ripped away the stone and structure, busted it to bits
But here, in the middle, where it was laid bare… it's..
Growing. Something new, something persistent, green life
In the middle of what was born out of only weapons, lightning strike

Again, brought to my knees, I kneel at its side
I see the highlight of light, along the edges of leaves, and inside
Young still, fragile, but full of promise
Full of hope, and home, and a reminder of what was lost.

These same vines once curved around columns,
And as the glow of life returns to my eyes, I see, here they still do
Here it is growing in the new places
To mend, and stitch the new holes, and to close the old wounds.

Maybe this place… it can't be what it was.
You can't reforge stone, or simply paint over blood
But nature has a way, of doing its part
It will take what's left of this core, what was torn apart

And make a new place, with the same memories as the old
The same whispers of peace and serenity retold.
No it won't look the same, but if this continues to grow
A structure will turn into a Garden of Eden… and a new home.

With green glow back in my eyes, and strength back in my heart
I stand again, and I will do my own part
I will rebuild what I can, and create new for the rest,
And make it even better than it was before the test.

No matter how many gunmen, come knocking on the door
I will stand between them, and the place I adore
There is too much beauty still, and I will forsake us both never
This is my home. And I will protect it forever.
PK Wakefield Jan 2012
(spring come

                       )come spring

                                    spring come wetly
                                        out the freezing serious
                                          hair o' winter come
                                            spring
         ­                                 thy greenest countenance
                                           come lathered
                                         (Spring in
                                         thy poppy and
                                           thy clovered
                                        divine thighs)
                                         O spring i,
                                       in thy many
                                        splendored love, in
                                                              ­            thy loose and carefree
                                                        ­                  shapely plush pocket
                                                          ­               ,will lay in heaped
                                                          ­              crushing wafts of
                                                              ­        june bugs and
                                                             apples and gods
                                                       (the wilting rind
                                                   of day will kiss
                                                     plummeting eve
                                                         upon the tousled
                                                         ­     breach of sky andEarth
                                                        ­     will sorely muster
                                                          ­  russet flecked charming
                                                        ­   slatterned trees about
                                                          m­y careful self
                                                            ­ )and your *****
                                                           ­     pleasant smell
                                                           ­    willto meander
                                                         ­    in the failing
                                                         ­  hues of
                                                              ­unsnowed languid
                                                         ­  hillocks
                                                        ­be most a riotous
                                                         ­ silent crudeness
                                                      a­nd i will love you most
                                                       roughly Spring
                                                         i'll tear away the careful
                                                     pretty clothing
                                                  flower­s and with
                                               your crudlovely
                                                  nake­d salt
                                                     i will
                                                               play,
                                                           ­        .
                                                               ­        '
                                                               ­     .
                                                          ­    ,

                                                          ­        '
                                                       ­   ,


                                              ,


        ­                                           .
PK Wakefield Sep 2016
(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .


the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
        /
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which


you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;

— The End —