"freshens" poems
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
Who put that crease in your soul,
Davies, ready this fine morning
For the staid chapel, where the Book's frown
Sobers the sunlight? Who taught you to pray
And scheme at once, your eyes turning
Skyward, while your swift mind weighs
Your heifer's chances in the next town's
Fair on Thursday? Are your heart's coals
Kindled for God, or is the burning
Of your lean cheeks because you sit
Too near that girl's smouldering gaze?
Tell me, Davies, for the faint breeze
From heaven freshens and I roll in it,
Who taught you your deft poise?
3.3k
Jogging on the spot is healthy,
It not only keeps the body fit,
But also freshens up the mind.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Time does me no favours.
We meet sometimes
Our eyes make no such connection.
Time away from me freshens your face in every instance,
Draw out the premature creases.
The secrets we hold are nothing, now;
Ill-remembered exaggerations that make life now seem that way.
Almost easy.
Our eyes meet sometimes.
Haunted, mud-brown.
If I closed my eyes and challenged you
You would say they were green.
I grasp at the closeness you offer me
Laughing it off as my working through the problems
Using it to demonstrate the changes that haven't occurred.
I met you, once.
I was shorter, smaller, almost bony.
You were chinless, smelled of sweat and anger.
Blue tee, green jacket, mud-eyes, mud-hair, mud-nails.
You said hello.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
...
I say, it's a blending of many colors, pale and bold
not all beginnings are really green and gold
others begin with hazelwood...grayish, almost pale
freshens up, when the winds are in one's sails
things turn green with aspirations...
golden.....when ripe with expectations
going brighter, like red-yellow flames, in a live kiln,
fueled, fiery confidence...burning within.
Middle parts are the most illuminated ones
the brightest hours...of afternoon sun...
could be radiant yellow...perchance, tangerine,
shifting to burnt orange...a bronzed sky...when
perspectives change..and feisty fellows start to mellow
blaring red turns coffee brown...fading colors follow,
we don't want it, but gloom visits ...trailed by fears
all become pale, when days get doused with tears.
Endings are often called, night...or dusk
horizons could be stilled, shaded gray, or black,
darkened even more by impatience and waiting...tedium
dehydrates the body and soul....ending up consumed,
others look up to a starry sky, denim, or indigo blue,
anxious with a coming.....twilight? or gray morning?
that day, when some go to a blood red sea...seething,
where unforgiving, indifferent winds are the ones blowing
where many voices bellow...begging, but in vain.
for some, dark magically turns to a blinding sun,
when it's time for them...to cross over,
the other side beckons...waiting, is finally over.
Sally
Copyright July 9, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
I sit here at my desk
Attempting to compose a poem
So many subjects are going through my mind
The music is my ears
I hear the bass and drums
Friends in my life
I smile at the memories
Math in school
Proofs, postulates, and theorems
The skeleton trees blowing in the wind
Their branches are empty, for it is winter
Voices around me
Both high and deep, soothing and rough
Chills in my body
They go up and down my spine
Gum in my mouth
Sweet mint from Orbit freshens my breath
And I'm thinking of someone in my life
Who is special to me
I smile at the memories
And reminisce on the good times
Is this not a random poem?
I think it is
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
Every time we say goodbye.
by
Jude Kyrie
The ash line lengthens
From my untouched cigarette.
Smoke rings billow
Like clouds passing eternity.
Its past the time of sleep
Only memories flow
Only of you
always you..
The bartender
freshens my drink.
The music weeps from
The sweetness of sound
That only the alto sax
Can bring..
A nelson riddle arrangement
Touches my soul as always.
*When you're near,
there's such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere,
begin to sing about it,
There's no love song finer,
but how strange
the change from
major to minor,
Everytime we say goodbye.*
It's Ellas trademark song
But we borrowed it.
It was ours honey.
Just for a while.
The whisky burns my throat
As the saxaphone wails.
The ashtray smokes
You are behind its mist.
The bar is quiet and peaceful
The drinks dull all pain.
Outside the rain is falling
The neon lights color
the pavement
in muted reflections.
I see us again
through the window.
Arm in arm
walking in the rain.
Then you float away
Like the smoke
in my ashtray.
The sax builds the last line
Ella almost whispers
Everytime we say goodbye
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
That cut grass smell, freshens the morning
reminding me of your visit.
How you rolled in it with my boy
as he shouted "Grass fight!!" and you bellowed the theme from Dambusters,
a tied sheet your makeshift cape
as his laughter sent other birds to flight.
How you told him that you were 5 too.. but descended from giants
his eyes widening at the mystery of you, this woman-child with hair of fire.
You entertained us with ease and drove out sadness with bad knock knock jokes and good candy.
I knew in that moment that life was good.
He knew in that moment that it was ok to just be him..... because you were just you.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Your breath freshens my air
Your image is perfect, if I may declare
How I love your sweet embrace
And to trace the curves around your face
You make my heart flutter like the wings of a humming bird
Your voice is the sweetest thing I've ever heard
Please don't leave or shy away
In this romance we must stay
In unison we fly through endless skies
No worries or cares
Just joyous sighs
A string tugs on my heart and leads to yours
I could gaze in your eyes for hours
You make me happy my sweet perfect love
Truly, you must be from the heavens above
Oh heart, your imagination is vast
Maybe someday love will come at last
Still lonely you stay
A caged bird yearning to get away
To escape the bars of the present
And travel to a future more pleasant
Where love is eternal and true
Where I won't have to watch love from a distant view.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
Oh Blackened night that over throws
the clutched snare of after math
Drawing into its prism of gory shade
the hidden phantom that lingers deep
I've heard it's wail upon empty nights
when silence holds the silent breath
and here within its structure and rudiments
It calls out your name.
But Christ, there is no running
no light to grasp, no breath to capture
for it seizes upon the whelm and invades
forever holding to its ultimate passion
I have always known it, feared its grasp
ran every avenue I thought it's presence was
Till here in the room ,upon my bed it finds me
Alone, as well we both knew it would be.
I cannot fight, for there is no form
I cant escape it, for its wherever I roam
So now before I cry and instantly acknowledge
The reason and purpose for its visit here.
While you all out there sleep in your peace
while dreams of the morrow, freshens your mind
keep in thought always this consistent fellow
That awaits you too, In your silent hour.
The Ghost of an unforgiving Love.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:29 PM UTC
This time there are no rules
For with rules come restraint
And now is not the time
For such things like ink
Require restraint.
Let repetition sing in snare
As sky freshens air
With every new drip
We could all take a tip
But difference is in those
Who listen,
And those who can only hear.
Fortunately the only test for water
Is want or not to drink,
But when it comes to testing ink,
We would have to ask,"What do the others think?"
Configure the pen,
Color it red,
And say it is just for emergencies.
Sell it again and live to do it again
and improve it again and sell it again
and trim corners again and justify again
And.
Sure, I could play that 'gain game...
However I decline. Because this time
There are not any rules
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
The Air moves by with a rush and a sigh
A brisk or a gentle blowing
It travels unfettered, wild and free
Raising restless ripples with its going.
The breeze goes gamboling
Along the mountain trails
It moves the branches of trees about
As it moans and sings and wails.
A cooling north wind scatters clouds
Tosses colorful leaves about
It crisps the days of autumn
And turns hardy people out.
Pitiless winds of winter
Shriek across the frozen land
A time for inner reflection
Turning to others with a gentle hand.
Warming winds awaken the Earth
Sending the cold of winter on its way
It stirs the life in growing things
And freshens a summer day.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
you are the flower in the garden of my soul,
whose scent freshens my mind everytime..
-memoona kazmi
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
I feel that chill on morning and nights air,
Walking the dog with out a care
It freshens me
as I capture air and turn it into breath
Who would think that becoming fall,
Like an answer to the court bailiffs call,
was summers reprieve,
not for dealing, or stealing but loitering,
unless you like that sort of thing.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
She wears the long black dress of desolation
It swirls with heavy motion as she walks
It’s been in her closet many years
And she really never thought she’d need to wear it
When she finally takes it out, it’s dusty on the shoulders
And she freshens it with a dampened cloth
She is surprised that it still fits her
Since she’s grown much bigger over time
Her whole world lays in shattered pieces on the carpet
She needs to gather them into a bag
To put out for the Friday trash-man pickup
But though she looks, she cannot find a broom.
She puts the bigger pieces in a basket
And collects the tiny shards on masking tape
It’s obvious it can’t be reassembled
So tomorrows hopes must stay there on the floor.
She does not choose a souvenir to keep
From the wreckage of her plans and dreams
She’s seen the circus and the rodeo
So why save pieces of the carousel.
She tidies up and shuts the door
To live in other nearby rooms
So she won’t step on memories
Or trample hopes into the rug.
Tomorrow she’ll tie a red sash on her dress
Don hat and gloves and make her way
Across the bridge to meet the road
That leads to new beginnings
And a broom.
ljm
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
Now is but my finest hour,
as flowers spray,
Mine is that of scented roses,
wound round trellis in my garden,
such delight,
My years.
they are just flowers in the sun,
loaded with seeds to multiply,
Mine,
are buddlea blooms on bushes,
bright blue,
enticing butterflies,
or dried lavender,
freshens costumes for work and play,
blouses of pure chiffon,
cotton and silk,
As age passes,
so,
so does my style,
Once was decadent and hectic,
now dressed with serenity,
I'm just,
Just still a hippie at heart.
(C) Livvi
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Flowers are pretty,
But gorgeous too ,
Flowers move in every way,
But which way is my question,
Forward, backwards or sidewards,
The smell of flowers does me a favour,
It freshens my mind making me think I'm saviour,
You see flowers have tricks of their own,
But we just never see.
I see flowers blooming
Red, white or even rainbow,
Hmm to me daffodils are the colour of honey
but then roses show love
But also white just shows the Pureness of a dove
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
The sunlight,
Softly removes the blanket of snow
To awaken earth from winter's sleep.
And the mild breeze
Gently cajoles the cocooned bud
Out of her drowsiness.
Slowly the blossom wakes up,
Stretch towards the unbound sky
And the light drizzle
Freshens her to face the tunes of nature.
A playful butterfly and a bubbly bee
Greets the jubilant flower with great enthusiasm.
In the frame of time and space
Life after life unfolds in spring's loving care!
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
The rain is here, and coming from the sky
Where else would it come from? My oh my
It freshens the air as nothing else can
It's been doing it forever, or since time began
It arrives in a wonder, surrounded by its clouds
A mode of transportation contained only by the shroud
When you think of rains importance, the wonderment is there
Bringing water where it's needed or flooding with no care
We wouldn't be, without it, this is something, oh so true
We have to love or hate it, depending on which view....
Brian Hill - 2019 # 314
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC
*The ash line lengthens
From my untouched cigarette.
Smoke rings billow
Like clouds passing eternity.
Its past the time of sleep
Only memories flow
Only of you
always you..
The bartender
freshens my drink.
The music weeps from
The sweetness of sound
That only the alto sax
Can bring..
A nelson riddle arrangement
Touches my soul as always.*
**When you're near,
there's such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere,
begin to sing about it,
There's no love song finer,
but how strange
the change from
major to minor,
Every time we say goodbye.**
*It's Ellas trademark song
But we borrowed it.
It was ours honey.
Just for a while.
The whisky burns my throat
As the saxophone wails.
The ashtray smokes
You are behind its mist.
The bar is quiet and peaceful
The drinks dull all pain.
Outside the rain is falling
The neon lights color
the pavement
in muted reflections.
I see us again
through the window.
Arm in arm
walking in the rain.
Then you float away
Like the smoke
in my ashtray.
The sax builds the last line
Ella almost whispers*
Every time we say goodbye
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Most Things End in Sorrow
The happiest marriages we’ll ever know
End in death; the unhappy marriages
Decay in cycles of disappointment
And fall apart in court on a working day
A glorious autumn ends in blue-ice winds
A favorite childhood toy is forever lost
An anticipated promotion is denied
And golden youth in hospice slips away
But morning’s cup of courage freshens hope,
And the world is optimistically green
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC