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A Robin said: The Spring will never come,
  And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
  My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
  Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.--
When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
  And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
  Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
  Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
  Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.
Piper Diggory May 2018
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.

I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.
one I wrote in Cambridge
Nigel Morgan Mar 2013
January Colours

In the winter garden
of the Villa del Parma
by the artist’s studio
green
grass turns vert de terre
and the stone walls
a wet mouse’s back
grounding neutral – but calm,
soothing like calamine
in today’s mizzle,
a permanent dimpsey,
fine drenching drizzle,
almost invisible, yet
saturating skylights
with evidence of rain.

February Colours

In the kitchen’s borrowed light,
dear Grace makes bread  
on the mahogany table,
her palma gray dress
bringing the outside in.

Whilst next door, inside
Vanessa’s garden room
the French windows
firmly shut out this
season’s bitter weather.

There, in the stone jar
beside her desk,
branches of heather;
Erica for winter’s retreat,
Calluna for spring’s expectation.

Tea awaits in Duncan’s domain.
Set amongst the books and murals,
Spode’s best bone china  
turning a porcelain pink
as the hearth’s fire burns bright..

Today
in this house
a very Bloomsbury tone,
a truly Charleston Gray.

March Colours

Not quite daffodil
Not yet spring
Lancaster Yellow
Was Nancy’s shade

For the drawing room
Walls of Kelmarsh Hall
And its high plastered ceiling
Of blue ground blue.

Playing cat’s paw
Like the monkey she was
Two drab husbands paid
For the gardens she made,
For haphazard luxuriance.

Society decorator, partner
In paper and paint,
She’d walk the grounds
Of her Palladian gem
Conjuring for the catalogue
Such ingenious labels:

Brassica and Cooking Apple
Green
to be seen
In gardens and orchards
Grown to be greens.

April Colours

It would be churlish
to expect, a folly to believe,
that green leaves would  
cover the trees just yet.

But blossom will:
clusters of flowers,
Damson white,
Cherry red,
Middleton pink,

And at the fields’ edge
Primroses dayroom yellow,
a convalescent colour
healing the hedgerows
of winter’s afflictions.

Clouds storm Salisbury Plain,
and as a skimming stone
on water, touch, rise, touch
and fall behind horizon’s rim.
Where it goes - no one knows.

Far (far) from the Madding Crowd
Hardy’s concordant cove at Lulworth
blue
by the cold sea, clear in the crystal air,
still taut with spring.

May Colours

A spring day
In Suffield Green,
The sky is cook’s blue,
The clouds pointing white.

In this village near Norwich
Lives Marcel Manouna
Thawbed and babouched
With lemurs and llamas,
Leopards and duck,
And more . . .

This small menagerie
Is Marcel’s only luxury
A curious curiosity
In a Norfolk village
Near to Norwich.

So, on this
Blossoming
Spring day
Marcel’s blue grey
Parrot James
Perched on a gate
Squawks the refrain

Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

June

Thrownware
earth red
thrown off the ****
the Japanese way.
Inside hand does the work,
keeps it alive.
Outside hand holds the clay
and critically tweaks.
Touch, press, hold, release
Scooting, patting, spin!
Centering: the act
precedes all others
on the potter’s wheel.
Centering: the day
the sun climbs highest
in our hemisphere.
And then affix the glaze
in colours of summer:
Stone blue
Cabbage white
Print-room yellow
Saxon green
Rectory red

And fire!

July Colours

I see you
by the dix blue
asters in the Grey Walk
via the Pear Pond,
a circuit of surprises
past the Witches House,
the Radicchio View,
to the beautifully manicured
Orangery lawns, then the
East and West Rills of
Gertrude’s Great Plat.

And under that pea green hat
you wear, my mistress dear,
though your face may be April
there’s July in your eyes of such grace.

I see you wander at will
down the cinder rose path
‘neath the drawing-room blue sky.

August Colours

Out on the wet sand
Mark and Sarah
take their morning stroll.
He, barefoot in a blazer,
She, linen-light in a wide-brimmed straw,
Together they survey
their (very) elegant home,
Colonial British,
Classic traditional,
a retreat in Olive County, Florida:
white sandy beaches,
playful porpoises,
gentle manatees.

It’s an everfine August day
humid and hot
in the hurricane season.
But later they’ll picnic on
Brinjal Baigan Bharta
in the Chinese Blue sea-view
dining room fashioned
by doyen designer
Leta Austin Foster
who ‘loves to bring the ocean inside.
I adore the colour blue,’ she says,
‘though gray is my favourite.’

September

A perfect day
at the Castle of Mey
beckons.
Watching the rising sun
disperse the morning mists,
the Duchess sits
by the window
in the Breakfast Room.
Green
leaves have yet to give way
to autumn colours but the air
is seasonably cool, September fresh.

William is fishing the Warriner’s Pool,
curling casts with a Highlander fly.
She waits; dressed in Power Blue
silk, Citron tights,
a shawl of India Yellow
draped over her shoulders.
But there he is, crossing the home beat,
Lucy, her pale hound at his heels,
a dead salmon in his bag.

October Colours

At Berrington
blue
, clear skies,
chill mornings
before the first frosts
and the apples ripe for picking
(place a cupped hand under the fruit
and gently ‘clunch’).

Henry Holland’s hall -
just ‘the perfect place to live’.
From the Picture Gallery
red
olent in portraits
and naval scenes,
the view looks beyond
Capability’s parkland
to Brecon’s Beacons.

At the fourteen-acre pool
trees, cane and reed
mirror in the still water
where Common Kingfishers,
blue green with fowler pink feet
vie with Grey Herons,
funereal grey,
to ruffle this autumn scene.

November Colours

In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.

The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.

Yet a few remain
bold coloured

Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow


hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.

Then fall
Then fall

December Colours*

Green smoke* from damp leaves
float from gardens’ bonfires,
rise in the silver Blackened sky.

Close by the tall railings,
fast to lichened walls
we walk cold winter streets

to the warm world of home, where
shadows thrown by the parlour fire
dance on the wainscot, flicker from the hearth.

Hanging from our welcome door
see how incarnadine the berries are
on this hollyed wreath of polished leaves.
Nigel Morgan May 2015
In a distant land, far beyond the time we know now, there lived an ancient people who knew in their bones of a past outside memory. Things happened over and over; as day became night night became day, spring followed winter, summer followed spring, autumn followed summer and then, and then as autumn came, at least the well-known ordered days passed full of preparation for the transhumance, that great movement of flocks and herds from the summer mountains to the winter pastures. But in the great oak woods of this region the leaves seemed reluctant to fall. Even after the first frosts when the trees glimmered with rime as the sun rose. Even when winter’s cousin, the great wind from the west, ravaged the conical roofs of the shepherds’ huts. The leaves did not fall.

For Lucila, searching for leaves as she climbed each day higher and higher through the parched undergrowth under the most ancient oaks, there were only acorns, slews of acorns at her feet. There were no leaves, or rather no leaves that might be gathered as newly fallen. Only the faint husks of leaves of the previous autumn, leaves of provenance already gathered before she left the mountains last year for the winter plains, leaves she had placed into her deep sleeves, into her voluminous apron, into the large pockets of her vlaterz, the ornate felt jacket of the married woman.

Since her childhood she had picked and pocketed these oaken leaves, felt their thin, veined, patterned forms, felt, followed, caressed them between her finger tips. It was as though her pockets were full of the hands of children, seven-fingered hands, stroking her fingers with their pointed tips when her fingers were pocketed.

She would find private places to lay out her gathered leaves. She wanted none to know or touch or speak of these her children of the oak forest. She had waited all summer, as she had done since a child, watching them bud and grow on the branch, and then, with the frosts and winds of autumn, fall, fall, fall to the ground, but best of all fall into her small hands, every leaf there to be caught, fallen into the bowl of her cupped hands. And for every leaf caught, a wish.

Her autumn days became full of wishes. She would lie awake on her straw mattress after Mikas had risen for the night milking, that time when the rustling bells of the goats had no accompaniment from the birds. She would assemble her lists of wishes, wishes ready for leaves not yet fallen into the bowl of her cupped hands. May the toes of my baby be perfectly formed? May his hair fall straight without a single curl? May I know only the pain I can bear when he comes? May the mother of Mikas love this child?

As the fine autumn days moved towards the feast day of St Anolysius, the traditional day of departure of the winter transhumance, there was, this season, an unspoken tension present in the still, dry air. Already preparations were being made for the long journey to the winter plains. There was soon to be a wedding now three days away, of the Phatos boy to the Tamosel girl. The boy was from an adjoining summer pasture and had travelled during the summer months with an itinerant uncle, a pedlar of sorts and beggar of repute. So he had seen something of the world beyond those of the herds and flocks can expect to see. He was rightly-made and fit to marry, although, of course, the girl was to be well-kept secret until the day itself.

Lucila remembered those wedding days, her wedding days, those anxious days of waiting when encased in her finery, in her seemingly impenetrable and voluminous wedding clothes she had remained all but hidden from view. While around her the revelling came and went, the drunkenness, the feasting, the riotous eruptions of noise and movement, the sudden visitations of relatives she did not know, the fierce instructions of women who spoke to her now as a woman no longer a young girl or a dear child, women she knew as silent, shy and respectful who were now loud and lewd, who told her things she could hardly believe, what a man might do, what a man might be, what a woman had to suffer - all these things happening at the same time. And then her soon-to-be husband’s drunk-beyond-reason friends had carried off the basket with her trousseau and dressed themselves riotously in her finest embroidered blouses, her intricate layered skirts, her petticoats, even the nightdress deemed the one to be worn when eventually, after three days revelry, she would be visited by a man, now more goat than man, sodden with drink, insensible to what little she understood as human passion beyond the coupling of goats. Of course Semisar had prepared the bright blood for the bridesbed sheet, the necessary evidence, and as Mikas lay sprawled unconscious at the foot of the marriage bed she had allowed herself to be dishevelled, to feign the aftermath of the act he was supposed to have committed upon her. That would, she knew, come later . . .

It was then, in those terrible days and after, she took comfort from her silent, private stitching into leaves, the darning of acorns, the spinning of skeins of goats’ wool she would walnut-dye and weave around stones and pieces of glass. She would bring together leaves bound into tiny books, volumes containing for her a language of leaves, the signs and symbols of nature she had named, that only she knew. She could not read the words of the priest’s book but was fluent in the script of veins and ribs and patterning that every leaf owned. When autumn came she could hardly move a step for picking up a fallen leaf, reading its story, learning of its history. But this autumn now, at the time of leaf fall, the fall of the leaf did not happen and those leaves of last year at her feet were ready to disintegrate at her touch. She was filled with dread. She knew she could not leave the mountains without a collection of leaves to stitch and weave through the shorter days and long, long winter nights. She had imagined sharing with her infant child this language she had learnt, had stitched into her daily life.

It was Semisar of course, who voiced it first. Semisar, the self-appointed weather ears and horizon eyes of the community, who followed her into the woods, who had forced Lucila against a tree holding one broad arm and her body’s weight like a bar from which Lucila could not escape, and with the other arm and hand rifled the broad pockets of Lucila’s apron. Semisar tossed the delicate chicken bone needles to the ground, unravelled the bobbins of walnut-stained yarn, crumpled the delicately folded and stitched, but yet to be finished, constructions of leaves . . . And spewed forth a torrent of terrible words. Already the men knew that the lack of leaf fall was peculiar only to the woods above and around their village. Over the other side of the mountain Telgatho had said this was not so. Was Lucila a Magnelz? Perhaps a Cutvlael? This baby she carried, a girl of course, was already making evil. Semisar placed her hand over and around the ripe hard form of the unborn child, feeling for its shape, its elbows and knees, the spine. And from there, with a vicelike grip on the wrist, Semisar dragged Lucila up and far into the woods to where the mountain with its caves and rocks touched the last trees, and from there to the cave where she seemed to know Lucila’s treasures lay, her treasures from childhood. Semisar would destroy everything, then the leaves would surely fall.

When Lucila did not return to prepare the evening meal Mikas was to learn all. Should he leave her be? He had been told women had these times of strange behaviour before childbirth. The wedding of the Phatos boy was almost upon them and the young men were already behaving like goats before the rut. The festive candles and tinselled wedding crowns had been fetched from the nearest town two days ride distant, the decoration of the tiny mountain basilica and the accommodation for the priest was in hand. The women were busy with the making of sweets and treats to be thrown at the wedding pair by guests and well-wishers. Later, the same women would prepare the dough for the millstones of bread that would be baked in the stone ovens. The men had already chosen the finest lambs to spit-roast for the feast.

She will return, Semisar had said after waiting by the fold where Mikas flocks, now gathered from the heights, awaited their journey south. All will be well, Mikas, never fear. The infant, a girl, may not last its birth, Semisar warned, but seeing the shocked face of Mikas, explained a still-birth might be providential for all. Know this time will pass, she said, and you can still be blessed with many sons. We are forever in the hands of the spirit, she said, leaving without the customary salutation of farewell.
                                               
However different the lives of man and woman may by tradition and circumstance become, those who share the ways and rites of marriage are inextricably linked by fate’s own hand and purpose. Mikas has come to know his once-bride, the child become woman in his clumsy embrace, the girl of perhaps fifteen summers fulfilling now his mother’s previous role, who speaks little but watches and listens, is unfailingly attentive to his needs and demands, and who now carries his child ( it can only be a boy), carries this boy high in her womb and with a confidence his family has already remarked upon.

After their wedding he had often returned home to Lucila at the time of the sun’s zenith when it is customary for the village women to seek the shade of their huts and sleep. It was an unwritten rite due to a newly-wed husband to feign the sudden need for a forgotten tool or seek to examine a sick animal in the home fold. After several fruitless visits when he found their hut empty he timed his visit earlier to see her black-scarfed figure disappear into the oak woods.  He followed her secretively, and had observed her seated beneath an ancient warrior of a tree, had watched over her intricate making. Furthermore and later he came to know where she hid the results of this often fevered stitching of things from nature’s store and stash, though an supernatural fear forbade him to enter the cleft between rocks into which she would disappear. He began to know how times and turns of the days affected her actions, but had left her be. She would usually return bright-eyed and with a quiet wonder, of what he did not know, but she carried something back within her that gave her a peculiar peace and beauty. It seemed akin to the well-being Mikas knew from handling a fine ewe from his flock . . .

And she would sometimes allow herself to be handled thus. She let him place his hands over her in that joyful ownership and command of a man whose life is wholly bound up with flocks and herds and the well-being of the female species. He would come from the evening watch with the ever-constant count of his flock still on his lips, and by a mixture of accident and stealth touch her wholly-clothed body, sometimes needing his fingers into the thick wool of her stockings, stroking the chestnut silken hairs that he found above her bare wrists, marvelling at her small hands with their perfect nails. He knew from the ribaldry of men that women were trained from childhood to display to men as little as possible of their intimate selves. But alone and apart all day on a remote hillside, alone save for several hundred sheep, brought to Mikas in his solitary state wild and conjured thoughts of feminine spirits, unencumbered by clothes, brighter and more various than any night-time dream. And he had succumbed to the pleasure of such thoughts times beyond reason, finding himself imagining Lucila as he knew she was unlikely ever to allow herself to be. But even in the single winter and summer of their life together there had been moments of surprise and revelation, and accompanied by these precious thoughts he went in search of her in the darkness of a three-quarter moon, into the stillness of the night-time wood.

Ah Lucilla. We might think that after the scourge of Semisar, the physical outrage of her baby’s forced examination, and finally the destruction of her treasures, this child-wife herself with child would be desolate with grief at what had come about. She had not been forced to follow Semisar into the small cave where wrapped in woven blankets her treasures lay between the thinnest sheets of impure and rejected parchment gleaned surreptitiously after shearing, but holding each and every treasure distinct and detached. There was enough light for Semisar to pause in wonder at the intricate constructions, bright with the aura of extreme fragility owned by many of the smaller makings. And not just the leaves of the oak were here, but of the mastic, the walnut, the flaky-barked strawberry and its smoothed barked cousin. There were leaves and sheaves of bark from lowland trees of the winter sojourn, there were dried fruits mysteriously arranged, constructions of acorns threaded with the dark madder-red yarn, even acorns cracked and damaged from their tree fall had been ‘mended’ with thread.

Semisar was to open some of the tiny books of leaved pages where she witnessed a form of writing she did not recognise (she could not read but had seen the priest’s writing and the print of the holy books). This she wondered at, as surely Lucila had only the education of the home? Such symbols must belong to the spirit world. Another sign that Lucila had infringed order and disturbed custom. It would take but a matter of minutes to turn such makings into little more than a layer of dust on the floor.

With her bare hands Semisar ground together these elaborate confections, these lovingly-made conjunctions of needle’s art with nature’s purpose and accidental beauty. She ground them together until they were dust.

When Semisar returned into the pale afternoon light it seemed Lucila had remained as she had been left: motionless, and without expression. If Semisar had known the phenomenon of shock, Lucila was in that condition. But, in the manner of a woman preparing to grieve for the dead she had removed her black scarf and unwound the long dark chestnut plaits that flowed down her back. But there were no tears. only a dumb silence but for the heavy exhalation of breath. It seemed that she looked beyond Semisar into the world of spirits invoking perhaps their aid, their comfort.

What happened had neither invoked sadness nor grief. It was as if it had been ordained in the elusive pattern of things. It felt like the clearing of the summer hut before the final departure for the long journey to the winter world. The hut, Lucila had been taught, was to be left spotless, every item put in its rightful place ready to be taken up again on the return to the summer life, exactly as if it had been undisturbed by absence . Not a crumb would remain before the rugs and coverings were rolled and removed, summer clothes hard washed and tightly mended, to be folded then wrapped between sprigs of aromatic herbs.

Lucila would go now and collect her precious but scattered needles from beneath the ancient oak. She would begin again - only to make and embroider garments for her daughter. It was as though, despite this ‘loss’, she had retained within her physical self the memory of every stitch driven into nature’s fabric.

Suddenly Lucila remembered that saints’ day which had sanctioned a winter’s walk with her mother, a day when her eyes had been drawn to a world of patterns and objects at her feet: the damaged acorn, the fractured leaf, the broken berried branch, the wisp of wool left impaled upon a stub of thorns. She had been five, maybe six summers old. She had already known the comforting action of the needle’s press again the felted cloth, but then, as if impelled by some force quite outside herself, had ‘borrowed’ one of her mother’s needles and begun her odyssey of darning, mending, stitching, enduring her mother’s censure - a waste of good thread, little one - until her skill became obvious and one of delight, but a private delight her mother hid from all and sundry, and then pressed upon her ‘proper’ work with needle and thread. But the damage had been done, the dye cast. She became nature’s needle slave and quartered those personal but often invisible
Oh, I know not!
I see not, and master not!
Why t'is caprice - t'is tender whim, is unwilling
to unveil my soul, conquering it with
mounds and plates of rapturous
yet canonical attention. How I dread
such falsehood! Strong, strong falsehood!
What an inconsiderate urgency! A matter, matter of the heart -
as mighty as it probably is, of its own accord! How serious
t'is would be! I am suffrage; and akin to its vigour areth my laugh,
and joy - I would be hatred if none cameth to stop my pace;
my frosty haze; and t'is gruesome maze! Yes, I would but be,
in th' length of some furt'er days!
I shalt no more be of t'is delight, and clustered inside my gloom,
pressed to th' walls of dainty loom; from which I shalt never
be comely enough to be granted an escape.
How terrifying t'ose scenes areth, to me! A poet as I am,
unenviable is my littleness, and humility; to t'ose who glare with jealousy
at pangs of my laughter, and childlike demands - as how t'ey always
chastised during t'eir coincidental encounters. But I am blessed!
I am blessed by my words - and t'ese cheerful, yet unending poems -
as unlike t'em I am, ungrateful and vile beings, flocking to th' church
only for th' sake of brand-new dowry, and enforced blessings.
Murderers of peace! Sons and daughters of vice! But I am convinced
t'at virtue shalt forever tower over t'em; and in th' right time t'ey shalt
be pulled off t'eir horses, and unedifying pleasantry. And goodness
shalt t'en win! For truth never bears t'eir unfaithful boasts, just like
it hates t'eir dishonesty; which so insistingly frosts me
with atrocity within 'tis lungs, and so soon as doth it start to cling stronger -
abashed shalt I be! Incarcerated shalt be my front, and dutiful
countenance - in t'at gross conflagration with secular flatness,
hesitations, and worldly doubts, in which yon grotesque salutation, corroborating
'tis assailed countenance, gouty and drained by rightful mockery;
comes but to avenge my love, my wondrous love -
which yesterday was dazzling and dripping fast
but contentiously, like a ripe cherry. Like a small burst of wine
craved by scholarly epicures, t'is feeling but anonymously grips
my lips, trembles my heart, and distracts my limbs;
should I be to think of thee, I shan't but be away
from t'is nauseatedness, of regrets, again! My thee, my thee,
areth thou truly gazing at me from afar? With fascination in thy stares,
wilt thou bestow me such destiny I hath been so desirous of - my dear?
And with thy serene, bulbous eyes - t'at sea of blackness
basked in marred turmoil - ah, a sign but of peace after such fire! - wilt thou
mould thy mind, thy stony mind, like a black-painted rose,
to throw at my being, just one, voluntary glance?
I am but anxious, my love, how I shake all over
with unreturned passion like t'is, my blood is circling
in distorting, yet irrepressible agitation.
How I wish t'at thou could be here, and rendereth me safe, in solely
but thy arms, my love! And shalt thou be my giddy knight - I entreat!
In my unmothered dreams, and t'eir precocious brambles - on t'ose journeys
of loom, doth I fear not, for thou shalt be t'ere to mirthfully comfort me.
And off shalt I fly again, to greet th' thoughtful morning!
But ought I to leaveth my dreams now; for thou canst be here to celebrate
t'is snowy day, and lift me onto triumph! And how I wisheth to cast away
t'is imprisonment, how I longeth for but thee here - just thee, remember t'at,
o but hark to my swift whisper, t'at calls only for thy name, my love!
How aggravated, and corrupted my conscience wilt be -
within th' membranes of my brain; t'eir hardship is severed by thy unpresence.
My love, o my restrained - single love, t'is ode that lights my soul
shalt illuminate thine; and 'tis long words - threads woven along
an abstracted lullaby, and vanquished by silent accusations, from thy, thy mouth!
A well t'at is perilous in its standing - standing like a torch, unruptured
albeit neglected, innocent in 'tis acute forlornness. Poor misery!
Hark, hark, my love - how t'ose dames, irresolute in t'eir volatility, and
charms of miraculous beauty - but tumultous inside, entranced by fear
of losing which, as so graciously raved and ranted all over th' year!
Th' dreary years - which th' above phrase caused me to be well-reminded,
and duly recall how t'eir sickening remorse tossed me around; and decreed
my jests of dread, sickness, and disdain - surges, and waves of animosity
wert but all about me. But how they areth happening again! Amongst th' snow -
running about as t'ey art, t'ose heartless, indignant creatures -
blind to th' tenderness of nature, bland and untouched by its shrieks, and
flickering toil! How I wish to save it, but incapable as I am - a minuscule shadow
of early womanhood t'at I own, I choose to stay distant,
and pray for t'eir impossible atonement, somehow, before t'ey entereth
t'eir silent graves. How t'ose ghosts of malice areth in no way acquainted
with th' woes of th' churchyard, and th' grimness of death - I declare!
How unafraid t'ey are, sacrificing t'is coherent life for such courses
of abomination. Victories upon th' misery of others,
dances to mourning songs, how evil! But I wish for t'eir salvation,
for t'ey art unable to even salve t'eir poor selves. I shalt be fervent
in my generosity, for 'tis th' most rewarding part of humanity;
I shalt be but a faithful servant to my innocuous nature. I adoreth my nature
just the way 'tis, and I shalt build its madly-scarred way back; with tons
of brightness, care, and hearty bliss! Yes, my love, my bliss - which inhabits
th' entire space of my maturity and unmolested passion. Inapprehensible as it is,
I am but to win its grace, and t'erefore thee - just as I hath so ardently dreameth of -
as heretofore, and shalt thou but be saluted and fended for
by my, my sincere and unbinding, affection.
Richmal Byrne Jan 2011
We don’t really understand

How atoms behave;

Or infinity;

Or how winds carry the seasons -

Like ‘Olde April ‘ with it’s 'showers sweet' !

Yes, I’ve felt them...



The clean stinging scent of rain

Scratching at the earth,

Pelting aromatic plants,

Condensing the smells of seas, winds, continents;

Infusing the sum of all these aromas in its perfumery,

Marketing it: April, again.



And Eliot said,

There be April,

'The cruellest month'.

Oh my (!)

Appealing April, with its sunny flavours,

Cascades of cats & dogs,

And dead-eye jack,

Firing frosts that just might spend the tender herb.



It was snowing in April,

And Easter was early, that year

When I took Schrödinger’s cat walking

On a leash, And April was still new,

And capable of shocking...



Now any month - could bring pitiless ruin.

The year annually

Out of step with migratory designs,

Throwing epithets out of its greenstick pram,

Its months in disarray ,

No-one knows what’s going on...





The drunkard earth sups up it’s own tears,

Reeling in its spin,

Until,

Saturated,

It can drink no more,

And every dip fills,

Every meadow spills,

Banks overflowing,

Its resolve drowning,

Questions washing

Up like a tide of interrogative curiosity.



OK – so I am really hiding in my acres...

At least I can tell - it’s April !



Enquiring lily-of-the-valley,

Puts up green periscopes.

Peering through the sodden grass,

The remnants of last year’s soggy leaves,

Cosset primrose & ramsons.

Daffodils are past their best, but soldier on

Like hungover squaddies,

Snowdrops have fat capsules where white drops shone,

Hellebores have been up since the crack of time -

Good movers - they could dance all spring!

Dingles are glinting green with native bluebell leaves,

And their mophead mates have muscled in the garden,

Quiet violets lounge on the field’s chaise long,

Coy, understated,

How British!

Oxlips and cowslips join the brave primroses

Who have been on the razzle for weeks.

White & purple lilac in green cassocks,

Will soon burst out

Like kiss-o-grams.

Boughs hung with clematis,

Still tiny shoots like birds on wires.



I am giving a prize for the first celandine on my patch;

Each little celandine - Rannunculus ficaria - is

A miniature sun uttering: Oi! You up there, old currant bun!

Here’s the template for a perfect summer sky !
April 2008
A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear --
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden dream --
Life, what is it but a dream?

THE END
A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear --

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life what is it but a dream?
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the "Camp of Souls."
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the "paint of death,"
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue "last smoke."

13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.

19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the "song of grief"
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their "Camp of Souls."

31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.

37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.

43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the "paint of death";
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.

49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk "Springing Fawn."

55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.

61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.

67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the "Camp of Souls."
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red "Singing Leaves."
Chorus.

Come we shepherds who have seen
Day’s king deposed by Night’s queen.
Come lift we up our lofty song,
To wake the Sun that sleeps too long.

He in this our general joy,
  Slept, and dreamt of no such thing
While we found out the fair-ey’d boy,
  And kissed the cradle of our king;
Tell him he rises now too late,
To show us aught worth looking at.

Tell him we now can show him more
  Than he e’er show’d to mortal sight,
Than he himself e’er saw before,
  Which to be seen needs not his light:
Tell him Tityrus where th’ hast been,
Tell him Thyrsis what th’ hast seen.

Tityrus.

Gloomy night embrac’d the place
  Where the noble infant lay:
The babe looked up, and show’d his face,
  In spite of darkness it was day.
It was thy day, Sweet, and did rise,
Not from the east, but from thy eyes.

Thyrsis.

Winter chid the world, and sent
  The angry North to wage his wars:
The North forgot his fierce intent,
  And left perfumes, instead of scars:
By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers,
Where he meant frosts, he scattered flowers.

Both.

We saw thee in thy balmy nest,
  Bright dawn of our eternal day;
We saw thine eyes break from the east,
  And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw thee (and we blest the sight)
We saw thee by thine own sweet light.


Tityrus.

I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow
  Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Offring their whitest sheets of snow,
  To furnish the fair infant’s bed.
Forbear (said I) be not too bold,
Your fleect is white, but ’tis too cold.

Thyrsis.

I saw th’officious angels bring,
  The down that their soft ******* did strow,
For well they now can spare their wings,
  When Heaven itself lies here below.
Fair youth (said I) be not too rough,
Thy down though soft’s not soft enough.

Tityrus.

The babe no sooner ‘gan to seek
  Where to lay his lovely head,
But straight his eyes advis’d his cheek,
  ‘Twixt mother’s ******* to go to bed.
Sweet choice (said I) no way but so,
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.

Chorus.

Welcome to our wond’ring sight
  Eternity shut in a span!
Summer in winter! Day in night!
  Heaven in Earth! and God in Man!
Great little one, whose glorious birth,
Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

Welcome, though not to gold, nor silk,
  To more than Cæsar’s birthright is,
Two sister-seas of ******’s milk,
  WIth many a rarely-temper’d kiss,
That breathes at once both maid and mother,
Warms in the one, cools in the other.

She sings thy tears asleep, and dips
  Her kisses in thy weeping eye,
She spreads the red leaves of thy lips,
  That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She ‘gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.

Welcome, (though not to those gay flies
  Guilded i’th’ beams of earthly kings
Slippery souls in smiling eyes)
  But to poor Shepherds, simple things,
That use no varnish, no oil’d arts,
But lift clean hands full of clear hearts.

Yet when young April’s husband showers
  Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers,
  To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head.
To thee (dread lamb) whose love must keep
The shepherds, while they feed their sheep.

To seek Majesty, soft king
  Of simple graces, and sweet loves,
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves.
At last, in fire of thy fair eyes,
We’ll burn, our own best sacrifice.
In the languid flow of eight in the morning
she scurries beneath the lethargic settling
of the chill of great October
Learning much
teaching everything
and saying nothing
she hasn't heard before
The dull encroachment of winter
pulls our eyes down
like the flowers come to wilt
under the heavy frosts
In summer!
Summer!
We were alive
and now it is a fight to move our legs
oh we of the winter mountains
and sweaters drawn tight around ourselves
awaiting the spring again with baited breath
The savage runners
beneath the snow
waiting with painted faces
behind classroom walls
spears of longing
for longer days
and Chopin plunking desperately
on a piano played two hundred years ago.
I am a child of Saturn,
of death and the winter months
but so too am I a keeper of this earth
freezing over like the stones in the ground
and begging for some warmth to touch me
This thaw cannot come soon enough,
for i fear that we shall all die alone in the snow
with hardly the energy to punch through the ice
to see the sun again.
this poem is about both winter and dying love
i hope it doesn't happen again
when i'm in his arms, the sun keeps me warm
but if i leave them for just a second
the leaves all start to turn
and i am left to wonder
if the sun was there at all
Brian O'blivion Aug 2013
ash in rainclouds dripping air
lilac perfume in her hair
clipped on limestone as a marker
parades of silence growing darker


in such delicate hours
when u breathe in whispers
        and morninglit frosts
your ponytail neck
and
        hibiscus flowers
spill your time in glassine
fingers drowning moments
                       as nothing lingers
205

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because—because if he should die
While I was gone—and I—too late—
Should reach the Heart that wanted me—

If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted—hunted so—to see—
And could not bear to shut until
They “noticed” me—they noticed me—

If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I’d come—so sure I’d come—
It listening—listening—went to sleep—
Telling my tardy name—

My Heart would wish it broke before—
Since breaking then—since breaking then—
Were useless as next morning’s sun—
Where midnight frosts—had lain!
William A Poppen Sep 2014
Stark among the lush of youth

tall, unashamed

no leaves twirl downward

no fertile blanket of rot

to feed saplings

fresh with green sprigs.

Many seasons

they have tasted your sustenance.

Do they regard your wisdom

whispered in the mountain breeze?

Do they believe tales told of

life on the hill,

of cycles of torrents, droughts,

penetrating frosts and mountains

of drifted snow?

Do they devour the lore

falling among the leaves?
bex Dec 2017
Oh, Winter...
She says, “Come hither...”

She is an alluring *****
with her pure and virginal whites,
chaste as an egg.  Mm hmm.

Her flash frosts,
her intricate, fleeting diamonds,
her dew when she warms
drips and drops into ******* spears...
She pulls you in.

She pulls on you,
draws you,
milks you to the core.

She whispers “Come hither...”
in her squalls,
but she leaves only shells.
Such small feathered things,
stiffened and dead,
touched by Winter’s hand.

But she is beautiful,
and you...
You can not help yourself.
510

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ’twas like Midnight, some -

When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—

But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Change, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.
Tonight, whenst my soul wasth dancing about its walls,
I chall-enged myself to potter about th' halls.
Having adjusted my red shawl and added some more
tints of blush into my frazzled cheeks, didst I swing myself
out of my chamber.
A sleek rain wasth but mumbling outside; and evoked within me
a longing for domestic adventures-to **** th' silent drear of
th' dying evening! With only th' rain as its ember, flitting away
wasth its cold shadows, with shards of plainness around
its damp, frail body, awash in th' childlike pouring shower-
th' one t'at would betray it soon-and ended with a blunt
thump as th' morbid clouds hanging aloft, dyeing th' sky faithfully red,
but consoling in such irresistible ways! How I remembereth its leaving a scent
to my skin and constitution so soft, and indulged it away, so unlike
th' smug moonbeam-immaculate like th' stars, but unsettled and tumultous
at heart-and in th' lap of bleak, unsoundly thunderstorms would be torn apart.
So ventured I, downstairs! No soul was rolling around th' corridors,
in spite of th' lamps, t'ose yellow halos against
th' wooden walls. How I gleefully descended th' adjacent steep bars-
downwards, in a quiet stroll, whilst coolly whistling to my own *****-
to procure the merriment of letters-yes, th' abodes of t'ose ****** words,
unappalled yet by th' venerable worlds. And t'eir tiny chambers, t'ose neatly
glued; inked papers, flocked into t'eir serene boxes this afternoon-ah, by those
blokes so punctual, honourable indeed areth t'eir perseverance, strength,
and little carriages! With horses as divine, crowding people's lives
with th' ornaments of phrases carved within envelopes
in t'eir leather bags-an occupation so holy! It is-it is, indeed! Like a sledge
t'at never utters a complaint-or sheep t'at dares not to leap, or
wiggle, in th' threat of its young master, albeit grimaces of sickness,
and pain, pain as of giving mortal births, affordeth. And howeth it shalt invade
its listening hearts with blades of agony-whose sullen grass
is bitter but never to wither-a resemblance of long-living memory,
so dark but unspoken-and whose life is but willingly tethered t' th' snow beneath;
a pampered sea of whiteness with bonds of accusation
enshrined along its surface,
regardless of th' pure-hearted toil of th' reindeer,
and its honesty t'at so charmingly planted within its roots. Agreeable element,
just as it is! T'ose men so deserving of praise-hark, hark how t'ey clutched at my letters,
and gently shoved 'em forwards; amidst t'ose gloomy bits of chuckling dews!
Frosts t'at sent chills through th' afternoon's vigilant pains,
o, what dormant a serpent, as t'ey wert! But now wert t'ey inventing t'eir slots
out o' t'eir caves-andeth greedly rendering it more gratuitous
t' th' old man's eyes. Horrendous! Inescapable! Disagreeable! How t'is fate, but fate
t'at is intimate with wonder-obstinate in 'tis own credulity, and paths
of security, esteem, and actuality; fate t'at canst ot'erwise be unfathomable-
at th' most desirous times such as t'is!
Thrown was I into th' view of another, fancy who it was-
a former friend, about whom my heart once so dearly throbbed, and perchance
plentifully longed to meet! But as encounter, didst we-a river of grand, prosperous ambitions
and plots of weaving merciful fortune, andeth devious thirst for far precarious,
yet precious, lore-forgotten wereth thus our memories, and stepped away but we,
from each ot'er's undeniably hearty regions.
But he! How, this evening, with t'at pair of eyes
kind with endless blueness-blowing so handsome into my face,
t'at lake of golden hair, and skin so moist in its ripe, whole whiteness,
as bright as th' moonlit skies above-sensuous and translucent
in his searing youth, o my dear!
How he entereth th' door with t'ose passionate airs about 'im,
and abruptly captivated my soul! Atoned, hastily, wasth all my grief
and pangs of gloom, upon my laying my first sights on 'im! What a majestic being!
A charm so frank as th' most desired odour of nature;
and unbreakably calm in its greetings-a lure so powerful to my entire soul!
How decent, yet enticing, t'is gentleman to my comprehension!
How lovable wasth his manly voice-as he first attempted to speak;
blanketed and cheered most adorably
by colourful fogs of courage, waves of veritable determination-o, how a gaze
can be so tender into my heart!
O, but it now appeareth t'at I ought to doubt not
about falling in love again;
with t'ese new fits o' charms I've found,
of a soul t'at was but so long abandoned
whilst I let myself being disheartened-so cruelly
and unthinkingly, by that poor fiend! A brute, a lonesome wretch as he is-
whose love is but unworthy, fraudulent, to my eyes-
a rustic, odd liar! And let him but shrink
into nothingness; and be unthoughtfully buried within th' cold arms
of th' dismantled sun-wherein a wrathful furnace shalt he burn, and cry,
cry sorrowfully in deplorable hatred, with no-one else to shoulder his castigations
and bestow neither any ot'er love-nor pity, for 'im,
as th' wife whom his chest daintily adores
is but th' sin he has made, andeth th' ashes of his ungodly remains-
As cursed and woven away from t'is world by our kingly God-just as how she
hath misled him hitherto, and duly tortured wasth her by our new faith-
whence soulless was she left, a thin, uncrucial vapour of triviality-as most sane creatures
shalt know! How after t'at disaster of death,
damnation becameth her home and bower,
whereth howl wilt she like a prone elf-
andeth be th' mourning fire itself.
Poetic T Feb 2016
Years had past since PTD's cases, all was now
Play and fun. But the little man missed
The chase of what could be found
Mysteries,
Riddles,
Enigmas
Of what was hidden from view. He was
A bright young fellow now
Six years old.
Words are longer as gurgles faded into
Memories past thoughts. He had come
Home to mummy,

"How's my little man,

"I have a loose toothy peg Mummy,

"Well no playing,
"As we don't want it lost for the tooth fairy,

So little man played with his cars
"Brummmm,
Brrruuumm,
Screecchhhh,
"That was close the baddies nearly caught us,

He played till it started to get dark, then heard
His mummy calling from down stairs.

"Little man time to get ready for bed sweet heart,

"Ok mummy I'm changing now,

A jumper did fly socks also too,
Trousers flew in the air landing waist
Side up on his head too.
Jester
Clown
Fun
Times of an imagination as he runs around.
But in to jimjams he must now do,
his favourite ones were
Captain Carrot Space Ranger.
He has all the books reading them to sleep
His favourite story before he slumbers in to dreams.

~Captain Carrots Space Race~

Trix sat in his comfy seat, his friends
All waiting for his words of as the race was
Set in the dust nebula
 Atria
Its dark in space only stars glitter.
But in the dust cloud it was like rainbows blossomed
A light show of the universal beauty.


Right my fluffiest friends its time to launch.
       3
  2
1
Rockets ignited and away they went,
Captain Trix was nibbling on a cucumber stick.
Then from no where the naughty
  Cat Captain Frost
Bashed and knocked at their ship, and off the
Race course they fell. They tumbled into a pocket of

Darkest space. Captain its  dark  in here, the lights
Faded and all was dark.
  Trix  could hear teeth chattering.

Be calm my friends, there is nothing scary in the shadows.
Take out your carrot coins, and nibble, chew,
And with that, once finger licked and all was chomped
All that was heard was trix voice, right can we all
See? yes captain carrot vison is a go.


They set a course out of this darkest place and
Out they popped into normal space, colours gleamed
As they saw they were in last place.
Rockets burst into action and they flew in
And out, weaving through the clouds
One pasted, two pasted, three pasted
Now they were in second place.


Who should be in first place naughty  Captain Frost
He had a coat as white as snow. but that was
As far as his niceness did go. He was a naughty
Kitty and everyone did know.
Sir he is blocking our path, we cant get through
Ok secret decoy time fluffy friends.

           3
     2
1
Cats attention set adrift sir, and into space it wondered,
In sight of Captain Frosts view. Out came the holding
Claws, and the space wool did bobble and excitement
Was the pleasure of kitties day. While they entertained
Themselves, Captain Trix did glide on past.
Full speed ahead as they race past the finish line.


Yawns were the calling of the night as the story
Ended as eyes blinked soon to be shut

"Mummy Captain Carrot [Trix] won the race,

"Yes he did darling and that's why meanies are always last,
"Sweet dreams my baby now off to sleep,

The night drew on as eyes slept through, and little
Mans dreams were of carrots and rabbits
That whizzed through the night sky, ZOOM.
Morning broke through his curtains and
Yawns did come and go. Slippers were
On as cold it felt, and downstairs
He wondered dressing gown and all.

"Mummy what's for breakfast?
"Was that me Mummy?

"Open wide little man, goodness me....,
"There is a gap where there should be a tooth?

"O' no I have a missing toothy peg,
"***** trained detective is on the case,
"I think I may need a new name?
"Junior Trained Detective,
"No that's not right does ring true?
"Buddy The Trained Detective.

"That's the nickname you gave me mummy,

"That's excellent little man, I love your choice,

His mummy smiles and gives him a hug and
Kisses his forehead, they search under his pillow
"Nope? Mmmm... may have to get out the cap
And magnifying glass -o

"Mummy this is too small for me?

"Don't worry little man I thought this day may come,

Out of a box she pulls his new hat out, he tries it
On, perfectly it fits on his head and his detective
Days have started again. Fist my bedroom under
The pillow I will seek my tooth be it here or there.
But pillow case removed quilt removed o' so slowly
For a tooth we don't want to lose it, but nothing appeared.

"One place now searched with a keen eye,
"Now so many other places for it to hide,

He thought of where a tooth would place hide and
Seek from its home in the mouth, under the
Bed he thought.Torch in hand he wiggled under
The wooden from and what we he see but his
Car that vanished quite a while ago, I wondered
Where that went? a sweet, a pen, a coin for the piggybank.

"Mummy its not under or over the bed,
"I looked hard, but no where can it be found,

Little man was frustrated at the thought that the
Tooth fairy would not be rewarded with a tooth.
Right let me think? he thought of that night, it
Was their in bed, when story time was read.
It was their when mummy give him a kiss goodnight.
In the morning it was gone

"Captain Carrot,
"Trix where are you,
This is no time for hide and seek,

He found him tucked in his quilt, sleeping soundly.
"There you are sorry to wake you,
He looked in his hair "Nope not there,
Looked in his tail it was white and fluffy
"Nope not there,
He thought once again? if he were
Captain Carrot where would he keep his
Best friends tooth safe if it feel out in dreamy sleep.

A smile etched across Buddies face at the thought of
Where he would keep it safe for him.
In his little fingers did search around, and then
A little white rock, no a tooth was found.
Captain Trix had kept it safe in his uniform pocket.

"Mummy, mummy,
"The case Is solved I found my tooth,
"Detective work solves a puzzling case again,

"Where was it my little man?

"Captain Carrot had it snuggly warm in his space rucksack,

"That's fantastic,
"Now where does a tooth now found go,

She smiles rubbing his hair, off to his bedroom
He runs tooth proudly in hand.
Lifting his pillow he gently places it with pride
In the place where the tooth fairy could easily
Reach and find. Leaving a special present for this
Little boy who had found his missing toothy peg.

"I think I may keep this cap,
*"Let Buddy the trained detective solve cases again soon,
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
A merry dachshund yaps, and leaps for leaves
Wind-blown across the still-green summer grass
As autumn visits briefly, and looks around
To plan his festive moonlit frosts when next
Diana dances ‘cross November’s skies.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
163

Tho’ my destiny be Fustian—
Hers be damask fine—
Tho’ she wear a silver apron—
I, a less divine—

Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt *****
To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil—
And no Reapers stand!
442

God made a little Gentian—
It tried—to be a Rose—
And failed—and all the Summer laughed—
But just before the Snows

There rose a Purple Creature—
That ravished all the Hill—
And Summer hid her Forehead—
And Mockery—was still—

The Frosts were her condition—
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North—invoke it—
Creator—Shall I—bloom?
On the wind of January
  Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
  As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
  Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
  And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
  Snow-flakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
  Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
  And swollen rivers swell the sea:--
If the winter ever ends
  How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March
  The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
  Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
  And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
  And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April
  Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
  From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
  Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
  While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
  Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
  In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
  The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
  Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
  Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
  While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
  And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
  Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
  Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
  Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
  Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
  And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind,
  Cornfields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
  On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
  Weightless on the breeze,
First-fruits of the year's decay
  From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
  The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
  And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
  Some show green and streaked
Some set forth a purple bloom,
  Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October
  At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
  Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his *****,
  Leaps and plunges the foam,--
It's O for mothers' sons at sea,
  That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November
  The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
  When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
  Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
  In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,
  The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
  Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
  Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
  Brings back the snow.
1025

The Products of my Farm are these
Sufficient for my Own
And here and there a Benefit
Unto a Neighbor’s Bin.

With Us, ’tis Harvest all the Year
For when the Frosts begin
We just reverse the Zodiac
And fetch the Acres in.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2013
in the east
a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer
his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer.
he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos
a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended.
his bonds, repaired.

in the west -
a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house -
to a furnace of blank stares.
it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for.
it leads to a breach.
weary of  " who knows ? "
a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood.
it rankles the vision...
it plots despair.

in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There -
we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly...

and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair
we vanquish any Southland
and the warm sun
frosts a glass eye
like pyrite.

and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
Vidya Oct 2012
what I got was
a january smile
from a milkblooded boy.
if only the pearl of your teeth were
white as my eyes

deertail flash in the dark
and nowhere else to hide but
five a.m. sheets and the smell of
sunrise mumbles

toofast weightloss:
a late spring heart
is drenched with its
ripeness but
rots if you leave it to
the bees

then the summer desiccation becomes
winter starvation—
in between, autumn comes to
stay. purples, mostly
maroons moth
-eaten by the greengrass deadweight of
so many depetalled flowers. Midnight never strikes
soon enough.

there have been no doves for
weeks &
maybe longer than
that i haven’t
kept count
on you to teach me where they go when
the seasons change

but given time and
tide rips the
stains from your whites
so i with
patience await the
first frosts;
you are never far behind the
snow.

meanwhile your
jewel-studded eyes & corsair heart
glint in the moonlit touchmenot of your
faraway skin
keep your hair
shirt on.
Janus am I; oldest of potentates;
Forward I look, and backward, and below
I count, as god of avenues and gates,
The years that through my portals come and go.
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow;
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen;
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.
He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”—
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.

As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
“I think”, said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.”
Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.

But ’twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.

Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.
Swords and Roses Nov 2015
her breath frosts the grass
she sings high-pitched but softly
earth is calm and still
fingertips brush roof edges
leaving fresh glass icicles
anilkumar parat Jan 2011
sinister,dark,
looming, brooding horizon.

angry ghouls growl,
flailing their arms,
hissing,
spitting venom

icy breath
frosts my window

miserable mongrels
howl a dirge,
mourning souls long-departed.

an unseen hand clicks
a silent flash.
eternity poses,
but for a moment.
There was a maiden named Lucy
Her face pretty her body healthy
She had a boyfriend named Damien
He'd strong muscles and dainty skin

She was a poet he was a student
She was robust he was diligent
She loved to write stories he adored
She was so glad he never got bored

One day he woke from his repose
Out he wandered to buy a rose
It was his mother's grand birthday
His face lighted as he made his way

He found a strange ******* the streets
He walked forth but she came to greet
She had lost her bag and wallet
While passing by the old garret

She looked dizzy and fairly drowsy
Reminded him of girlfriend Lucy
On he went to help find her bag
Until the sun flew from the shack

Full of sweat did Damien retire
From his errand beside the fire
In a mansion that's the lady's
Forgotten was the day's duties

Wait and wait did Lucy for him
In her gown she looked splendid slim
Expecting Damien was she now
Cheeks like a doll in a stage show

Asleep was her love in the chair
Tired from the day and the whole affair
The fair lady resting on the stairs
With glowing red eyes and golden hair

He had not known that blood was wanted
In this mansion which was haunted
He'd been deceived and awesomely fooled
The lady woke and laughed and growled

Kneeling by him she showed her fangs
Sharp and bitter like the dark winter
Out as the moon began to hang
She drank his blood and made him like her

The morning came gray and dreary
With chills that sent everyone sickly
Young Lucy wept cried on her bed
For trusting the dull vow they'd made

She retained her blanket in vain
'Oh 'tis so cold', she thought in pain
Just closed her eyes when there's a knock
Hurry did she to wear her frock

Thirst did he feel when he woke up
A sultry heat from his long nap
Jump did he from his cozy seat
Full of raw fear of what it did!

Startled was he as his teeth moved!
What are these things that have been mute?
Out he fled to find a mirror
The people instantly screamed in terror!

He was astounded by his speed
And how rapid he could now flit!
Out he burst into gay laughter
As he start'd to think this over!

The lady 'peared in front of him
Satisfied yet her smirk looked grim
'Art thou glad?', she turned to question
He nodded in shy admiration

A mirror was in her pocket
Out she tore it to his eyes red
He shrieked in loud astonishment
His tone but full of excitement

'Thou'rt a vampire now,' she explained
'Fill your thirst don't ever let it drain'
'Human blood shall be your favour'
'You can't deny its sweet flavour!'

'I'm not a monster!' Damien whined
Can I instead drink just some wine?
'Fate is not to be abolished,
Fate is just to be accomplished!'

'We are so blessed,' said the lady
'For endless days of immortality,
For real power and true beauty,
We are praised more than the Almighty!'

Poor Damien could just cry and wail
But by thirst his firmness began to fail
Still he wanted to find Lucy
Putting black glasses he turned away and flee

Arrived he at her little hut
In one swift step but it was still shut
He knocked on the door and waited
The maiden came with her hair plaited

She shrieked as he pulled his glasses
The soul of sins the eyes of darkness
Pushed him away she slammed the door
Fire and rage rang took him inside his core

Flash of madness groans and outcries
Tears were welling in poor Lucy's eyes
Tears that to him were shadows of blood
Quickened the pace of his unheart

He sniffed nature he sniffed the flesh
Hidden behind all the tears afresh
With one small leap he's in the house
Where Lucy screamed like a tortured mouse!

In one second he's before her
The smell stronger as he went closer
He was blinded and could not desist
By a mad thirst no-one could resist!

And did he weep and deeply shrieked
Cursing himself as a ****** freak
As his thirst filled his lover dead
He was sullied he went home all mad

On his way back he saw a river
With a huge mass of black hot water
He recalled a tale of a group of vampires
Living in peace in a rustic empire

But they died of the heat of the sun
Whilst the river was brimming with swans
Unthinkingly he splashed downwards
Ditching himself into those boiling shards!

Failed but he had to **** Lucy!
She woke but in great beauty!
Adoring herself in the closest mirror
Pulled outdoors just to face horror

A young man found dead in the lake!
His chest stabbed by a wooden stake!
Away then she ran from the scene,
nearly fainted at what she'd seen.

Wept and wept she in agony,
could not believe in her misery!
What was then the use of the Almighty,
of it was but of lies and cruelty?

Lift herself up o then she did,
tired as she was of her idle feet!
Moving about 'till the hunger came,
when no more care she had for shame!

No regret did she find to have,
until no more blood for her left;
in her hands were a child's remains,
whose mother her very best friend!

The blood rose herself to full speed,
and raised her newer sense of greed!
She growled and gnarled and looked around;
her face was pale, her eyes were round.

Her nails grew sharper instantly!
Her lips bloomed and her cheeks rosy!
Thrice a day she hunted gaily,
'till a small lad saw her mutiny!

She had him and felt triumphant,
but she needed to run away!
Unseen hath she been since that sad day,
though the knights'd searched from December to May!

Tales foretell she's somewhere unknown
Hiding amongst bushes and their tall thorns
For men still disappear and get lost
At midnights and in winter frosts

A hidden question it is indeed
Finding her is but a must need
While the moon is blunt bristly and grey
and when the thin dusk starts to decay.
Keith Wilson Jun 2017
The  daises  within  the  grass  are  sleeping.
While  slight  fr­osts  up  above  are  seeping .

They  are  waiting  for  the  new  born  sun.
Then  they  will­  arise  and  have  some  fun.

They  shine  and sparkle  all  day  long.
Till  the  departing  sun  has  gone.

A­s  the  day  has  run  its  course.
They  settle  down  without  ­remorse.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.
Tonya Carpenter Mar 2014
and if i slip into the fog
that clouds my mind today,
and if i don’t return again
but in those caverns stay,
and if i snap and vanish
in my mind’s wintry frosts,
please know i still exist somewhere
though wandering and lost
Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among
trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,
the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,

certain airy white blossoms punctually
reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink--
a delicate abundance. They seemed

like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed
festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving
the sackcloth others were wearing.

To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well
with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,
daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.

Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches
more lightly than birds alert for flight,
lifted the sunken heart

even against its will.
But not
as symbols of hope: they were flimsy
as our resistance to the crimes committed

--again, again--in our name; and yes, they return,
year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy
over against the dark glare

of evil days. They are, and their presence
is quietness ineffable--and the bombings are, were,
no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany

simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms
were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed
the war had ended, it had not ended.
Tony Luxton Oct 2015
There's a flap on - flying fluttering
olympian feeding before the frosts
competitive cooperation
repetitive consternation
tribal territories transgressed
survival of the fattest.

Darker days dominate.
The land browns bare.
Animals hibernate.

'It's not the same', the doctor said,
'Don't do it or you'll become obese.
Their diet would put you in bed.
You'd die before your time
of some terrible disease.
Follow my special diet.
And run if it's fun .'

'But don't be a convert to anorexia.
That's a perverse faith.
You'd never make it as a wraith.
Take a tablet for your headache.'
By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
I climb the towers and towers
to watch out the barbarous land:
Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
There is no wall left to this village.
Bones white with a thousand frosts,
High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
Who brought this to pass?
Who has brought the flaming imperial anger?
Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
Barbarous kings.
A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
A turmoil of wars-men, spread over the middle kingdom,
Three hundred and sixty thousand,
And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning,
Desolate, desolate fields,
And no children of warfare upon them,
No longer the men for offence and defence.
Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
With Rihoku’s name forgotten,
And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.
Paul Butters Jun 2015
Sun
The Sun’s beaming smile
Bathes the plains with gold.
Lord of the heavens,
Circled by your sons
We call planets,
Your searing heat
Keeps us warm
And well.

I love the summer
With those shiny beaches:
Radiant reflections
Kissed by sky-blue surf.

Sun, you are a surge of nuclear bombs
Devastating the darkness,
Destroying the frosts of outer space.

Blindingly beautiful
Yet you redden evening clouds:
Red sky at night delight
Indeed.

Ball, orb, sphere, call you what you will,
Sol if you prefer.
The pale moon mimics you
Even blocks you at times,
But you are never eclipsed for long.

The sky is your playing field
Though the starry crowd is hidden
From your fiery light.

See the sky brighten
Just before dawn,
Then witness the birth
Of another fine day.

Paul Butters
Summertime and the living is easy.....
Liz Apr 2014
November dazzles
In its mundanity.
The month between the
Russet autumn and blue winter.
Skeletal leaves
on the lyre are strung
In azure frosts
in emerald forests
and encrusted with rubies.
Novembers reclines in its throne.
In a minute,
a minute or so
It will slip to salt
and December's long
bequeathed chorus will begin
And so I will savour
these few shining seconds
a little longer.
Lone seabird in a late dawning,
Sickles the gray rays of the sun,
Here on a ridge I can see aways,
Skerries, blasted by seas parade.

The moon fades as sun is rising,
My hair is groped in wind on fire,
In the late morning suns' glowing,
My breath uncatched as the wave.

Lone seabird in old sky forlorning,
Searches for a proud fish breaking,
In the frosts of broke tides trawling,
My heart sails above gusts keening.
335

’Tis not that Dying hurts us so—
’Tis Living—hurts us more—
But Dying—is a different way—
A Kind behind the Door—

The Southern Custom—of the Bird—
That ere the Frosts are due—
Accepts a better Latitude—
We—are the Birds—that stay.

The Shrivers round Farmers’ doors—
For whose reluctant Crumb—
We stipulate—till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.

— The End —