"knighted" poems
Now upon Age my Ripe Lantern will give
The Rose of Thirty-Four for his Best Joy
Sister, the Token of my Purpose, live,
Brother, the Promise of a Knighted Boy
Which Rose, purple or red, will compensate
A Decade's Sin I rehearse to atone
Pride, one Raven crowed I pluck without Hate
And gently shift my Psalms for her Behold
How another Labour I justly Failed
Must submit to her Needs before my own
For me the Decoding Concept derailed
The Troll called Pity transforms your Heart to Gold.
You both planned to defer in New Year's Lift
Still for you both I sing this Sterling Gift.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
One star lit night I sat down to write, A Little short poem about dragons and kites
Though In nature they do differ still the similarities remain,
One’s found in a fairy tale adventure the other in a child's small hand to entertain.
One has sharp teeth and a mouth that spits fire,
One holds a boys dream of a future aviator to inspire.
They both have long tails, though ones lined with ribbons the other lined with scales
And magic wings that lift them up higher over the highlands and vales
While catching a ride on the back of a strong wind gale
One lives in a cave and the other a toy box,
One sleeps on a rock and the other hangs from tree tops.
One’s tamed by the pull of a kite runner’s string,
The other steered by a dragon rider straddled between its wings.
One’s made from myth, legend, folklore and fear,
The other made from the design and blueprint of an inventor's mind's idea.
Ones made of sinews, muscles, flesh and bones,
The others made of a cross wooden stick frame over which cloth is stretched, and sewn.
Ones enchanted by wizards and knighted by kings,
The other’s to cheer up a child's heart and fulfill all his wishes and dreams.
And now out of my head my subjects take flight,
Now I do find there's no more to write,
Of the different and likes between dragons and kites.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
liquid light
oozing over
solid sound,
gasping gas.
static singing
focal filaments,
breaking brains.
lightning licks the
devilish dervish,
knighted king, the
anointed anarchist antichrist,
now nowhere.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Marijuana smoke fills the air
I play with your hair
You're here, I'm here
Aural pleasure, your voice in my ear
Sirens play, crippled with fear
Ten kilos of ****** lay right here
Why would you be friends with a writer?
Ever so pretentious, ever so righteous
Only come to play in the night time
Coming down and nodding off as it gets lighter
Pacifists the lot of them, not one fighter
Oh but many shall be knighted
We're here on a Island, each one of us banished
Authors of the west were long ago abolished
We've had our share of bloodshed
Alas, it's all fun and games until one of us is published.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Beautiful tribute
Tended lawns
Snow white crosses
In their throngs
Men sent out
To right the wrongs
Some were knighted
Some were pawns
There are lovely
Spreading trees
Bowing in the
Scented breeze
In the winter
There to freeze
There our nation's
On its knees
There are many
Stones for heads
Punctured by
The flying lead
There are widows
For those wed
The hearts are countless
They, too, are dead.
SoulSurvivor
Memorial Day
(C) 5/25/2015
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
*since I wept poems freely,
from rise to set,
every breeze, every minute, each bladed grass,
a creation-emotion overtaking
the residue is
every pen dry,
every pencil nubbed,
every free and white
piece of paper,
even all the napkins,
Picasso scribbled
but this one compelled to
rise and set,
before you placed
with a gratitude that
needs no explaining,
a poem,
first and knighted as*
Camaraderie
a tired, benighted idea,
oft expressed,
that cannot be contained,
swelling up, chest burn bursting
and it's not yet 600am
but the sun demands
payment for admission to this
morning's performance,
which will never be rebroadcast
so in humility, I
offer up this scrap,
in hopes it earns me
one more show tomorrow
pleasing him,
by pleasing you
we write with many motives,
but this ticket is
for my friends here,
genuine camaraderie that is holy,
sourced from holy water,
"straight from the water"
within our physical selfs
your arm unasked slung
over my shoulder,
your words my inspiration,
your demands, none,
other than give a listen
which is no demand,
but sweet sugar daily,
crazy stupid flooded
teary-eyed
through words care crafted,
I have found so many
gentle kind
that without hesitation,
I find myself blessing us all
by repeatedly uttering
Hallelujah!
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
I'm at my best
When i'm surrounded with people who love and respect me
When i never asked for such an honor
But i thank God every day for this to be granted to me
It's like i'm being knighted by the Queen of England daily
And i hold that same sheepish smile inside every time
But it's a signature of who i am
I'm so proud of the things I've done right
Because those words that tell me the opposite like to swim around my ears like a fairy who turned to the dark side
And has been engulfed with hate and bitterness
I'm putting an end to the lack of oxygen
And allowing the world to breath again.
Because some people are losing oxygen and things they think they deserve.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
A ballad I wrote for my roommate's badass cactus plant.
Come hither, foreign passersby
And listen to this song!
A cactus plant of noble deed
Would vanquish that is wrong!
Of faerie’s tear was he borne from
So sweetly did it seep!
Absorbed into a common thread
A hero, did it reap!
Hell hath no fury like his arms
That launch sharp needles far!
A thousand ****** upon the skin
Of discord, he shall scar!
Once knighted true by queen d’fleur
He rides on gallant gold!
Through tides and cliffs doth feathered steed
Make haste 'cross lands of olde!
Such titles prized did Needles seize
For slaying spiders tall!
On bended knee shall he assist
Upon your beck and call!
To summon Needles just takes faith
So whisper to the sky!
The sacred psalm of cactus high.
Let evil fare to die!
-Juan Carlos Gomez
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
Sara L Russell 17/3/15 at 13:25
What will they say of you in future times?
Were they duped by your duplicity
or did you fall on your double-edged sword?
Was the devil we knew any better than the unknown?
The future has a way of arriving early.
Are you ready now, for what it yet may bring?
Will you be knighted, or, benighted and beleaguered,
Fall fallow by the wayside of your ways?
Will the name of Cameron carry on,
Whatever else is lost or left behind?
Will David slay the apocolyptic giant of global warming,
yet terminate the service of National Health?
Was it wealth, or a poverty of emotional maturity
that led to such flotations and privatisations?
what sensations did you feel, did you reach referendum,
did you feel the earth move?
We never saw your manifesto made manifest.
We, the voters who voted not for you,
yet saw you rise, anticipate your fall.
Do promises count as any kind of plan?
And the future is arriving post-haste,
like a present waiting to be unwrapped.
Elections have a way of arriving early.
We are ready, with a big sharp X.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
I am in limbo
between universes
between stars
I am ensconced
in my own light
in tangible luminance
stored deep inside
tiny
glass jars
I am whirling into new orbit
as I take on this luster,
this shine
I furl forth choices
in magic spells weaving
and take back
what was always
so rightfully mine
I now hold the staff
that will part the seas
of my new way
in this labor
because, honey, there
ain't no time
to waste
no horse
no glowing, knighted savior
Until this hour
I was crawling
but I now I start to rise
as I have my final say
and the northern lights
spew out from behind my eyes
I am through with
this land of ice, land of jagged spires
It is time to bust up
all those submissive plans
and spray the whole
place with arctic fire
yeah time to mark it
juice it up
till it licks up pain, till it burns
release pent up years
of unneeded conflict,
of tensed up
twists and turns
so just you try
to break me apart
as I try to navigate
between tectonic plates
on two lands
The only knight here
is my own true self
the situation neatly
in my
hot little hands
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto.
and this is the part where i tell you i love you?
it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off
and laugh; or maybe that's the part where
i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish!
tangy! mm hmm!
solid gold worth's an advert! aha,
Elvis just rolled up his sleeves!
while Shoon can-can the worthy,
sire nigh nigh the knighted made
speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings
abdicate, we all thought of Monaco
and Senna... lipstick Helsinki...
crisscross Albania and: Waterloo...
when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo!
i too built Stockholm in a day, based on
the pop culture of Europe casually so.
but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all
that's Essex, Sussex and Kent,
i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh
Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian
with the moustache, dumb-flicked Hercules Poirot...
authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.
But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;
all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.
Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
I loved you so, my shining star.
From who you were, to where you've been,
to whom you've met, to what you've seen.
Your shining light is who you are.
From knighted woods to Myanmar,
some only see a lit cigar,
though to me you're a shining queen...
I loved you so.
When you're near or even afar
I'd follow you to all bazaars.
But none could possibly have seen
that something worse was our routine,
that what you'd leave was really scars.
I loved you so...
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
My lady, my lady.
This I swear to you.
If I was a knight you would never have to walk.
If I was a knight.
Upon my horse you be with your arms around me.
Where I would deliver you to your designation?
Oh, I would be so gallantly to you.
That you just have to notice my noble side.
If I was a knight.
With my armor own and my shield in my hand.
I rightly will defend you from any harm.
You would notice my bravery mixed with my charm.
If I was a knight.
Even if I wasn't knighted I would still stand out.
Because my strength of chilvary comes from within.
I would be devoted to my lady.
Highly respected with merits of sovereignty in your eyes.
If I was a knight.
I just believe I would be the man you seek in tough times.
Your warrior for all times.
Ranking higher in your heart.
A man filled with dignity and respect.
Called the best of the best.
If I was a knight.
While I just a noble soul.
I still would protect you like a gentleman should.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
there stood the queen
in her dressing gown
upon her face she wore
a very long frown
for she had lost
her diamond and ruby crown
she hoped it would be found
before sundown
she called Scotland Yard
to search every locale
as without her crown
she'd be an unadorned gal
inspector Jones arrived
in his ex-army jeep
telling the queen
that he'd catch the thieving creep
he thoroughly combed
every inch of England
he even looked under
the white Dover sands
a lady in central Manchester
gave him an address
saying that a felon in Soho
had the crown of queen Bess
high and low in the streets
of Soho he did look
to find this most
cunning and stealthiest of crooks
by a measure of luck
he found him sitting on a park bench
he was talking to
a criminal associate named Roger Dench
the inspector seized the felon
and cuffed his hands
saying pilfering won't be tolerated
in any part of England
at Scotland he grilled
him for information
about the queen's crown
which he pinch without hesitation
some three days later
he fronted an Old Bailey judge
who sentenced him
to sixteen years of jail drudge
overjoyed was the queen
to have her crown back
she could now wear it
to The Ascot Race Track
the inspector was knighted
by good queen Bess
as he was a fine man
at the detection profess
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
I don’t bow to money,
I don’t bow to fame
I kneel to that one thing,
that time cannot change
I don’t speak for right,
and won’t speak for wrong
My liege is the truth,
all court jesters gone
I don’t hope to be knighted,
my shield more concave
And rejecting all title,
the past still enslaved
My will lay unbroken,
my heart for a throne
A crown jeweled with memory
—all scepters disowned
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
To my maybe baby
I’ll stalk u like the moon
The cat whispers to the grasses to
sway in the noon
That the sweet rain fingers to caress
out full the blooms
Of wild indigo and white knighted
striped maroon
That dance u in the fields to take off
ur shoes
And scent ur sweat with lavender
and croon
U to always be watching and over me
like the melody moon
Into u
I’m so in2u
1/9/10
Jan 9, 2010
Jan 9, 2010 at 9:30 AM UTC
Nonexistent.
You used to be a nonexistent being
But here you are, and I am aching
From the look that you give me when you see me.
(You see me.)
You save me from the thunder that lies inside my heart;
Give me hope for a fresh, new start that will
Spread out before me, like butter on toast.
You give me the most satisfying hope.
Bluish pain once consumed my bones,
Only soft murmurs and whispers and moans
Could escape my lips until we kissed and you
Replaced the pain with sweet, warm rain.
Slain was my soul until
You knighted yourself; became my prince
To fill up that dull, null void of empty nothingness.
Breathless and airless; you have brought me to brightness.
The words that fell from your lips like drops of rain,
They filled me top-full up with a bright and mighty light
That gave me a reason to fight
For my once pathetic and pain filled life.
You have destroyed my strife and have become my reason
To step a step up the steep set of stairs
Of this big, fat mess of a life
Filled with airless cares.
You have saved me from my panicked mind.
I am no longer blind from the blight that laid inside.
Indebted to you, with not much to return,
I give you my heart, and this "so-called" piece of silly art.
So always remember the feelings that we both share,
For I will not bear to lose my prince,
Who has just started to rinse the filth from my soul, making me whole,
Taking away all of my pain.
(Replacing the dirt with sweet, warm rain.)
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 4:25 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC