"lawned" poems
On the East Coast of England there’s a small resort
Called Cleethorpes, where I happen to reside.
And out towards the Pleasure Park
A short way from the shore
There is The Boating Lake.
I love to go there on a still, sundowning evening
When the parking is free.
To walk those walkways around the lake,
Dreaming I’m on Starfleet Academy Campus.
Walkways flanked by lawned hillocks and shrubs.
The lake is fringed by red-flowered reeds
And punctuated by ducks and geese.
Families and couples roam about
As I sit in meditation
Watching and listening
To the central fountain play.
Such a tranquil scene,
Far from the madding crowd.
Go over the bridge and cross the mini-railway line:
Before you reach the saltmarsh and the sea
You’ll find a stretch of shrubbery and trees
A haven for the birds
And for me,
As I walk my favourite path.
The lake is thus a prelude
To some splendid growth
As nature does its thing.
Serene and tranquil everything
A spiritual feeling
As I meditate
Beneath multi-layered clouds
Under endless sky.
Paul Butters
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******** clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.
Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----
Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.
Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.
I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
It was like watching a butterfly change colour
to match the landscape; rather fetching I thought
Until the poppy bowed its head to avoid fire
in a red lawned field where the heroes fought.
The noise, the flashes and sparks were obvious
a new threat for the red scorched flower
dying a death, remembering again at the eleventh hour.
The petals were crinkled, its life an open book
the wind throws its power to the weather vein
The headstones paraded in rows deserve another look
never do we want to see this horror again,
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
This is the place where shadows never fall
the place that wilt and decay mean nothing
a tight informality of plants blooming
so old. so pale
See the trees in aspects of their leaves
yet no shadows cast, on the trimmed lawned grass
and where the crows once cried evening song
no more in this land, where shadows never fall
The chime of midnight bells of winter
in these days chime summer forever
and the burn that did hide holy call
is where the shadows never fall
BY Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
M. G.,
It was years ago in the A-frame,
beside a cold bachelor's lake
that was clogged with reflections
of raving burst-headed trees,
that we laughed as Jake threw up
the Genesee river in the midnight sink.
When you caught your breath
you told me how you had traveled,
how you'd found a woman and gone to her,
it was the most you'd ever shared with me.
But this letter cannot reach you, friend,
because Jake just told me that you died.
My head fills with the numberless times
I drove by your long-lawned house,
or knocked beers in a rampant yard
while fires fractured dull dark.
I consider that love is a terrible thing
when I see what it's done to my friends -
it didn't rise as sweet slow dough,
it wasn't a shyly signed valentine -
it was a Petri dish of troubled sleep
that bred malformed dreams;
it was a crocodile's jagged jaw-drag,
it was the dross of unwise prayers.
Well, hell: let this letter remind them all
of that barking laugh amid the stray pines
as Jake birthed a twilit river from his teeth.
Your Friend, Evan.
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC