"maytime" poems
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna,
And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start -
For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.
14.5k
Twice a week the winter thorough
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man's soul.
Now in Maytime to the wicket
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.
Try I will; no harm in trying:
Wonder 'tis how little mirth
Keeps the bones of man from lying
On the bed of earth.
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Maytime romance under the vernal lamp
of creation
Wrapped with invisible arms
Under the spell of sylvan charms
Appeasing lanes embellished-
with pink Begonia and baby-blue -eyes
Catalpa trees blushing in the marmalade sky
Strawberry thoughts , young lessons-
from green pinecones
Brandy freshwater branches fill river neighbor-
saplings
Nuthatch mothers sing of the day in sunflower gardens
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
If, in fragrant gardens blooms
the maltese rose
reminds us the shade of
Your Lovely Face
O Mary,
looking up to the twinkle of smiles
in the midnight skies
we see Your Eyes
O Merciful One
You're the Wonder of Heaven
Light of Creation
Mother of the One Who Shapes
Time. With You. Complete
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
*Momma Thrashers working song , familiar voice of hedgerow levity
Timeless tune of the Springtide brevity
Pitch perfect Maytime sun-kissed divinity
Songs of hope and lasting serenity*
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
This is a poem
made by her hand
a poem of marks
you can read
left to right
right to left
any which way
an ascemic script
it tells a tale
late in the day
beside a river still
sunlit clouds vast
in a Maytime sky
down on the mud
and shingled shore
these found things
arrived at her feet
as they do when
waiting for her
dear hand’s touch
upon their metalled
forms rusted and
rivered by the daily
tides the diurnal
wash and dry of
weather and watered
river mud-coloured
beside boats bedded
in the river bank each
plaqued to remember
thirty wooden boats in all
that plied a river’s journey
there and back once
to and fro now
charged up high
on Pulton shore
a motorized trow
a top-sail schooner
Edith and the
New Despatch
steel and concrete
barges Severn Collier
and Mighty Monarch
lying hard into the silt
a yard at rest
a grave of vessels
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
transcendent it was the first time
when it was of faint memory to touch
but voluminously told, exacting itself
like the pretense of the heaviest pages
the curve of your face the entry of light
through momentary indulgence
nerves their city buoys and the pedestrians
salt of skin in intense heat begging for details,
ways to sewerage of mind and previous blunders
and the purest landscapes of feeling,
the underpasses of eyelids where glances hit
first, stalk swiftly – to wait underneath their
shade in the fleeting Maytime sun
coming back with renewed fervor, remembering
that from there, waiting in that margin,
there are things that may only strike a potential
but never learned, memorized, collapsed into
the absolute, and that lostness is imperative
to the finding –
the river of eyes where pilgrims are in transit,
well-constructed like the mausoleum that
keeps its secret of hills and cathedrals
kept unmarred in the silence of your refusal,
pulled out to be nailed taut into origin
the blankness of your face taken as mechanism
of marvel – to whoever god drew lines on your face
and to whoever foolish wanderer would dare traverse
your collapsible bridges, the sonorous depth
of your being when back against the dash
of beating back to senseless origins,
your name similar to the prepared countenance
of Manila, passers-by in awe of your slow Moon
unraveling behind curtains for showerheads,
humming behind, a conversant tune
where not one being ignored and it was true
to the form of first whispers
this whole new world mapped out
made naked to the twisted augur of shadow
reared by light through innocence,
a whole city I know but cannot touch.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
In sweetness of maytime
Our Good Mother Mary
How gentle the notes of
Your Beautiful Name
How strong is the power
that brings forth the Word
from our hearts in hope
our praises give you
Greatest Honor
You're the Wonder of Heaven
Light of Creation
Mother of the One Who Shapes
Time, With You, Complete
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Pearl of the Indus,
January fades into February.
February slumbers in march on your lap,
I wonder what’s with the November criminals.
The waves of silence that
Hit our ears and eyes in October;
Did they get engulfed by the November criminals?
Late into the Maytime
January faded into February.
The flowers napped happily
As February bloomed it to march.
I understand if the flowers were stolen by the November criminals
But must they shroud the heavens too?
The little child wails along with sky and above
When the other children
Set them to fire.
November criminals;
What do you see in those November flower pots?
That you miss in march’s pots.
Do they have to crackle to bring joy in you?
Do they have to combust to bring life around you?
When they often take them away from you.
if you move with the moon every year,
why conceal it with your fog every night
during the five-day strike?
November criminals,
I’m afraid you can’t be contained.
The customs are bigger than the laws in our land.
Hopefully, you pass as a man-made disaster…
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Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC
There on the path
she stands,
the evening sun
sculpting her face
with light and shade.
An on-shore wind
has dressed the curls
in her hair and
between expressions
she’s composed,
in charge of herself,
hand on her camera,
almost a smile
on those petalled lips
he loves to brush
and rest his tongue
between and kiss,
and there behind her
a backdrop:
a river
on the ebb,
a shoreline path
of Maytime green,
and a sky of floating
cumulus mediocris.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
*Cherry blossoms,daffodils
tulips, Iris and Hyacinth.
and along the border
of my pathway.
***** and Peony
lupines forget- me -nots
and Oh! Lilac
I must not forget Lilac.
It was her favorite.
Today all the windows
are open the breath
of her flowers
that she loved so
are with me.
As perhaps so is she.
As our favorite month
of the year
Cascades in its merriment
of colors.
I whisper
Happy Springtime
My Love.*
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
We have now become this bleached wall exposed
to graffiti; you and I, lost in a vector dwindling somewhere
between flight and ground-woven footing.
Like only such delicate secret opens to tongued up
and thighed upon space – only nightscapes the air dares elope with,
but isn’t that what absence hands over, a roughed up winding
moonlight suspended in crunched ether, or something else
that bade sibilance of speech rammed in preterit?
A blossoming descends in Maytime, besmirched with dreams
collapsing on obelisks. The moment in which I thought you
to be devouring space, nurturing a whelm of heat squalled and
intent, fanning a spleen of intimation, riveting a conflagration.
Else it was before, sulking in the finagling quiet: truths hauled
out and carved to foists,
much room it was to differ a voice and fragment message,
staring at this world the first time and the last – all at once
in that rampaging instance, the rest of the world pinned down
before me.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
I need to write you a love poem.
No Maytime and flowers.
No June and moon.
But smoldering with passion
And heated desires
so much so
It will slow down time itself
to a motionless crawl
dragging out
the seconds into hours
Until you return to my bed.
Filling your thoughts with
Desire and lust.
As dangerous
as the surging rapids
of the mountain rivers
after the winter snow melts.
So intense
it burns away propriety
And we will feast
on its wild ancient flavors.
So encapsulating
upon reading its words.
You will unfasten your hair
as you drop everything else
and run to me.
And when we meet
No words
No words
No words
Let's not waste
our breath on words.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
*The Last of the Maytime blossoms.
By
Jude Kyrie
She opened her eyes
as the noise on the stairs
awakens her.
At least she is still
here she muses.
The cat mews
as the noise passes her
on the stairs
.
Even from the distance
to her room .
She can smell springtime
it is like a last gift.
The bedroom door opens.
And her fading senses
are overloaded
with beautiful fragrance.
It is Ben her husband
His arms are loaded
with branches of
cherry blossoms
in full bloom.
In her head for
just a single moment.
She is a little girl again
Wearing her
White communion dress.
In the background
Children’s voices
From a long past time
Singing softly
her favorite
May time Hymn.
"O Mary! we crown thee
with blossoms today,
Queen of the Angels,
and Queen of the May"
She was a child again
Walking along
a misty pathway.
Around her
the fragrant blossoms
proliferate the trees.
A beautiful lady
gently took her hand.
As she looked behind
her so far away.
She saw the room
Where she lay
as if in sleep.
Ben was kissing her goodbye.
But she was happy
She knew now
the kiss was only farewell
She would see him again.*
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
done over this afternoon I only have one image
and about you were many other surly things
all wrapped in the sudden heat of happening
through the clear eye of a diaphanous world.
inmost spring of an unreachable bud,
a raw material for hurt kept in the after-hour
of a dwindled morning charged to dark
moving with precise instep
rummaging for completion
underneath an untamed sky
left for claim but not entirely as to be free,
no remnant of the hour’s expensive thrill
where I do not find you in me,
as I am still down on your able ghost
pinning it down to where it will never
meet its breakable place:
a wondrous dawn, or the fever of Maytime afternoon,
in your most excellent clothes
or else it was simply desire
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
Say a prayer for happiness each night by the light of the Maytime Moon and Mother Nature will answer you with the fireflies of June...
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
I need to write you a love poem
My love.
Not Maytime and roses or lilacs in bloom.
But raging with heated passions
and darkest desires.
so much so that as you read it.
It will slow down time
to a motionless crawl
dragging out the seconds
Until you can return to my bed.
Filling your thoughts
with fire and blood red lust.
As dangerous as the charging rapids
of the mountain streams
after the winter snow melts.
as hot as the erupting lava of volcano.
So intense it burns away all propriety
As we feast on its wild ancient flavors.
So encapsulating
upon reading its words.
You will unfasten your hair
upon your shoulders
as you drop everything else in life
and run to me.
And when we again meet
No words
No words
No words
Let's not waste our breath
on words
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 10:44 AM UTC
*Requiem
By
Jude Kyrie
Tread softly for she lies below
in silent reverence quiet and low.
Above her now the flowers grow
And she can see me
this I know.
In her blooming maytime
She left this world
In youths glowing beauty
yet unfurled.
All that was shining
Is now to rust.
All that was beautiful
has turned to dust.
Too young to lose
Her woman's charms.
To soon to leave
my loving arms.
White as lilies
in the fields that grow.
Pure as the
freshly fallen snow.
No more to Hold
her to my breast
Gone forever
to her rest.
Never to hear
sweet music play.
All I love was
lost that day.
Lay me with her.
And cover me with clay.*
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
In the orchard cherry blossoms bloom
As pure as the fallen snow
The fragrant air sings a springtime tune
A melody we both did know.
I sit below our cherry tree
And reach out for your hand
The aching heart no one can free
The sadness I cannot stand.
fragrant breezes touch my face
As softly as you touched my skin.
I feel you so close my heart does race
And another maytime will begin.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
We will awaken from our deep slumber with new clarity
cleansed and healed.
We shall return to our weary world refreshed,
united in our losses and lessons learned.
We will remember them as the flowers that grow amongst the graves,
as Maytime thunder, deeply scarring and searing
we shall hold candles to their names,
burn ablaze the bright path ahead
It shall pass like a dream, nights of battling unseen beasts from beyond long gone,
dazed but knowing certain that it had passed.
The days will no longer bleed and blur into one another,
But rather, we shall step forth into blooming horizons renewed, refreshed
As long as the human spirit is not extinguished
The flame of hope shall be rekindled,
for now, spring is here -
And the world begins anew
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 4:47 AM UTC
The portrait of a lady
1926 London England
He was poor.
who needed a starving artist in this coldest of winters.
Spending his last few shillings
he bought a ticket to the play.
It was at the London hippodrome.
Staring Miss Abigail Kendrick.
He had read of her for years
in a theatre magazine
in the little country hamlet
that he had spent his whole life.
In the theatre she shone like the star she was.
Even when the spotlights faded
All that he could see
was the beautiful color
of her turquoise eyes.
In the second act
he was in love with her.
By the end of the play
he was besotted.
He went back to his tiny room
By not eating
he bought the paints and canvas.
Carefully mixing his colors
on the pallet.
he found the exact hue he sought.
The perfect turquoise of her eyes.
When it was completed
he thought it to be the pinnacle
of his work thus far in his life.
After the next show was over
he waited outside
by the theatre stage door.
Several Hours later
she appeared dressed beautifully
He stepped forward into the gaslight
from the flickering streetlamp.
You are the most beautiful creature
in gods creation he uttered.
I am in love with you
so much in love.
He passed the small painting to her.
And she took it from him.
It's ...it's.. so beautiful she whispered.
Not as beautiful as you milady
She kept the painting
for her whole life.
Always in a predominant position
in her stage dressing room.
She heard the artist had died
a few weeks later
after he gave her her picture.
2017 London
The young woman entered
.the old building in London.
Her great great grandmother
had passed on
she was left all of her possessions.
She was over 100 years old when she died
and the girl knew there
would not be much of earthly value.
But it was her duty to clear her apartment.
She saw the programs of the the plays
her great grandmother had been in.
Then she saw the painting
on her old mantle shelf.
It was so beautiful
a portrait
of her great great grandmother
in her maytime.
The eyes were dancing in the light
even now so turquoise
She had been a great beauty.
She looked at the name
of the artist in bottom corner.
It was signed.
With all my heart and love
Roger Donovan
Her heart stood still for a moment.
She had to call her own artist man
who had stolen her heart forever.
She. Pressed his name in her contact. List
Her cell phone sent the call.
The receptionist
at the art gallery answered.
Can I speak
with James Donovan please.
He answered the phone
He was excited rushing to tell her his news.
and said darling I have just completed
your portrait it is the best work
I have ever done.
I truly believe
I have the exact hue
of your beautiful turquoise eyes.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC