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In the silver light after a storm,
Under dripping boughs of bright new green,
I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks
Alone and high-hearted as if I were a queen.

What have I to fear in life or death
Who have known three things:  the kiss in the night,
The white flying joy when a song is born,
And meadowlarks whistling in silver light.
jane taylor May 2016
running
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness

i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
transfixed
we meld palpably
whispering our essence

myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence

dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels

yellow-bellied birds
hover
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans

my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
ancient chiming

a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers

hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving

essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations

rushing home
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest

©2016janetaylor
Colten White May 2016
Wind whirling around prairie fence-posts,
a few weeks after winter’s last frost
was melted away,
replaced by white flowers that whipped
and flipped in spring’s fresh breath.
Like waves frothing in an ocean bay,
the fine, flirty song of a Meadowlark
is willed into the world,
and frolics through the windy hills.
Glen Brunson Feb 2013
they packed a patchy satchel
with enough snacks
to feed a child army
of two,
trekked though
green-blue forest
spackled with firefly flecks
and second hand moss.

came to a resting spot
on the shores of Mirror Lake
the one place
picnic tables were not

and they ate

in the jagged reflection
of solemn pine trees
he mumbled 12 years of secrets
through a confession booth
of nougat
spat out the seeds
winced at black jelly beans
and she
rested on his knobby knees
sighing with the breeze
face upturned to catch
downward droplets of moonbeam

he was a half-formed pinecone
dangling in the quiet dark
she was some kind of meadow lark
whistling the dawn

no one forgot love after that
no one could remember
what lonely tasted like
anymore.
Half-inspired by the film "Moonrise Kingdom"
Don Bouchard Jun 2014
Art Bouchard,
My father,
Never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot...
Recounted fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Art Pribnow,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(Dad was very sure he won).

My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Worn diesel pistons
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps,
Sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.

Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of meadowlarks and robins.

Fifty years later,
Dad laughed in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Started up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out first?'"

Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier
To be the first to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I never heard.

These battling neighbors
Even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore
As early became earlier
in the little farmers' war.

One day in town,
By happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But old Art Pribnow shook his head,
Grabbed my dad's hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness
Before one of us is dead!
I don't know about the hours you keep,
Or what got in our heads,
But I admit, I need my sleep!"

The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a little while,
As, "The Early, Earlier War."
I remember with a smiling sadness this story told by my father, now gone two years, about a little "friendly war" he and our neighbor, Art Pribnow, engaged in during spring planting time. The year would have been around 1959 or 1960, when I was just a baby. The story still makes me smile. I hope you enjoy it.
Alyanne Cooper Jul 2014
Dust-covered two-lane highways
Catch the footfalls of my meanderings.
Meadowlarks and Phoebe-birds
Sing backup to my tuneless whistles.
Clouds illuminated by God-rays
Paint the sky above my head
And the Man in the Moon
Smiles as I bed neath a willow for the night.

I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***.
The iron wrought train tracks
I secretly ride pass through the fields,
The forests, the mountains and valleys,
The cities and suburbs, the small towns too,
Home to so many who choose there to dwell.
But my home is the open countryside,
The fields of wildflowers and bushes,
The occasional oak or poplar for shelter,
With a stone for my pillow
Anywhere I wish to rest.

I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***.
I am the outsider.
On the cold solstice
the velvet magnet
of Luna's magic
pulls

quietly urges

whispering
gentle spells
into dreamy ears

compelling
her lover
to rise
quixotically
coaxing
him from
the warm sleep
of winters
first night slumber

she summons
a willing lover
inviting him
to follow
her stark
alluring light
illuminating
the lonely blackness
of a bleak universe

her
seductive powers
transcends distances of
a thousand solstices

her
resounding light
a sure mark
braces any weakness
emboldens desire
guiding the bidden
to unforeseen
destinations

standing
in your presence
my face is flush
reflected by your
resplendent light

my heart
broiled
by your
vexing
radiance

the roiling tide
of a midnight reverie
ebbs
as my
earthen shadow
begins to pass
over your
indelible
whiteness

I witness
my dark countenance
eclipse your light

defiling you
fearing
to forever
mark your
effervescent silver
with the baseness of me

without shame
your smile
allays my fear

you understand
you anticipated
the expression
of my
coy reticence

a sweet chant
sings
unencumbered
reveries
gently
reassures
you've danced
through many
moonlit nights
with eager lovers
only to return again
in virginal whiteness
across the
endless cycles
of time

released
relieved
abandoning
all restraint
now
I
summon you

my blackness
your whiteness
breeds a
sensuous
orange
sweeter
then an
open mango

she rules the sky
a celestial monarch
forcing Mars into
a sheepish retreat
commanding
mighty Orion
to sheave his sword
while
Venus
seethes
with envy

my form
begins to swallow
your lines
and
soft curves

my blackness
disappears
into
inviting cracks

falling into
dark creases
the soft billows
sweet mounds
voluptuous craters
gay playgrounds
for my mouth
mysterious hillocks
eagerly explored
with hands and
limbered fingers

a quixotic Eros
the scent of spice
swells in my head

everything
enveloped
like a
holy ghost
playfully gaming
hide and seek
radiantly moving
through
darkened canopies
of a lush forest

nostrils fill
with
tang of spice
a scent
of Caribe

face buried
in thick tresses
of maddening blackness

becoming unhinged
by eyes speaking
a thousand languages
as lips whisper
joyous whimpers

a silent kiss
of an orange lit night
writhing bodies
splayed together

ravenous tendrils
shape sloping
cloud pillows

quivering lips
unveil smiles of
alabaster pearls

mocha darkness
sambas through
the night

she exhales
her lovers name

Luna bathes
her cinnamon curves
in delicious
mango light
offers generous
dollops
of ******

peeking
baying
drifting
I cast off
onto a sea
of lucid dreams

drinking from
a dark aureole
as the tresses
of her
sweetened nest
moistened my member
in a sacred communion
to a hungry lovers mouth

her dancers legs
slim, supple
unbounded
and open
sweet to taste
smooth
so soft
to touch

the fullness
of our rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha

light steps
close caress
kinetic commotion
wild laughter
fills the sails
of bold schooners

Luna's smile
commands
the seas
to heave

un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta

the lavender sky
of the mornings
twilight
inspire
Meadowlarks
to herald
the emerging day

still
drunkenly swigging
loves nectar
sleep creeps closer

confessing
small regrets
she fell
victim
to passion again

Luna
comes back
to her lover
pets his chest
with delicate fingers

in a voice
as light as air
she sings
a poem
into his ear
of passionate nights
beauteous art
longing to express
heartfelt truths

The mango consumed
Luna's whiteness returns

my shadow recedes
into inconsequential
nothingness

naked
I stood
sadly witnessing
the dark horizon
overtaking
my fleeing lover
swallowing her
in tiny bits
as morning drops
a final veil
over the face
of a now
vanished love

Music Selection
Grant Green, Moon River

jbm
Oakland
1/19/11
Alex Jul 2020
Like Meadowlarks upon the wheat
Who's songs speak of truth
I lay upon the field of gold
I lay there as if mute
Their songs can be heard from miles around
A sweet song they sing
For the memories of lovers lost
Is a...all to familiar sting
I reach out to grab the sun which leaves me in despair
The memories of what has gone is to much for one to bear
The breeze bring a simple touch...a kiss upon my face
But quickly does it remind me of this vast empty space
I lay here upon this field...that dirties my clean shirt
The stains of which I've earned... remind me of the hurt
Dear sweet meadowlarks sing me your songs of joy
For all that's left of me... is a lost little boy
Stephan Oct 2016


I write these poems
for only one reason
I don’t care the day
or the time or the season

If flowers are blooming
or skies are bright blue
If meadowlarks sing midst
the fresh morning dew

If butterflies float
on a warm summer breeze
Or moonlight reflects
off of calm evening seas

If snow flurries fall
ever soft on the ground
Or musical whispers
are flitting around

If day turns to night
or night turns to day
If it starts to rain
washing it all away

If the sunrise is coming
or stars glow above
I write these poems
so she knows she is loved
Ok, I know this isn't one of my best but
sometimes you just need to tell her she is loved, because...she is.
Elexer Jan 2016
Meadowlark, fly your way down
I hold a cornucopia and a golden crown
For you to wear upon your fleecy down

My meadowlark, sing to me

Hummingbird, just let me die
Inside the broken ovals of your olive eyes
I do believe you gave it your best try

My hummingbird, sing to me

Don't believe a word that I haven't heard
Little children laughing at the boys and girls
The meadowlark singing to you each and every day
The arc light on the hillside and the market in the hay
Meadowlarks - Fleet Foxes
Don Bouchard Feb 2012
My father,
Who never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot,
Recounts fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(He's very sure he won).

My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Diesel International tractor cylinders
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps and sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.

Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of robins and meadowlarks.

Fifty years later,
Dad laughs in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Starting up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out earliest?'"

Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I haven't heard.

They even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore.
As early became earlier
In the little farmers' war.

One day in town,
Entirely by happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But the neighbor shook his head,
Grabbed his hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness.
I don't know about you,
But I need my sleep."

The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a while,
As "The Early, Earlier War."
Stephan Aug 2016
.

A friend of mine just questioned
what inspires me to write
They know I'm writing poems
every morning, noon and night

I answered with a chuckle
saying, “I don’t have a clue
In fact right at this moment
I’m not sure what I will do

I looked outside my window
it’s the same as yesterday
Traffic lights and restaurants
and people on their way

I listened to some music
but I’ve heard that song before
And I don’t really like it
it’s a tough one to endure

I took a walk through nature
past the flowers and the trees
But allergies are killing me
all I could do was sneeze

I typed some words in sequence
to see if they would rhyme
And ended up deleting them
a total waste of time”


Then I saw their smile
I thought, now there’s a thing
I like when people smile
and the happiness they bring

There’s joy in that expression
like spring will soon arrive
It lifts another’s spirits
and makes them feel alive

Thoughts of sunny mornings
begin to float around
Maple leaves and meadowlarks
and dew drops on the ground

That very special person
who lives inside your heart
And just how much you love them
even when you are apart

I started feeling better
as my face now wore a grin
And when I looked up at the screen
I saw one once again

For now I knew the answer
and I told them oh so true
*“It seems today my inspiration
came from seeing you”
Don Bouchard Mar 2017
I heard my mother's song,
Sounds of breakfast,the kitchen radio,
Smell of bacon on the rattling stove,
Heard the slapping wood and wire screen door.

Window open to the sounds of birds:
Liquid flute-songs of meadowlarks,
Chirruping robins on the lawn,
Raucous coughing calls of crows,
The rooster bragging out his strutting call.

Breezes lifted the wet scent of sod,
The ever present smells of earth fresh tilled,
And musty odors of last year's hay.
Life on the farm moving twilight to day...
Everything conspiring to call me to play.
Don Bouchard Oct 2016
The prairie sun hung low,
Slipping toward the hill,
Just touching the top of the lone cottonwood
Leaning away from the country road.

He stood in the doorway,
Removing the tattered chore coat,
Taking off his muddy boots,  
Saw his mother,
Standing, looking out the window,
Half expectant in her pose,
Half turning toward him,
Where he stood.

She'd looked out that window
More than 25,000 times, he figured,
Watching the ends of days,
Year after year,
Storms coming, or no,
Soft breezes blowing,
Opened, she'd listen to the prairie sounds:
Coyotes and owls at night,
Meadowlarks and roosters in morning,
Hawks shrieking and cicadas by day,
And people sounds:
Children and grandchildren laughing, crying,
Neighbors closing the latch and coming near,
Her husband, clearing his throat...
The memories returned at the window,
While she was standing there.

Through the galvanized screen the world filtered in:
Earth-rich scent of coming rain,
Strong tobacco smells of men lounging after lunch,
New-stacked hay beside the barn,
Springing grass and budding trees....

She'd waited at that window, too,
For her husband to return,
Or one of the ten boys and girls
She'd birthed and raised in this old house.
At 97, she was nearly blind,
Could only hear a little,
Spoke seldom now,
Covered her swollen legs with a woolen blanket,
Even in the heat of summer.

Her idea of exercise were precarious journeys:
The toilet,
The table,
The bed,
Her old easy chair,
And the western window.

He, the youngest son, a bachelor,
Comical in his words,
Steady in his ways,
Owned an easy-going laugh that set his friends at ease,
Careful in his manners, never meaning to impose,
Ever ready to lend a neighbor a hand,
Became the one to stay with "Mother,"
After his father died the lingering death
Of a man who'd lived to groan that he'd
Survived a bull's trampling.
(Well, "survived" was just a word, meaning
Prolonged misery preceding untimely death.)

"Mother, what you lookin' at?" he asked,
Fresh in from chores,
Wanting supper,
Knowing vinegar pie and hamburger hotdish
Were waiting in the oven
Because he'd placed them there.

"It must be time for breakfast!"
She turned from the window,
One frail finger pointing at the sun,
Struggling now in the branches of the tree,
"The sun is coming up!"

He stood behind her.
"Where does the sun come up every day, Mother?"
He asked softly.

She looked at him, confused.

"Yer lookin' out the west," he spoke again,
"The east is over there."
He pointed to the other side of the house,
And she, uncertain, looked again
At the dying sun, now setting,
Easing carefully into the western pool of night.

A few high clouds glowed red, tinging now in grays.

"Sun's going down, Mother, and nearly time for bed."

He put the plates on the table,
Walked her to her place,
Helped her sit,
Scooped their plates and cut slices
Of the home-made pie.

Red sky at night meant he might get the last
Few truckloads off the home place tomorrow
Before wind or storm flattened everything to the ground.

Tonight it was supper and settling his mother to bed,
Washing some dishes, and putting things away,
Before some reading and a solitary evening...
Before the coming of another day.
http://allrecipes.com/recipe/12228/vinegar-pie-i/
Jack Apr 2015
~


I saw soft eyes on the promise fueled sunset
Coffee dark skies in a marmalade blush
Pastels now tinted of wayward decisions
Meadowlarks sing in a smooth whispered hush

Corn field desires drain simplistic notions
Run with me there down the row ever straight
Listen,  our hearts speak in feathered emotions
Love stands to prove it is never too late
Jonny Angel May 2014
I saw you at the county fair
& I knew I had to have you.
Your skin so fair,
you walked as if
you were on air,
every eye was upon you
as the minstrel
played romance.

Our eyes spoke volumes,
I was consumed
by your loveliness
& quickly we agreed
to meet
secretly
in the shadows,
just up the cobblestoned street.

When the sun set
& the stars showed
their pretty little faces,
I gathered myself
& headed toward that place,
the place of our fiery embrace.

I melted again
when I saw you
& held you ever so close.
my fingers undid your lace
& I was swept into you,
determined to leave my mark.

The noises we made
startled the meadowlarks
& I filled you
with my good pleasure.

O how I love the county,
fair maiden!
JJ Hutton Oct 2010
Children,
all of me was all for you,
from towers I commended,
from basement I sympathized,
and god,
how I find all of me,
missing all your adoring stares.

I stood by,
I watched your birth in the garden
all those years ago,
and how your cries floated to heaven,
and how heaven answered with meadowlarks,
I handed you the apple,
I kissed your brow,
you would coo and grasp my coat,
I felt love, you felt vital.

I waged war,
with all the saints and arthouse critics.
We drank their blood by the moon
and our temperate speech
did flow from the fount,
under the table we were,
grew we did,
proper adolesence looking for
classical supremacy.

And Children,
I know the darkness was always creeping,
crippling every satellite, every sandy shoreline,
withering us in mirror,
you asked if the tide could claim us,
I patted your shoulder,
kissed your hand,
there is no enemy capable of victory,
oh, how the prophets betrayed me.

When your compliance was absolute,
when our neighbors pledged allegiance,
when I crushed the throats of Solomon, Gilgamesh, and
the sons of Zeus,
leagues made banners,
few made poison.

I gave you slaves,
girls, and sport.

I gave you a voice,
blankets, and victims.

The crowd and chants,
my pride and concubines,
the grass never faded,
nor the flowers wilted.

Children,
why did the publications turn against me?
I erased the existence of all you wanted dead,
I gave you dreams,
I gave plenty to sup,
plenty to remain drunk,
Children,
why did the prophets lie to me?

The priests carried daggers,
preyed upon me,
prayed for my passing-by,
the stares were there,
empty of adoration,
only hungry for my sacred blood.

I watched seas of my own,
pull down every cast,
my form laid to waste
on the streets I built under your feet.

My royal guards
chained my hands,
I could only stare at my blue veins,
my royal guards,
dragged my feet,
and in the senate they made me watch,
as my record was blotted out.

As the sun set,
the streets were lit
by effigy.

As the sun set,
I found myself in
the garden.

I stood straight,
back to a stake,
all eyes on me,
all shouts for me,
all the rage,
effigy, effigy,
they poured pitch at my feet,
they said prayers and incantations,
the flowers were in full bloom,
and the sound of buzzing flies buried
the cries.

I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Now history's vapor,
I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Copyright Oct. 15, 2010 by J.J. Hutton
Don Bouchard Jul 2015
I'd suffer four long years
Before I set a letter on the page...
I'd sob a hundred times,
Waking from repeated dreams of you,
The daughter I have lost,
Running into my arms, and
Our tears mingling
Over the wasted years,
Only to realize that dreams
Are only dreams
To remind me of my longing,
Not yours.

If I were to write you a poem,
I'd tell you that sorrow cuts me still,
Even though my heart is turning stone,
That parts of me are fading out to gray...
That family isn't whole while one of us is still
Away.

If I were to write you a poem,
I'd say the old stool you loved
Stands waiting,
Your handwriting still claiming it
As yours,
Though you have left it here
These years.

But how shall I write a poem
When the leaves of spring are glittering,
And when meadowlarks are singing,
And work calls me out to take the agony away?

Perhaps in fall,
When leaves begin their grim descents,
And winds drive chilling clouds of gray,
As mournful sounds of geese in southern vees
Cast gloom upon the dwindling days,
Perhaps in fall I'll take my pen,
And try to write a poem for you
Again.
Mournful Biding
Mary McCray Apr 2017
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 3, 2017)

This is the elegy for the one I didn’t know.
This is the elegy for my lack of knowing.

All the others said things
and you said things to all the others
who have each said things I remember.

But to me you could not speak.
You could not move your mouth or tongue.
You were like Frankenstein that way,
full-hearted shuffling, full-throated lumber
to the bathroom, to the dinner table.

And sitting with you alone
I was always afraid of what you’d say—
those words that were not words,
could not be words, the wordless long vowel.

You were a powerful existence even then.
Because you were big—you smiled big,
you walked big, you slid heavily
into the hearts of your heirs.
You said things they still smile over.
They tell me these things.

They tell me a pack of horses ran with you
along the fences, along the stark plains,
running along the headlights and the hearse,
running over the packed caliche dirt
toward the graveyard out on the mesa
where the meadowlarks sing like a wild tribute.
Because you were a beacon to the larks
and the horses always loved you.
This is what they said.

You could not speak anymore.
And you and I cannot speak anymore.
It is only the horses who are full of words.
Napowrimo 2017: Write an elegy centered around a signature phrase of theirs.
JJ Hutton Jan 2011
lucid in America,
     lazy, loose,
ladies of marble, hearts of stone,
the clouds are gathering,
     the trees sparse,
     coarse winds cool, collide,
realign the telephone lines,
smoke exits the nostrils in good time,
     three-piece suits,
     hard handshakes,
     heydays and hollidays both end in headaches,
lucid, loose, tight as a feather,
     riding the Times and drinking  empty cups,
     full and flavored, gentle, gentle,
     the melody is quaint,
     but the melody will play,
sing easy, kissing the graves,
the skeletons are lonely, ask them to stay,
brief and brittle, the remnants of the middle,
quake and make me realize the end has and always
will be nigh,
    egotripping brothers and daughters at pearly gates,
    walking crates half in dismay, half soaked in rays,
interlaced, tracing barefoot on interstates,
humming with the meadowlarks, humming at the dark,
sometimes we're art,
mostly we're stark,
      dancing and dying at once,
      trival yet trying, the beauty we're still buying,
      lucid, free, and easy,
knowingly drifting the pains, the plains
      of America.
Copyright 2011 by J.J. Hutton- From Anna and the Symphony
Josh Koepp Apr 2013
Is it safe to cross the meadows you knew as a child?
the ones with the meadowlarks and the sparrows
and not fear that somewhere in the dark
is some stark night terror coming
to tear you apart

and you thought you left that behind some yesteryears ago
in the dark spaces in your closet
where you kept your toy chest
Stephan Aug 2016


"There is nothing more beautiful than the poetry I see in her smile"
- Stephan


Her smile is the sunrise that greets me each morning
aglow the horizon in shades of the dawn
The fragrance of jasmine a flow on the breezes
and shimmering dew drops that play on the lawn

A hot cup of coffee with cinnamon doughnuts
while walking through nature where meadowlarks sing
As soft as the petals of roses now blooming
where butterflies welcome the coming of spring

The shade of an oak tree so cool in the summer
with sunflower fields on a sky ever blue
As white cotton clouds float in shapes to discover
and skipping a stone is the best thing to do

Her smile is a poem of euphoric phrases,
written affection in mesmeric rhyme
The song in my mind that is forever playing,
desire filled lyrics to always be mine

A tangerine sunset on ribbons of satin
that gather each day at the far western skies
The stars in the heavens that dance in a moon beam
to wish me good night before I close my eyes

Then every dream that my sleep now entices
to cradle my heart in a wonderful style
All that is beautiful, all that is precious
and all that I love can be found in her smile
Chris Jul 2015
~

Soft sunrise whispers
on apricots glow

Tangerine breezes
outside gently flow

Waking to beauty
my eyes they do see

Finding the one that
I love next to me

Dew drop concertos,
a meadowlarks sings

Pastel desires
on butterfly wings

Gazing at you as
you lie there asleep

These are the moments my
heart loves to keep

Daffodil dreams and
a sunflower wish

Warm blanket hugs with
a good morning kiss

Rose petal fragrances
cool on the wind

This is how every
*day should begin
Good morning beautiful
JJ Hutton Apr 2016
Have you been to the mountain?
No no no. But
I've been under the bridge, Mr. Jones.
I've washed my feet in Cottonwood Creek.
I've named the meadowlarks after ex-girlfriends.
Suzanne. Isis. Mel-oh-dee.
Some mornings I woke up in places I'd never
been and on those mornings,
oh I woulda killed for a pen.
The fog and the
steady gasp of diesels
surrounded me and sang sang sang.
Tall grass along the interstate
and god, he didn't talk to me,
but I pretended to be god and talked
to myself, saying This way. This way.
This way to the promised land.
On what I thought to be
the Fourth of July, mud dried
around my knees in the Quapaw,
and I stood up for four days straight before
the rains came.
And finally, in the golden dawn,
I arrived at my childhood home.
Ivy on the chimney. Rusted trike in the overgrown lawn.
My father sat in his chair. Static on the TV.
He said, "Haven't done yourself in yet?"
My mother, in cobwebs and rags said, "He's got
one classic in him, one heartbreaking work
of genius before he goes."
And I asked her for a title.
She only pointed.
I turned and that's when I saw her,
the Girl at the Gate.
Rose Sep 2015
November and May, opposites but
Somehow we're the same
Except that I am so desolate
When you're in full bloom
The wind still blows
It's just the temperatures that change.
In November, the birds don't want to stay
The leaves have already left
And the wax on the candle has estranged our strange skies
As we hide behind the last shiver of the impatient Thanksgiving flame
Still, May's meadowlarks are able to sleep at night
As their woven nests rest
In between the young buds
And May's thumb flicks the flame bright.
But if I can't sleep in the sound dejection of November
Then I don't think I'll make it till May.
Abaigeal Skye Apr 2014
Dew drops cling to grass blades like newfound friends,
Sunlight melts into a robin’s egg dome.
Bumper to bumper- glistening bugs wait,
The bright shades of green open the flood gate.

Fog covers the city with a grey sheet,
Dimming street lights give their nonchalant winks.
Soft breeze makes branches bow, waving goodbye,
Corn stalks seem to whisper as you ride by.

Meadowlarks converse in an elm somewhere,
Small talk and yawns fill the thick morning air.
David W Clare Oct 2016
By: D. Clare

Her voice like a meadowlarks song

A rain pond filled with sweet cherry blossoms
Smiling summer clouds hovering above the farm land skies...

Gumdrop flavored flowers summon her up to the sugary hills

Visions of a garden grow, rainbows and dew drenched cat-tails glow...

Sunburst splashes it's orange nectar fruit until midnight hootie owls swoon

Sing us all to sleep upon grassy moon-beam beds soon...

(C) in perpetuity all rights reserved by the author

(P) FilmNoirWorks

--
Picnic Basket Poetry manuscript
(C) David Wayne Clare
In perpetuity
Nova May 2014
Heed the meadowlarks cry
You are worth more than you think
I want you with me
But
You push me away
As if I am nothing more than the worm being eaten
By the meadowlark
And you sit by
Watching me being devoured
You aren't the only one suffering
Meadowlarks in the canebrake
Twilight hints with fuchsia trickery
Animated waning Moon , sylvan
troubadours in perfect tune
September Season of the Witch ,
Barn Owls cry out in perfect pitch
Starlings crowd field barns , Mockingbirds
spin Ghostly yarns , brown leaves crumble
in the eerie wind , Stallions whinny sending
shivers across bare skin
Cowbells clang in the pitch black night
Coyotes howl from the hillside
Tin roofs clap under their own power
Wind chimes sparkle and call , hour after hour* ....
September 4 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
Feeling rather melancholy,
I walked a country mile yesterday.
Ants followed me stride for stride,
there was a rattlesnake hidden
off to the side, buzzing his fair warning.
Up ahead, rabbits frolicked on the path
with the meadowlarks calling.
A gentle rain fell on the ground
all around me with the sound of
distant thunder,
I cried,
surrounded by the bucolic,
a soft-breeze tussled my hair
& no longer sad.
Torin Feb 2016
I came to find out
Your not what I thought you were
And I'm sorry
I never should have expected so much from you

Bullets, bullets
Love them all
I lift you up
To watch you fall

I've figured it out
That its all my fault
And I'm sorry
I should only expect that much from myself

Rainbows, rainbows
In the dark
The song of magpies
And meadowlarks

And this caterpillar becomes not what I thought
Not what I expect
I lift you up
Tom McCubbin Apr 2015
This tall pile I push around
each day is riddled with
strange and curious holes
that allow life to flow in
and out of me.

I use them every day
with hardly a question.
They report back to me
on outside conditions:

meadowlarks, darkening clouds,
pink salmon sizzling in
kitchen hot water.
I write that stuff down.

Through the holes
and into my pondering
words, these holes
turning flesh to word.
curious pondering writing flesh words
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
Them crows
are some real jokesters.
Cawing back and forth,
swirling above
the forest treetops,
allowing the jays
to play dive bomber
with their gang,
then cawing
like crazy
again,
moving on
to trouble
the meadowlarks.
Braylynn Holt Feb 2016
the mouth of life gaping
for a warm wave of whisps
underlying sun captured
making an accomplice
vines weaving upon her shoulder
pink flowers intertwined with her crimsoned hair
pouring kerosine on the woodened Fire
for that's the warmth she yearned
meadowlarks having vivid conversations
wishing she could fly to the clouds
smelling pines rolling the breeze
watery drop scatters the freckles
fore the day is sad; grimacing
the girl with the crimsoned hair
returns back, for a cup of tea gladly relinquished.
Enchanted Hours With You

All beauty shall be mine today
for one enchanted hour,
I'd like to write about happy things
like how the clouds love the rain ,
the birds love to sing in the spring morning ,

A loving glance at summers romance
But even if I'd known such things I will
still dance in the winter rain;
It's simple and it's my love that gives
me the look that everyone loves on me,

All beauty is mine today;
for one enchanted hour with you,
the sun shines with glean in the morning
view of me and you,

For when I'm hurt, or in a mood of crying
rain, even the trees and flowers come out
In the rain, Sometime I shut myself away
I'm furiously writing way with lovers pains when
you had to go on your way,

It's impossible to hide what I feel,
It’s you that can reveal what I feel even dancing
in the rain at break of dawn to meadowlarks,
at dusk to whippoorwills,

Now I am jealous of spring's rain because our
Love is lost in it , This love is full of your charms
When you were holding me in your love;

I would never share this love with no other
then you, so, see I have left you this note for
only you to read and hold ,my short hours with
you are like a beautiful love song of spring.

Poetic Judy Emery © 1980
Emily B Mar 2016
You’re whispering secrets to stars
and I’m warbling love songs
to confused meadowlarks.

Tennyson is too romantic
for a fool like me.

Maybe I should keep to my tower--
busy fingers making seams
no one can see.

Even if there are curses.

I will still walk
through the green valley
holding a valiant hand.
contemplating various paintings that memorialize the Lady of Shalott
Larry Schug Mar 2018
I remember that day
as if it was a painting-
two giggling little girls
wearing party dresses,
cautiously feeding horses
carrots and dandelions
from open hands.
The sky is vast and blue;
woods and fields
dress in every green there is.

The songs of meadowlarks,
raucous calls of crows
and the humming of honeybees,
crawling all over the clover
blend into intricate harmony
while a herd of a hundred horses
swish tails and shake manes
at buzzing flies.
The little girls laugh every time
a horse’s lips tickle their hands
in search of another dandelion.

— The End —