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Julie Grenness Mar 2016
Oh, bucolic pastorale,
Dawn brings a carnival,
Golden-pink, sunrise hues,
What a wonder for our view,
Dawn draws back her veil,
Night vanishes, sunlight's grail,
Our skies aflame,
End nocturnal games,
Oh, bucolic pastorale,
Dawn brings her carnival.
Feedback welcome.
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
(Scene by the brook)*                                

He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
    and walked alone by its crystal stream
        welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.

Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
    a distant, cool and forbidding stage
        where few would embrace a pastoral dream.

He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
    with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
        (though fare rich enough for any age) .                

He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
    and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
        all "choired" together by his masterful art.

At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
    and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'

*July, 2006
Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before,
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
As hand in hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.

I’d revel this all with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

But clouds don’t talk out loud
And tell you all this about me,
Or rout me out of my dream
Not as real as they seem to be
These illusions often delight me
But rightly, dissipate in the breeze
Then, on my knees, I pray
There will be another day
That is just like this one
That has just begun.
Until then, I thank my luck
That what a buck can’t buy
Has just passed me by
Bringing good fortune
And a clear sky
To weary eyes.

I’d revel this all with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
I sit here on the side
Of my own long road
Listening to the memories
Of crickets and toads
As I remember back
To years of childhood
Spent feeling lucky
To be in the wildwood.

No car horns honking
No neighbors screaming.
No jarring realities to
Waken me from dreaming.
The breezes and the stars
The city kid changing gears
Creating a landscape that has
Resided in me through the years.

Ice cream socials and songs
Sung in the church nearby
Bringing tears to my eyes
But I did not know why.
Why did these simple folks
So very glad to be alive
Smile through the foment
Then go right on to thrive?

They had no television,
Some had radios to hear
They relied on Farmer’s Almanac
To help them through the year.
They made their way themselves,
Knew when to plant and to reap.
When to harvest and store food;
Early to rise and early to sleep

They had a car and a tractor
But seldom had to leave home.
They bought this farm
When they lost the urge to roam.
We didn’t go to movies then,
But weddings and funerals
Brought friends together;
Cousins aunts and uncles.

At summers end I went back
To the city I knew so well
And got used to being there
After a rather touchy spell.
The water tasted differently
And Grandma was a great cook.
So, a whole lifetime later
Those days deserve another look.
True story.
Joshua Levesque Jan 2019
A boy sits under an oak tree with an empty heart.

Far away, forest green wolves howl
Small foxes crawl under fallen logs

The boy cries, lost in thought, strange new feelings

He walks on a frayed tightrope.

Far away, a blue eyed girl walks
hand in hand with her mother,
they laugh, they pass a store,
they look inside the windows.

The boy feels his back on the tree.
The crying stops.
He hears soft haunting music.
He hears a distant animal.

He leaves.
(tongue in cheek
by this moldering geek.)

Thy marriage doth incurably ail,
even strangers would vouchsafe
     (with nary any cavil),
     and perhaps even avail
herself (sight unseen),
     with a moderate chance
     zee spouse might bewail
this bread crumb

     winner, chauffeur,
     bill payer latching
     on to mine tattered coattail
in an effort to
     sustain this misery loves
     company wedded
     harrowed distress,
     where future prospect

     appears dim (sum) mutt
     unlikely to curtail or halt
     this (mine button nose to the
     grind stone) pennilessness
     only promises inevitable derail
ment, since grow
     wing unflattering pessimism
     only harkens more (spiraling

     down rabbit hole re: abysmal)
     substantial hardship
     (possibly even homelessness),
     asper my remaining lifetime
     woeful struggle - as sigh exhale
before figuring out what to write
     for these ensuing
     lines, yet strongly anticipating zero

     lucky search for a female,
if this mister didst
     decouple from his caboose -
     whereat Abby Robin (the missus)
     will holler "VAMOOSE"
     as an opportunity to exit
     clear and present danger field
pinning optimism for a gal,

     who exhibits ambition,
     earns her own income
     (or per slim or fat chance
     might be independently wealthy),
     plus bing hearty and hale,
this chap communicates
     no outlandish fanciful
     general electric sponsored idea,

     which elaborate or general sketch
     for some ideal counterpart
     might immediately impale
any likelihood on
     a figurative crucifixion
hmm...maybe turning
     to a life of crime,
     and befriending a foul mouthed,

     heavily pierced, and
     tattooed in jail
professing pseudonymous party privy
     to access Swiss Bank accounts
     own much moolah - kale
as said in the narco
     world wide webbed trade,
     thus such laundered legal tender,

     would clearly evince
     natural "green thumb" talent
     in tandem with sharp (as a hawk)
     business acumen spiriting over
     financially choppy waters
     as doth a lugsail
with this aging
     baby boomer male

he generally steers
     toward straight and true
     analogous to an ace
     carpenter blindly hammering
     the head of a nail

pounding out frustration unsure
     if asking price over-scale
regarding negligible
     demand for preowned,
     housebroken, and domesticated fellow,
     whose demeanor pastorale.

— The End —