"pinker" poems - Hello Poetry

The grass flickers, as the Wind pushes it down, in A gentle but determined Motion, sweeping upwards to Swirl the blue-grey clouds Around the radio tower, before Dissipating into the milky Sky, which at this moment Is the lightest shade of Blue, an open innocent shade Of blue, like an angelic birthday Cake, the pinker clouds, whose Graceful tendrils embrace the Air, and dancing twirl across the Peaceful summer skyscape Down below them, the Emerald stalks of corn stand, Silent sentinels, awaiting the Coming of the dawn, they too Feel the pushing of the wind, but Brush it off, over their shoulders, And continue their silent watching On the sloping sides of the hill, the Growling pines, resplendent in their Glimmering needles, reflect the fading Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks, Beneath the horizon, and I watch them Silently on my bike, the only thing I can hear, is the swish of the wind, And the hum and whirring of the Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up The hill, and down the hill, and Around the posts that are meant To keep the cars from disturbing, this Peaceful walking path A while later, we crest a hill, now Having past the town, I see the work Of the persistent wind, the clouds Now whipped into a curling wave, Of pink and blue-black, spilling Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed Country houses, which are strangely Reminiscent of those old, red, barns Which would sit abandoned in Fields of perpetual wheat, and, Through the turning of the seasons, Would rot away into timbers, with No one left to remember, what They were, or why they remain Now we have ridden in a loop, my Bike clicks as I change gears, to Crest a hill and coast down, at high Speed, between the guard rails and The road, with the wind kicking Up behind me and whisking an Upcoming tree in to a fluttery Flurry of leaves and branches, while Below a stream cuts a field, and, Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto Pony, I think it was, that was just Standing there, as we rode past, Onto the cobblestones and around A bend, the group splits, some going A different route, but I want to come Back the way I came, and I ride Beside the highway, listening to The chirp of the crickets and the Hum of the wheels against the Cold, pavement, while up the hill The verdant pines bob their bows, Up and down, waving, waving, The crashing blue-black wave has Rolled, on past the tower now, it Is crashing down over the silent Sentinels, and I watch quietly as The wind rolls down the hill, and Whirls some leaves, making the Grass flicker in the setting sun.

0

Mar 1, 2012

Mar 1, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC

elizabeth-shield

A Bike Ride Through the Countryside

The grass flickers, as the Wind pushes it down, in A gentle but determined Motion, sweeping upwards to Swirl the blue-grey clouds Around the radio tower, before Dissipating into the milky Sky, which at this moment Is the lightest shade of Blue, an open innocent shade Of blue, like an angelic birthday Cake, the pinker clouds, whose Graceful tendrils embrace the Air, and dancing twirl across the Peaceful summer skyscape Down below them, the Emerald stalks of corn stand, Silent sentinels, awaiting the Coming of the dawn, they too Feel the pushing of the wind, but Brush it off, over their shoulders, And continue their silent watching On the sloping sides of the hill, the Growling pines, resplendent in their Glimmering needles, reflect the fading Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks, Beneath the horizon, and I watch them Silently on my bike, the only thing I can hear, is the swish of the wind, And the hum and whirring of the Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up The hill, and down the hill, and Around the posts that are meant To keep the cars from disturbing, this Peaceful walking path A while later, we crest a hill, now Having past the town, I see the work Of the persistent wind, the clouds Now whipped into a curling wave, Of pink and blue-black, spilling Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed Country houses, which are strangely Reminiscent of those old, red, barns Which would sit abandoned in Fields of perpetual wheat, and, Through the turning of the seasons, Would rot away into timbers, with No one left to remember, what They were, or why they remain Now we have ridden in a loop, my Bike clicks as I change gears, to Crest a hill and coast down, at high Speed, between the guard rails and The road, with the wind kicking Up behind me and whisking an Upcoming tree in to a fluttery Flurry of leaves and branches, while Below a stream cuts a field, and, Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto Pony, I think it was, that was just Standing there, as we rode past, Onto the cobblestones and around A bend, the group splits, some going A different route, but I want to come Back the way I came, and I ride Beside the highway, listening to The chirp of the crickets and the Hum of the wheels against the Cold, pavement, while up the hill The verdant pines bob their bows, Up and down, waving, waving, The crashing blue-black wave has Rolled, on past the tower now, it Is crashing down over the silent Sentinels, and I watch quietly as The wind rolls down the hill, and Whirls some leaves, making the Grass flicker in the setting sun.