Fern in Spring

dew drop

Beneath the gentle dew of spring, I wait…
Resolved to yearning, lengthening my patience in this state…
Droplets hold their morning spark, all my world reflected here,
as sunbursts gain corona gold, horizon’s azimuth waxing near…

Aaahhh! This rush! Beckoned by returning day,
stands my leaflets, once reposed, called into the sun to play.

Ah! This breath of dawning glory!
Ah! This heart in season’s fold.
Teaching me another story of winter’s whisper aging old…

In stretching bliss, my passion this, one fleeting push through softened soil,
in dew drop’s sparkled smile on me, my heart bursts glad in how I’m spoiled…

Ah! Spring!

photo courtesy public domain

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The Willow of Spring Creek

Held at bay through length of day, dismissed by early spring,
yet frost and cold deny there hold beneath sun’s burgeoning.

Splashing leaflets grace her locks poised in grace above the brook,
begging soft the warming soil with every sun beam’s kissing look.

Transfixed in subtle ether’s air, no time, no sense, no questions there…
She sings a psalm’s eternal phrase, caressing whispers through her hair.

Solely reverent angel she, held above the naked oak,
blushing green from what she feels and what the babbling waters spoke…
of ancient incantation, splashed in muse’s spell transpired,
so blessed her sensuous limbs adorned while others dream of hearth and fire.

Dancing in the hushing breeze, swaying arms and rolling hips,
smiling high above the stream, reaching with her fingertips.

Softly humming lullabies, dreaming of her summer’s play,
when long her hands entice the rill, casting rivulets with her sway.

Yet today at season’s cusp, she coyly courts the warming sun,
keeping watch o’er pebbled brook, softly singing to its run.

Showing all her subtle green that daylight’s length might love her so,
she stands to witness winter’s fade, waiting for the ones she knows.

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An Angel’s Lament

Find me, where lonesome weeping echoes drift across the battlefield.
Find me, beyond the graves of fellows, whose wounds were never healed.
Find me, when only silent hearses search the lea for those who might remain.
Find me, upon the crest of death himself, within the blood there dried and stained.

My thunder echoed loudly, when once decision’s tide was run.
My heart grew cold and cloudy, at first blow lain till last shriek done.
My soul, in fluttered reservation, drew duty from the tangled limbs.
My God, sincere, no hesitation, to drift these men on wings to Him.

Know me, where e’er tension seeks lost men, stemmed from egos large and bold.
Know me, standing frozen in the field, ten steps beyond the forest’s hold.
Know me, waiting, watching, duty bound, to catch your fall, mend your remorse.
Know me, shadowed through the killing ground, hitching hearse to death’s good horse.

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Ink Me!

quill-and-ink

This page defies my aching pen, smears the blotted stain I rend from out its holy genie’s lamp, cold and coughing, moist and damp… yet here between each stolen pause, I dance, I sing, I gestate cause to linger long in separation, bound to morsel’s reparation caught between elixir’s truth… sipped again, glazed in proof…. Aha!

“Page me!” yet again I yell, toward this staggered nib and well, “Page me past this floundered try that calls tomorrow’s post I cry!”

Turning toward another blank white sheet of hope, in blue lined rank, I stagger from this drunken poise to still the fire, quell the noise that drifts in hints of winter’s wind around the quill and errant pen…

“Ink me, please kind muse of love! Ink my hand, my soiled dove that draws a drunken prayer poor, draws past lust and sullen whores! Ink me!!!!”

Alas the cloud of rum and lust have rendered useless this book and stuff, that tho’ I carry where e’er I’m bound, tonight just spirit can be found, and so I turn to cork and crook, stay the pen, close the book and drink until all’s taken back, the words, the rhyme, the poem in slack… drink me!

Prompt by dVerse poets pub https://dversepoets.com/.
Our host, Lillian, asked that we write a poem and “verbify”. Basically creating a verb out of a noun, or some other element of grammar. I managed to get a little carried away.
Enjoy!

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Histories’ Fortitude

labour

Deny me not this fleeting moment, forged form pain in workday spent!
Deny me not the chance to grasp this truth in passing as it’s rent
from in the flagging husks of time where captured souls of labour fall.
Embrace my soul in words unspoken that from their pallid ashes call
the clarity of a hopeful love, the danger in the risen beam,
the tensiled courage plans to build a nation’s growing dream.

What strength imbibes these few of honor?
Who engineers each step they take?
Where do they rest their inner spirit
when all is done for finished sake?

Long past have these ennobled men graced our living spirits’ truth!
Their iron will and honesty, left in structures as their proof!

Photographs – United States Public Domain

Prompt from dVerse Poet’s Pub (https://dversepoets.com/)  17-Jan-2017
Write in consideration of an artisan or wright, for example a weaver, thatcher, wheelwright or carpenter. I was drawn to these old images of the brave men who built so many of the engineering feats of the world.

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Winter Whispers (the Dream)

winter-pine

There between the fir’s snowed branches, whispers haunt in winter’s dance,
“Hush!”, she cried in rare defiance, “their whispered dreams don’t come by chance!”
Softly sparkled whiskers flitting through the early morning’s gleam,
whispering wishes for the new day held within this whispered dream.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub, Quadrille #24
https://dversepoets.com/

Image – courtesy of public domain
http://www.magic4walls.com/wallpaper/ice-covered-pine-trees-snowing-forest-field-at-dawn-33954.html

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New Beginning

sylvia-chan-new-beginning

Enrapt, her burgeoned soul arose,
born in diamond’s white draped hues,
birthed of summer’s countenance rent,
shadows hidden, whispered clues.
Love’s long fire adrift in ash,
cooling, mending, flames of heart,
bathing amber locks of hair,
free in hope of what may start…
… and what may come anew.

Subtle scent of daffodil,
carried on an autumn’s musk,
played for spring on winter’s wing
in promise and in trust.
Honesty entreats her,
no fever shall deny her dream,
a softened hush enfolds her,
angels grant and so redeem…
… this prayer, this hope, this due…

Prompt from dVerse Poetics.
Michelle, “Mish”, our host tonight, asked us to consider new beginnings, as we stand here at the opening of the New Year. With that, Mish provided some beautiful paintings, kindly shared by their artists, as inspiration.
This beautiful piece by Sylvia Chan, also entitled “New Beginning” captured me.

Sylvia’s art can be found at “sylviachanart.com”.

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