Tuesday, March 24, 2009

From The Diary Of A Traveler

Mountains are not far away
From the valley I can smell the snow
The grass here refuses to sway
While the fir up there takes a bow.
A distant song of the nightingale
Echoes across the ridges and the vales.
I shall rest here today,
With colors as even sun plays.

The raucous creek is noisily profound
I dream it to be silent up there.
Where the fairies fly high and unbound,
Secluded from malicious leers.
The dew confuses me with the grass
Cleaner than any crystal glass.
To the blades, the drops are bound
Like a king newly crowned.

The night is escorted by its playful mates
The mist floats down like a troop of ghosts.
The moon appears behind the horizon’s gates
While the breeze raises its welcome toast.
They conspire amid the howls and the hoots
Forbidding trees to either blossom or fruit
Mournfully, yet so, the grasshopper grates
Eluding the judgment of its icy fate.

The dawn breaks with a joyful glee
Against a sky as clear as sapphire
The mist vanishes among the trees
And the poltergeist breeze begins to tire.
My trail is narrow, coarse and bleached
I smile to fill the silence of my speech.
The nightingale sings, again, so free
Her song echoes, for long, in me.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Three Seasons

(The image is one of my favorite places back home.)

Alas! The perch is empty now
The twitter has long gone
Stooping below the chastened brow
A creaky, withered, frozen rone.
Died, has the, jay and sparrow’s row?
Epithet: a brooding splintered stone.

Ah…the pompous springtide glee
Lads and lasses’ frolics on the sward.
They knot and knot…a gluttonous spree
Tête-à-tête! Sympathy begs the wasted lard.
Who shall care for the bauble vee?
Epithet: wisdom’s diadem of an ancient bard.

O The Carpet! Of twigs and twines
The whistle of the wind, high and proud.
Aloof stands golden forest lines
Dead and silent, though glittering loud.
How long for a chirp? O Time! O Time!
Epithet: Shadows fallen, hunched and bowed.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Mystic Dawn

All credit for the photgraph goes to aspen (http://barbedwireandroses.blogspot.com/) whose pics are a great source of inspiration. Thank you for allowing me to use a pic from your blog.

Waiting awhile for the mystic dawn,

the green pastures wake up with me.
The prairies, the breeze, sing along.
A romance world's too blind to see.

The mountains slowly then unveil
all their secrets and their sounds.

A yawning rose's fragrance I steal
and innocence with which it is bound.
Clouds cloud the sky so often
that they cloud my soul with what they say.

And as the moon slowly begins to soften
wondering it will...or may?

I see the sun arrested by the dew.

A thousands colors that linger on.
Words those are lost amid morning’s hue.
A soul that softly hums along.