Growing

Bittersweet thoughts of how gaining an adult is losing a child.

Childish laughter echoes in the night,

It fills the morning with its music bright,

Paints a thousand hues in crystal light.

 

For a time we two walked hand in hand,

Two sets of prints in the mirror sand,

Tides swept them smooth, empty now the strand.

 

Memories cascade in golden streams,

Dance like dust motes in the sun’s bright beams,

Happiness is never what it seems.

Where will we go when the darkness falls?

Where will we go when the darkness falls

And from green depths the ocean’s voice calls?

Are there safe places in city sprawls?

 

We could follow the swallow so swift

And hope for a wind, black clouds to lift,

But flight, narrow-winged, is not our gift.

 

Air and ocean are bound into one,

All are equal beneath the bright sun,

We’re left with our hearts, when all is done.

There is a place

This is a Skeltonic poem for the NaPoWriMo prompt.

There is a place,

a peaceful space,

where blackbirds run

in the sun

and river flows.

No one knows

where is goes,

the river slow,

when the stream,

silver gleam,

into the sea,

with blackbird glee,

rolls away.

I will stay,

watch starlings play,

if you will say,

you’ll sit with me,

forever keep me

company.

Fields of sunshine

Inspired by a photo I took the other day, and by the rhythm of fast dog-walking ( and fast-dog walking) this one is almost on prompt for NaPoWriMo. The form is one I like, all about threes, but I’m not sure what to call it besides Three Squared.

Sunshine fills the field with golden light,

April’s tender hues, a palette bright,

Memories, the dark of winter’s night.

 

All about, green buds burst, leaves uncurl,

Yellow banners, morning-blown unfurl,

Bathed, the grass in mist and tints of pearl.

 

On my tongue, the tang flows in the breeze,

Wild and windy taste of summer seas,

Childhood dreams shine in the salty lees.

 

Spring swans

Photo©Bob Jones

Swans there were in the sky, a skein of nine,

silent and white as driven snow,

a perfect arrowhead, pacific and pure,

pulsed with hot blood and smooth-feathered muscle.

One accord binds them on the paths of the air,

above the slow-flowing river, bound to its bed,

one accord, wing tip to wing tip, slip-stream rowing,

strongest in front, breaking the way.

Bonds as sure as any fraternity, buoy their passage,

surging on pure white power and gentle compassion.

Tonight there are waves in the wind

Tonight there are waves in the wind,

An ocean of salt-feathered wings,

As graceful as fish, silver-finned.

Tonight there are waves in the wind,

Grey gulls to the wild clouds are pinned,

While the tide as it flows inland sings—

Tonight there are waves in the wind,

As graceful as fish, silver-finned.

I walk upon withered light

 

No more moon climbs bright

into gentle night.

Cycle over,

the fall is deep—

I see frost

where flowers bloomed,

I walk upon withered light.

 

Beauty aches

in the shadows,

blue as the sea.

Crying in the wind,

time whispers,

Summer’s gone,

like love.

 

Some haunting lingers

in the air,

joy or sadness,

who can say?

Peace remembered

from a ghostly star?