my soul-rose has a fulcrum
sometimes
veined petals spread across
skies unknown, thorns ready
for piercing when blood
too perfumed passionate
both melancholic forlorn
vulnerable as jasmine or sturdy
as oak delivering acorns
unfurling as time dictates
......
January chills, a frosted scene,
February thaws, with raindrops clean.
March whispers spring, green shoots arise,
April showers paint the sunny skies.
May blooms erupt, with colors bright,
June days stretch long, with golden light.
July simmers, fireflies aglow,
August dreams, with rivers slow.
September sighs, leaves ablaze,
October twirls in fiery daze.
......
Of time 'twas told that seasons be;
A time for all activity.
An hour for birth, an hour to die.
To laugh and play, an hour to cry.
An hour to kill, an hour to heal;
An hour to tear, an hour to seal.
An hour to wail, an hour to dance...
......
in Spring, we swell and pop
like buds on trees.
we burst in all directions,
a grenade under pressure
our debris lands in beds of dewy grass waiting patiently to incinerate.
this Spring we collect parts of the body like polished rocks on the river banks.
the hands, the mouth, and the tongue,
we are learning the ways they caress sweet words.
fruit trees blossom and so does the space behind our eyes.
......
Monotony of dull white in frozen days
and naked trees covered in snow flakes
In blossoming spring with divine promises
get it's colours in pastel shades
Dancing woods in green shoals
with singing flowers in fresh air.
vibrant colours and fragrance to cherish
Summer is the time of infinite fun
......
my soul-rose has a fulcrum
sometimes
veined petals spread across
skies unknown, thorns ready
for piercing when blood
too perfumed passionate
both melancholic forlorn
vulnerable as jasmine or sturdy
as oak delivering acorns
unfurling as time dictates
......
Subconscious hope—subliminal trust.
Broadcasted smiles, complementing valediction.
“See you later” not guaranteed.
Planning for tomorrow: weeks, months, years.
Units measured by every morning not promised.
Personified love—lit by life.
Standing at the doorway of a room stowed in stacked boxes.
Opening a journal, reliving heavy or joyous memories nearly forgotten.
......
in Spring, we swell and pop
like buds on trees.
we burst in all directions,
a grenade under pressure
our debris lands in beds of dewy grass waiting patiently to incinerate.
this Spring we collect parts of the body like polished rocks on the river banks.
the hands, the mouth, and the tongue,
we are learning the ways they caress sweet words.
fruit trees blossom and so does the space behind our eyes.
......
Coal-bright heat
pulsates a primal beat,
this light burns white
in the squalid night.
The windswept fury
in a drunken flurry,
toppled kerosene lamp
leaves the table damp.
......
Fall.
Sweet songs
fill the air,
in icy times.
'Neath magenta skies
stoic redbird dances,
on bare twigs, to his own song.
He revels in blue stars and snow
awaiting first rays of coral sun.
Touched by a mystery lady of green,
......