Sunday, September 6, 2015

The Sunday Whirl / Sun Shiny Summer Morn -- Sunday's Whirligig/The Silence of Morning -- Poets United Poets Pantry #268

Sun Shiny Summer Morn

friends are the true treasure      above money      can't be bought

i wonder about my DNA        is it made up of sorrow   cells & organs

drip with tears               a terrible green                 or a sunny yellow

climb the tower           rotate the antenna           search for your signal

to know where you are             the pond calm             reflecting

receiving the messages            you are sending         you grew up

became a man           strong and straight            served your country

to your mom           the boy was still there           holding on to her skirt

I remain on the bridge       between life and death        i am waiting

waiting like the french lieutentant's woman              counting butterflies

sun shiny summer morn     honeysuckle in the air      all is bright yellow

time stands still                   as i stand                         ever so still

it happened there         had to let you go        something I'm not good at

if I could            i would have kept you               held you with my teeth

like the cat with her kitten       spring into summer    summers empty now

time passes             though i hardly notice                fall is in the air

the temperatures cooler           winter faithfully follows...

September 2015

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The Silence of Morning

what verses may be hiding       in the silence of this morning     demanding to be heard

yet reluctant...                           pretending to be shy                   softly playing

the sweet songs of the heart      show scars of days gone by        sorrow's loss spins her web

writing inscriptions on tears      as they fall to the ground            holding on for dear life

flying low below the clouds       navigating by well worn paths    pretending bravado

still there is the stench of death    under each scarlet layer            exposing the clown

the fool                                       the jester                                        ...and me

Sept 5, 2015











9 comments:

Kate Mia said...

Us ants crawling in mounds
constructing we.. AStronauts
travelinG far.. coming
back.. an orb of eYe
blue and green
once beautiful
and free..
a cancer of
human culture
spreads upon the
skEyE.. eating IT
away carelessly
selfishly greedily
taking more
than giving
back..
pieces of
puzzle seem
so small
disconnecting
close
for tapestry
whOle
liVes in
disGust
from
wInds
aFar..
eYes of stars
lookinG below to eyeS
of stars humans
looKing above..
spiRit deep within
is saMe as stars aBove..
oNly when we see
wITh stars of
ONE..
WiLL we heal
the earth
before
stars of
us alone..
destroy
US dead
alive..
Stars above
stars below
Uni-Verse
i's LivE
ALLONe..:)

Sanaa Rizvi said...

Loved both the poems.. such a delicate & endearing feel to them.
Beautifully penned :)

Lots of love,
Sanaa

Mary said...

Both poems are right on target...well thought out and executed.

when-movement-takes-energy said...

Loved the first poem and its delicate exploration of relationship between child and mother, especially when the child doesn't outlive her. The second poem however, took my breath away with its gritty reality. Brava my friend,

Elizabeth

Old Egg said...

The loneliness of sorrow, wishing that like Orpheus you could rescue your own Eurydice from Hades.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Two beautiful poems. The mother holding on to her son.......love the reference to waiting like the French Lieutenant's Woman.........the butterflies and the "sweet songs of the heart".

brudberg said...

Oh that image of the cat with her kitten,, you have a way of describe loss.

Sumana Roy said...

"I remain on the bridge between life and death i am waiting"...loneliness becomes so poignant here...both poems are very well written...

Jae Rose said...

Two beautiful and powerful poems...the loss is so very clear and yet the bravery of carrying on..being able to see the sun and take each day is it comes sings through..the last line of your second poem is so very astute...maybe 'me' is better than any stereotype?