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Posted on 08/28/2005 2:26:23 AM PDT by Soaring Feather
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Icy unforgiving embrace
a broken desire
inside, his contest to
earth's edge
pales the heart's
journey to her.
bentfeather
Good morning... (yawn, stretch...West coast time ... Monday)
The last report I saw on Katrina was she might not hit land as hard as feared ... but a fierce storm all the same.
Good morning, your time. It's 1:30 pm here, EDT.
Yes, a fierce storm, indeed. We can hope Katrina has spent most of her wrath. Prayers up for those in her path.
Good day Ms. Feather!
Howdy Connie. Nice to see ya!!
Oh Ms. Feather, what a lovely story! Poor, sweet Old Man.
I wonder how many years he has been planting that same garden each Spring?
I'm certainly glad you're still here to tell the story!
Truly a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing! They have led a good, honest life. I hope I can be so fortunate.
I went into my bed
my body told me I was tired
but sleep eluded me
my thoughts turned to you
I closed my eyes
and met you in the stars
bentfeather
I held night
saw it sparkle
twilight arrived with
your face carved
across my dawn
holding the essence of you
in my bones...
bentfeather
06.06.04
Gardening still at Ninety two,
and still going strong,
prefering to wear out, not rust, that
surely can't be wrong.
His life still has purpose,
even tho' eyes are dim,
his garden's still important to him,
tho' his vines he cannot trim.
Visiting with neighbours,
are some of lifes true joys,
sharing Gods bounty across the fence,
our faith in men doth restore.
rim 8/29/05
Good evening Miss Feather . . .I really enjoyed your story and it has inspired this poem in return.
Goodnight everyone . . .see you tomorrow.
Setting the Stage
The Beggars Wind comes on cats paws,
and the year seems to race into the golden time.
Every tree will soon surrender to autumn’s laws,
and nature fits the world to her ancient rhyme.
Nights grow slowly clearer and mists are dearer,
and clouds race the moon across an ebon sky.
Nights are changing time becoming ever crisper,
and hints of gold and red highlight the leaves that die.
Trees rustle in near silent speech, to talk of passing time,
and wind song sings of things lost or gone beyond.
Seasons and life garbs itself in a new cloth of mime,
and we watch life’s new act upon our stage so fond.
In Appreciation
As soft as gossamer I caress her cheek
so as not to wake her from her sleep.
I watch her at rest, and see the things I seek,
and my heart surges forth in a lover’s leap.
Her rising breast rhythmically fills with airy life,
her cheeks flushed with a dream’s emotions sweet.
Her long lashes flicker in sleep, as dreams run rife,
and I watch them, passing across her face so fleet.
Her lips pout in some memory, and she smiles,
and I grin, for I know I was there to hold and share.
Her alabaster skin glows, her hair a golden pile,
and I lay silent and watch her, my living art, with care.
Lovely treasures left in the air
I left early to enjoy the wet, night air
it rained here tonight-what a joy
it's been many months without water
soaking the ground or filling the air.
Many little gems of joy
the Lair poets post for all to soak up
grateful we are the Lair does not dry up
her many wells are still untapped
a hidden ground swell reserve
our poets save time for us in words.
That was quite the punchline..!! There's nothing like sharing the joys and tribulations of gardening. I'm so glad he can still garden at 92! Thanks, feathery one.
What a perfect response, Hope and Glory!
This is one of my favorite poems and fits today's theme:
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
By William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
1892
Excellent choice today. This poem is a favorite of mine also.
Thank you.
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