Posted on 04/24/2006 8:55:04 PM PDT by Soaring Feather
by Susan Reiner
March bustles in on windy feet
And sweeps my doorstep and my street.
She washes and cleans with pounding rains,
Scrubbing the earth of winter stains.
She shakes the grime from carpet green
Till naught but fresh new blades are seen.
Then, house in order, all neat as a pin,
She ushers gentle springtime in.
That poem is so pretty. I have not read it before now. Thanks.
A new thread is like a new season. In that light, this poem is for this new spring in the Lair.
Seedling
So small it was, just a tiny emerald tinted shoot,
its stem pushing up through earth with pride.
Struggling with its birth, unwilling to hide,
seemingly fearless of grazer, or a wayward boot.
Its leaves unfurled like a pair of leafy fists,
ready to take on life itself, a scrapper so small.
A bit of vibrant life, daring to rise to Nature’s call,
sun seeker, rain drinker, proving it exists.
Seedling, lovely poem. Thank you.
I get poetic when we have a spring. Someone said last week that this was our first in 7 years. I thought it had only been 3 or 4.
Good Evening, Ms Feather!
Good evening, Tom.
Hello Ms. Feather - always nice to hear from you. Hope all is well. We've been busy - not sure where the time goes or if we use it wisely. . . it's 10:20 here and it's cooled down all the way to 79 degrees. augghh!
*HUGS*
A kiss,
soft as the caress of a zephyr,
warm as body heat,
and engraved deep within a soul.
WOO HOO!
Warming it up in here again. ;)
Lovely poem.
Just somethig for all the lovely ladies here
A kiss, soft as velvet
warm as a summer night
and the smell of jasmine
etched in my memory
sparkling as rhinestones
on a Western Singers jacket.
bf
Yes, of course. And to think I took it personal. ROTFLOL
Loves Flames by a Fire
In the light of a fires soft glow she lays stretched out like a big cat on the rug with me.
She moves in sensual grace, flexing her gold toned body in the soft heat of the fire.
Her face holds total satisfaction, as she flexes across the hearth rug in pleasure.
Her eyes are open but she doesn’t see, her breath comes fast yet shallow.
Ecstasy is replaced by deep peace, her mind still roiling in loves turmoil.
Time is frozen into the pulse of life, and the fire of nerves at their peak.
Softly she collapses, shuddering in her reaction even as I enfold her in my arms.
Gone is the storm, the lightening of the soul, we are chained by loves soft bounds.
Question...Do you ever write listening to the blues??
Oh man, I love to do that. Just put those Ol Blues on a go for it.
Whew, we had better switch to motorcycle riding! EGads!
Steam is so thick in here I cannot see you! ;)
Cut that out, dang!ROTFLOL!
Well now, baby here I sit in this bar
with no bucks for another drink...
Man I got the blues
Man I got the blues
deep down toenail blues
the red kind...
you don't know if it's day or night
and don't care either way
cause the blues got a hold on you
don't notice the dirt floor
but just wanna lay down and die
Cause baby, I got the blues
Baby I got the blues
they ain't gonna leave anytime soon
they are running cold like a spring brook
dark grey skies cold and damp in the soul
Cause baby, I got the blues
I lost my shoes one night
down the street in one of those blues bars
New Orleans can be one cold lonely place
when your wearing nothing but the blues.
bentfeather (c) 04.25.06
Roadhouse Blues
He sat on an otherwise empty stage, a solo star,
in a tarpaper sided roadside bar closed for the night,
and picked the worn nylon strings of his old guitar,
venting his silent rage in each note with all his might.
Soulful, reaching, dragging memories out of the very air,
as he played from his heart alone, and fought the demons of his mind.
Bittersweet the music and the moods it evoked in him there,
and set the night alive, to dreams he thought he’d left behind.
His audience was made up of Father Time and the Fates doing downtime,
and the music of that soul held a power that flowed out among the stars.
God and all the Angles had the tables on the left, tapping their foot to mark the time.
and the music left a better place for the passing of its roiling current in that empty bar.
The last haunting note was hanging in the quiet air of dawn for so long,
and the tired worn player sat his guitar down and stood listening to the night.
He thought he heard clapping, and he swore he heard the echoes of his song,
and as he slowly walked from that ancient stage, he wore a unseen halo’d light.
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