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Phantom Fipple 0127 Current Version

Daybreak, warmth welcomes waking world, clear sky,
green edges bustle with bright breezy sniffle.
Lake's brake-line thrills, vibrating in reply.
Screen sedges rustle, as if phantom fipple
had muted airy echoes, reedy cry
transmuting tune-true tones to whispery sigh.
Some jesting dragonflies flit down, skim shy,
quiescent waters sudden part, dance, ripple.
Ingesting fragile frame, from tail to eye,
swift freckled fish break surface, dart, prance, riffle.
In silence snow-white swans slide slowly by
for pinioned wings belie will to soar high.
As Nature, life, proud strong devour crowd weak,
while most pass silent, scared, few dare to speak.

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Phantom Fipple 0127 May 2009 Version

Daybreak, warmth welcomes waking world, clear sky,
green edges bustle with bright breezy sniffle
that sets lake's brake-line singing in reply.
Screen sedges rustle as if phantom fipple
had muted calls unanswered, reedy cry,
transmuting tune-true tones to whispery sigh.
Some jesting dragonflies flit down, skim shy,
quiescent waters sudden part, dance, ripple.
Ingesting fragile frame, from tail to eye,
swift freckled fish break surface, dart, prance, riffle.
In silence snow-white swans slide slowly by,
their pinioned wings belie the will to fly.
As Nature, life, proud strong devour crowd weak,
while most in silence pass, too scared to speak.

(16 May 2009)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Phantom Fipple 0127 Initial Version

Daybreak. A lake. Warmth wakes the world. Blue sky.
Green edges bustle with a breezy sniffle
which sets the brake-line singing in reply.
Screen sedges rustle, as if phantom fipple
had muted both their moans and reedy cry,
transmuting tune-true tones to whispery sigh.
Some jesting dragonflies skim down, so shy,
quiescent waters sudden part, dance, ripple:
ingesting fragile golden frame and eye.
The freckled fish break surface, dart, prance, riffle.
In silence snow-white swans slide slowly by,
their pinioned wings belie the will to fly.
So, too, in life the strong devour the weak,
while most in silence pass, too scared to speak.

(12 March 1977)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Unnamed Lake

It sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature's music fills
The silences of God.

Great mountains tower above its shore,
Green rushes fringe its brim,
And over its breast for evermore
The wanton breezes skim.

Dark clouds that intercept the sun
Go there in Spring to weep,
And there, when Autumn days are done.
White mists lie down to sleep.

Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
The pinks of ageless stone,
Her winds have thundered from of old -
And storms have set their throne.

No echoes of the world afar
Disturb it night or day,
The sun and shadow, moon and star
Pass and repass for aye.

'Twas in the grey of early dawn,
When first the lake we spied,
And fragments of a cloud were drawn
Half down the mountain side.

Along the shore a heron flew,
And from a speck on high,
That hovered in the deepening blue,
We heard the fish-hawk's cry.

Among the cloud-capt solitudes,
No sound the silence broke,
Save when, in whispers down the woods,
The guardian mountains spoke.

Through tangled brush and dewy brake,
Returning whence we came,
We passed in silence, and the lake
We left without a name.

poem by Frederick George Scott
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A thought after Yeats

When youth was life and life was youth
and life was love and love was life,
I thought love came and went;
its coming, overwhelming; and its going,
death of spirit; then, as if
the wild white swans had flown away
and left the waters of the heart’s lake cold.

But now I know it’s not like that:
love that, guarded, never flies from here in heart
to where it will, may grow dark, cold and miserly;
ungiven every livelong day
it turns to rags and dry old bones,
confiscated in the heart.

Better now, be with those wild white swans
which on a dark cold icy winter’s day
gather at the water’s edge to stretch
for yesterday’s warm loaf still fresh;
then turn, swim, lift strong wings and fly
one knows not where, and may not ask;

watch them then, into the distance;
hear the flap of wings grow into silent air;
pause still a little while;
then turn, one’s living breath
white in that winter air;
then back to warmth of home and love and peat fire
glowing in the hearth of heart renewed.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Fish with no tail

as i gaze out of nature... i have seen a fish without a tail
impossible but its true, first things came up to my mind
is, ask whether its worth to give time to remember all
the scene or perhaps, just a memories of a simple
goodbye

as the fish swim, deep beneath the crystal blue water, i
couldn't remember the minutes, the hours past, nay i felt
that i haven't taken my meal, it seems all are just a blink
of a second in my eyes

it keeps on bubbling, even in a thousands seconds it
stay in the water, until i notice that the fish fail to surface
beneath the running water, for the absence of the tail
the body is nothing

all is just a mirror of a fish that, every movement of the
body, the twist of the tail has to follow, its a paradox to
believe that we see the tail of other fish, nay never we
saw that we don't have tail of our own

like the fish it swim, with no direction, only an inspiration
that we can do, yet as it goes there we go, tail that swim
in the water stream with no affection of what to do

now i see, how to swim, in water, lou! where i may go...in
the world of stream when everybody is frame......

poem by Antonio Liao
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Echoes of silence

A silent scream
A bad dream..
nightmare

Wake me up
Some one dare
Spare me.. spare!

Everytime i remember
that touch that smell
The day i experienced hell

my cross to bear
All my life
My death knell

My tortured sigh
someone hear in silence
my helplessness

As i laid that night
Silence echoes my fight
my plight!

Silence echoes
Scot free, he walks away
echoes till this day

Silence echoes
My lost innocence
At nights in dreams..

Night, witness to my pain
Driving me insane
within my heart...

Silence echoes,
My silent scream
my broken dreams..

Silence echoes....

poem by Meena Iyer
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Ode to the butterflies

the butterflies dart through space
some in measured grace
some in zig zag frenzy
some carrying wings too small
to take the weight of their body
up and down, up and down
they flit, flit-flitting a burdensome dance
some are in pairs and in
such obvious romance outing
they sprint to each other
head and tail, tail and head
frolic and merry make
an ubiquitous love dazed flight
charging up the season

nature lavishes such wholesome indulgences
over such fragile creatures
exquisite tender wears topped
with an equally edifying elixir of life
divinely blessed, proffered
the nectar of heavens
an intoxication of transcience

an air of lightness envelops as
the butterflies do their its ballet
a maze of colours flips - stripes, eyes,
tails, island paradise in hues of orange,
yellow, white luminous green, blue...

so gleefully the butterfies carry themselves
and when they do settle for us
they politely spread out pages of rainbow
fold and unfold them with gentle persuasion
to take the weight of our verses

so bewitchingly the butterflies
dart through their ethereal sojourn
invigorating as night blossoms
touching us in so many ways
giving thoughts wings
to fly into heaven's bliss

the butterflies dart through space
some in measured grace
some in zig zag frenzy
some carrying wings too small
to take the weight of their physique
up and down, up and down
they flit, flit-flitting a burdensome dance
some are in pairs and in
such obvious romance outing
they sprint to each other
head and tail, tail and head
frolic and merry make
an ubiquitous love dazed flight
charging up the season

nature lavishes such wholesome indulgences
over such fragile creatures
exquisite tender wears topped
with an equally edifying elixir of life
divinely blessed, proffered
the nectar of heavens
an intoxication of transcience

an air of lightness envelops as
the butterflies do their its ballet
a maze of colours flips - stripes, eyes,
tails, island paradise in hues of orange,
yellow, white luminous green, blue...

so gleefully the butterfies carry themselves
and when they do settle for us
they politely spread out pages of rainbow
fold and unfold them with gentle persuasion
to take the weight of our verses

so bewitchingly the butterflies
dart through their ethereal sojourn
invigorating as night blossoms
touching us in so many ways
giving thoughts wings
to fly into heaven's bliss

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Silent Muse

``Why have you silent been so long?''
In tones of mild rebuke you ask.
Know you not, kindly friend, that Song
Is the ``Gay Science,'' not a task?

It is but when it pleaseth God
The blackthorn blows, the acorns fall;
The Muse ignores a mortal's nod,
And will not come to beck and call.

If I, to catch the ear of men,
Should go on singing day by day,
What other, better, were I then,
Than screeching chough or scolding jay?

But save the unseen source be stirred,
The happy numbers will not flow:
Then one is like a songless bird
That crouches in the drifted snow.

Say, did you ever sit and dream,
When summer clouds are white and still,
Beside a slow unsounding stream
That winds below some rustic mill?

The languid current scarcely moves;
At times you almost doubt it flows;
Loitering in shallow sandy grooves,
It makes no music as it goes.

The sluice is down, the mill-race still,
Nor in mid-stream nor water's edge
Comes faintest ripple, tiniest rill,
To stir the flag, or sway the sedge.

Beside the dozing stream you doze,
For nothing wakes in air or sky:
It feels as if Time's eyelids close,
And 'tis the same to live or die;

To be a passive part of all
That rounds Heaven's universal plan,
Of things that soar, of things that crawl,
Of mindless matter, as of man.

When slowly through the noonday sleep
A phantom something seems to stir,
Like waves of dewy light that creep
Along gray chords of gossamer.

At first it is nor sight nor sound,
But feeling only, inward sense
Of motion slowly rising round,
You know not where, you know not whence.

Then, noiseless still, but plain to see,
The languid waters wake and wind;
The wave before now fears to be
O'ertaken by the wave behind.

The race, long pent, from out the mill
Comes rushing, rippling, gleam on gleam;
The runnels rise, the shallows fill,
And deep and happy flows the stream.

The lazy sedges sway and swerve,
The reedmace rocks its heavy head;
Past many a bend, and bay, and curve,
The river revels through its bed.

And as it twists, and curls, and sweels,
From out its leaping heart there come
Sounds sweet as far-off village bells,
Or swarming bee-hive's honeyed hum.

Through quaking grass and waving weed
Rises and falls the river-theme;
Vibrating rush and trembling reed
Are but the harpstrings of the stream.

Once more the gold-ribbed gravel trills
With quavering trebles clear and cool,
Blent with the deeper note that fills
The plunging weir and swirling pool.

Bed, bank and channel, chant and chime,
And fall and freshet, as they run,
Though ignorant of tune and time,
Sing in melodious unison.

And so, if I be shaped to sing
What kindly hearts are pleased to hear,
And blissful were did Nature bring
A rush of music all the year;

Seasons there are it doth not flow,
When Fancy's freshets will not come,
The springs of song seem shrunk and low,
And all my being dry and dumb.

When suddenly from far-off source,
Unseen, unsounding, deep, immense,
Something, with swift resistless force,
Flushes the heart and floods the sense;

And as though Heaven and Earth did drain
Into that deep mysterious spring,
Brims all the windings of the brain;
Then like replenished stream I sing.

The will can not the stream control,
Its currents are divinely sent,
And thought and feeling, mind and soul,
Are rapt in rhythmic ravishment.

And on they flow, when once they start,
To some ordained but unguessed goal,
Through all the channels of the heart,
And all the reaches of the soul.

Then come the wingëd words that skim
The surface of earth's discontent
To soar up to the ether dim,
Faint heard from far-off firmament.

But, till the music stirs and swells
Within my breast, forbearing be;
Nor lightly waken slumbering bells
Above a silent sanctuary!

poem by Alfred Austin
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Wings Of Silk

In a flight of silken silence
Wings of velvet stroke
Pinions soft as melted butter
With touch as light as smoke

Huge bright eyes of earthen brown
Ne'er ceasing to peer around
To perceive the vole's
most minute sound

Then… as if a ghostly
Downy dart
Wings of silk
Spread wide apart

A muted squeak
Stop'd short in surprise
And from the snow
Doth feathered phantom rise

Then talons spread
Returns to lurch
Onto it's branch
Upon which to perch

And ‘neath the branch
Said vole will soon to fall
Snug again…wrap't tight within
It's very own fur-ball

poem by David Whalen
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Matins

Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky:
Through vapors hurrying by,
Larger than wont, on high
Floats the horned, yellow moon.
Chill airs are faintly stirred,
And far away is heard,
Of some fresh-awakened bird,
The querulous, shrill tune.

The dark mist hides the face
Of the dim land: no trace
Of rock or river's place
In the thick air is drawn;
But dripping grass smells sweet,
And rustling branches meet,
And sounding water greet
The slow, sure, sacred dawn.

Past is the long black night,
With its keen lightnings white,
Thunder and floods: new light
The glimmering low east streaks.
The dense clouds part: between
Their jagged rents are seen
Pale reaches blue and green,
As the mirk curtain breaks.

Above the shadowy world,
Still more and more unfurled,
The gathered mists upcurled
Like phantoms melt and pass.
In clear-obscure revealed,
Brown wood, gray stream, dark field:
Fresh, healthy odors yield
Wet furrows, flowers, and grass.

The sudden, splendid gleam
Of one thin, golden beam
Shoots from the feathered rim
Of yon hill crowned with woods.
Down its embowered side,
As living waters slide,
So the great morning tide
Follows in sunny floods.

From bush and hedge and tree
Joy, unrestrained and free,
Breaks forth in melody,
Twitter and chirp and song:
Alive the festal air
With gauze-winged creatures fair,
That flicker everywhere,
Dart, poise, and flash along.

The shining mists are gone,
Slight films of gold swift-blown
Before the strong, bright sun
Or the deep-colored sky:
A world of life and glow
Sparkles and basks below,
Where the soft meads a-row,
Hoary with dew-fall, lie.

Does not the morn break thus,
Swift, bright, victorious,
With new skies cleared for us,
Over the soul storm-tost?
Her night was long and deep,
Strange visions vexed her sleep,
Strange sorrows bade her weep:
Her faith in dawn was lost.

No halt, no rest for her,
The immortal wanderer
From sphere to higher sphere,
Toward the pure source of day.
The new light shames her fears,
Her faithlessness, her tears,
As the new sun appears
To light her godlike way.

poem by Emma Lazarus
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To an Echo on the Banks of the Hunter

I hear thee, echo! And I start to hear thee
With a strange shock, as from among the hills
Thy voice, reverbering in swift murmurs near me,
Dies down the stream, or with its gurgle low
Blends whisperingly, until my bosom thrills
With gentle tribulations that endear thee,
But speak not of the present. Twas as though
Some spirit of the past were then a-near thee,
Bringing back days of life’s regretted spring,
Waking wild recollections, to evince
How strong the ties that bind me to each thing
Loved, though long since.
It seems but yesterday that last I stood
Beside the Hawksbury, even as now I stand
By the swift Hunter, challenging o’er the flood
An echo thus; but with a glorious brood
Of hopes then glowing round me, and a band
Of schoolmates and young creatures of my blood,
All quick with joyousness beyond command,
And now, with that delightful time, O! Where
Are those quick joys, glad mates, and hopes of good?
Echo, declare!

Thy voice comes o’er the waters in reply,
To fail as soon! And all those young delights
Decayed (as thy peculiar accents die)
In the dusk valleys of past days and nights
To be renewed not, like thy ghostly chide;
And one to the other of those joyous creatures,
Now burthened with their manhoods, in the wide
World’s separations, have the names and features
Thus wasted out of mind. And so, at last,
Those glorious hopes are all become but lonely
And dying echoes of the hollow past,
All but one only.

E’en that around my being only strays
Like a recurring sound. In lonesome ways’
Like these it moves me still; not as of yore
In clear, strong tones, though yet its spirit plays
Upon the same old promise: that, when o’er
My country’s homes shine fair those riper days,
Her better sons shall learn to prize
My lonely voice upon the past,
And so, there may at last
From time’s dim void, an echo, thence arise,
Responsive to the swell
Of their full souls beneath these Austral skies.

poem by Charles Harpur
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The Magpie Lark

By lagoons and reedy places,
Where the little river races
By the lips of dreaming pools
Where the soothing water cools
Many a verdant slope and hollow,
Here my blithesome way I follow.
Anywhere that waters glisten
Pause a little while and listen.
You will hear my plaintive note
O'er the placid mirror float
Tho' nought know I of plaint or fret:
'Pierrot! Pierrette! Pierrot! Pierrette!'

Pierrot am I, light hearted fellow,
Be the day morose or mellow;
And pierrette, my dainty wife,
Adopts a like gay view of life;
We dance; we dance amid the sedges,
Dance by duplicated edges
Of the peaceful little ponds;
Now I bow, and she responds;
And then we dance together there,
Rise aloft, and dance on air;
Rising, falling, calling yet:
'Pierrot! Pierrette! Pierrot! Pierrette!'

Thistledown was ne'er so light
As our dainty, dancing flight;
Gay pied pipers, trim and neat;
Joy is in our wings, our feet;
Grace is in our every pose . . .
We dance, we dance till, at day's close,
When the pool's dark mirrors limn
Twilit glory at the brim
Trees and opalescent sky
We dance away; and as we fly
Our call comes faint and fainter yet:
'Pierrot!. Pierrette! .. Pierrot! ...'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Beneath blue ocean still

The water vapor rises
Over a blue ocean tone
Where surface still like silence
Covers all of the unknown.

Beneath there is mystery
Mermaids and fish swim
A portal of fantasy
Is where all stories begin.

Darting dolphins, talking sharks,
Sea-horses dance all around.
Red glow fish zip and twirl by.
U-boat awakes from ocean ground.

Under-water cities bustle
A fish dares to leap ashore
Whirl-pools confuse schools of fish.
Serpents rest on ocean floor.

The Illuminated waters.
The rainbow speckled scales.
Jaws of hungry predators.
Squirmy blue electric eels.

Above rippling surface
Nets catch all of the pretend.
Back to the blue ocean still.
Mystic vapor there ascends.

poem by Josh Alfred
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Gaiety

The gayest songs of the morning
As the mist hangs over the hills,
For they dance, and they dance, in the Eastern world
While humanity pays its bills.
For the song of the Moonlight Sonata,
And the frost on the snow-white fields,
Oh! they dance, and they dance in the Eastern world,
While the yellow harvest yields.
The gayest songs of the morning
Forever the world goes round,
While the clock ticks by on the mantelpiece.
And the birds in the trees make a sound,
For ever and ever all nature sings,
While the lark up above doth soar on its wings,

And they dance, and they dance in the Eastern world
The gayest songs of they morning.

poem by Peter Buss
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Watching the hours pass by

Johnny sits waiting all day
For fish to arrive
He wonders whether they have died
For hours and hours he waits for the fish to take it’s bait

A ripple in the lake
Sends his fishing rod a warning
The worm has been spiced up for the fish
Its fragrance was aroused in the lake
The fish tasted the hot spices in the cool lake

“Steady old girl” says Johnny with a smile
“ Soon you will be mine”
Ripples overlap
The fish rod numbs with pain

The fish battles with the rod
Johnny pulls harder
He will not let go
Its weight surpasses that of a stone

The fish hooks himself loose
The ripple disappears
Johnny sits waiting at the end of the lake
Waiting for another to taste his spicy bait

poem by Lee John Siebritz
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They Dance Circles in Descent.

Tribal rhythms pulsate within my soul,
Echoes waver of life’s long since passed,
I sigh within the moment.
They dance circles in descent.
These unknown creatures
Mimicking angels in formation,
Cascade as water flows
Pure and clear in harmony.
The tears of the world are pooled,
As ambient flutes sound from the
Dark forests of nightshades mask.

Still the cascade continues,
Thousands upon thousands,
Tonnes upon tonnes of purity
In an ever ceaseless flow.
What elaborate beauty is this?
What a grace to have viewed
Glory such as this within the
Sanctuary of my soul.

Clear waters pass below,
Pastures green stretch unto
The distance as ancient trees,
Fountains of secret wisdoms
As they are, keep close eyes upon
Movements within the valley.
Thunder is heard upon the skylines,
The chainsaw roars,
Our most ancient wisdoms are lost.

The natives of the world sigh in unison
Holding on in the moment of descent,
Crying for the future, mourning Mother Nature,
Seeking a truth no soul could resent.

poem by David Lacey
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Air Of Diabelli's

CALL it to mind, O my love.
Dear were your eyes as the day,
Bright as the day and the sky;
Like the stream of gold and the sky above,
Dear were your eyes in the grey.
We have lived, my love, O, we have lived, my love!
Now along the silent river, azure
Through the sky's inverted image,
Softly swam the boat that bore our love,
Swiftly ran the shallow of our love
Through the heaven's inverted image,
In the reedy mazes round the river.
See along the silent river,

See of old the lover's shallop steer.
Berried brake and reedy island,
Heaven below and only heaven above.
Through the sky's inverted image
Swiftly swam the boat that bore our love.
Berried brake and reedy island,
Mirrored flower and shallop gliding by.
All the earth and all the sky were ours,
Silent sat the wafted lovers,
Bound with grain and watched by all the sky,
Hand to hand and eye to . . . eye.

Days of April, airs of Eden,
Call to mind how bright the vanished angel hours,
Golden hours of evening,
When our boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
O darling, call them to mind; love the past, my love.
Days of April, airs of Eden.
How the glory died through golden hours,
And the shining moon arising;
How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
Age and winter close us slowly in.

Level river, cloudless heaven,
Islanded reed mazes, silver weirs;
How the silent boat with silver
Threads the inverted forest as she goes,
Broke the trembling green of mirrored trees.
O, remember, and remember
How the berries hung in garlands.

Still in the river see the shallop floats.
Hark! Chimes the falling oar.
Still in the mind
Hark to the song of the past!
Dream, and they pass in their dreams.

Those that loved of yore, O those that loved of yore!
Hark through the stillness, O darling, hark!
Through it all the ear of the mind

Knows the boat of love. Hark!
Chimes the falling oar.

O half in vain they grew old.

Now the halcyon days are over,
Age and winter close us slowly round,
And these sounds at fall of even
Dim the sight and muffle all the sound.
And at the married fireside, sleep of soul and sleep of fancy,
Joan and Darby.
Silence of the world without a sound;
And beside the winter faggot

Joan and Darby sit and dose and dream and wake -
Dream they hear the flowing, singing river,
See the berries in the island brake;
Dream they hear the weir,
See the gliding shallop mar the stream.
Hark! in your dreams do you hear?

Snow has filled the drifted forest;
Ice has bound the . . . stream.
Frost has bound our flowing river;
Snow has whitened all our island brake.

Berried brake and reedy island,
Heaven below and only heaven above azure
Through the sky's inverted image
Safely swam the boat that bore our love.
Dear were your eyes as the day,
Bright ran the stream, bright hung the sky above.
Days of April, airs of Eden.
How the glory died through golden hours,
And the shining moon arising,
How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
Bright were your eyes in the night:
We have lived, my love;
O, we have loved, my love.
Now the . . . days are over,
Age and winter close us slowly round.

Vainly time departs, and vainly
Age and winter come and close us round.

Hark the river's long continuous sound.

Hear the river ripples in the reeds.

Lo, in dreams they see their shallop
Run the lilies down and drown the weeds
Mid the sound of crackling faggots.
So in dreams the new created
Happy past returns, to-day recedes,
And they hear once more,

From the old years,
Yesterday returns, to-day recedes,
And they hear with aged hearing warbles

Love's own river ripple in the weeds.
And again the lover's shallop;
Lo, the shallop sheds the streaming weeds;
And afar in foreign countries
In the ears of aged lovers.

And again in winter evens
Starred with lilies . . . with stirring weeds.
In these ears of aged lovers
Love's own river ripples in the reeds.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Who Caught Whom...A Shameless Plug For Mr. Wiffle Lures

I used to go fishing everyday....
well practically everyday....
Me and my buddy Jeff
would fish either day or night
Everyday....weather permitting
As a manufacturer of fishing lures
it was my job to fish....
But Jeff grew old...too old to cast a line
and I was poisoned when mistaken for a rat....
and lost my sea legs...
So now I am landlocked to a desk
Yet still.....even today....
I have people write or call me
and ask me for our lures....
'Which Mr. Wiffle works the best? '
they always ask....
'What is your favorite color? '
'Do you like the White with Red tail
or prefer like I do the White with Red head?
Or does it really matter...I mean they all work? '
We'll talk sometimes for hours
I'll give them my opinions....
What I would use and when....
knowing full well
I will probably never go fishing again....
They always thank me for my time
and promise to send me pictures
of their catch....or tell me of the one that got away...
Speaking of the one that got away....
Last night I had a dream...
I had just made a perfect cast into a swirl I saw in the water
(introduce shameless plug for lure here)
As my White with Red tail Mr. Wiffle Sonic Tail shad.....
slowly swam beneath the water's surface....
a ten pound plus Speckled Trout placed...his two pointed teeth
into the soft virgin plastic of that fine quality World famous lure
and took off.....stripping line like mad from my reel....
I was so excited to have hooked this fish....
even if I knew I would never land him....

2007 © Ted Sheridan

poem by Ted Sheridan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Upon our Lake

Upon Our Lake
Petroleum translucent wings wave upon a sage green moss
Whilst vibrating webs in fevered mood delight a flies flight loss
Tinkering thoughts they travel over a calming cool breeze break
Smiling eyes, a touch, a breath, do beguile upon a gentle lake

Cotton thoughts on wistful clouds disturb differing hues of blue
Emerald, limes, rusted umbers enhance breezes as they move
A whimsical dash of mottled fish engrossed in lifes harsh fight
To gather all required whilst avoiding, the silent fishers sight

A hand does stroke the waters as thoughtfully as a lovers face
Whilst oars and gentle droplets dance at such a soothing pace
Non returnable ripples travel onwards with no due care
Words, sights, scents, sounds, precious memories that we share

One day we will be but whisps that relished this cherished place
As lovers new will float on by with a fresh renewed embrace
And maybe if they are just like us they will sit and ponder on
Lovers who were once like them but now are sadly gone

poem by Karen Sinclair
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The heart of snow

the heart of snow
is a mirror whitened
by hands that know
a surface enlightened

the heart of snow
a feeble beat of time
of things that grow
in seeds of fragile rhymes

the heart of snow
bleeds the blood of white
for a lamb that knows
the edges of the light

the heart of snow
landscapes hurt the heart
in a death that blows
a flake's graceful art

the heart of snow
do not ever touch
up you will grow
and still know too much

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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