If the spirit of Horatio Nelson inhabited that hard to see image
of an attribution of him from a grateful nation atop its column.
The icon pigeon smeared statue in Trafalgar Square, imagine
a ghostly conversation from the plinth above tourists' scrums.
Long dead Admiral Nelson spoke to loyal Thomas Hardy
with concrete croak: “You see better than I, with my one
eye, Thomas. Tell me pray what do they with such devices,
the people below pointing up at me?” Guano shards fell
from his calcified lips towards the crowd. “Damned birds
defectating on me for ever, now this horde.” “My Lord,” said
Hardy, “It is, I read, called a selfie picture made of themselves
with your monument. It is a supremely selfish society: the mobs’
modern way, in this newly world. Self before duty and all else."
His stony eyes froze to its sculted pose looking forward to the
square scape, one arm holding a sword. Nelson slipped invisibly away.
He was at peace that his city haunt was over, returned to the
usual jaunt in fields of clover, with his lover Lady Hamilton. Happy
as ever was, given a ghost of a chance, to do his duty.
Sorry Sandy but I'm going to be contrary! Whilst I enjoyed your poem (as ever), I don't want there to be anymore blue sky for a while! I want cold, gloomy days and a proper, old fashioned winter! It's been warm and sunny for way too long now!
Hi Wizzy, there is unusual weather for this time of year but a little blue sky is good sometimes during the day and the colder evenings for tea, biscuits and slippers.:D
If the spirit of Horatio Nelson inhabited that hard to see image
of an attribution of him from a grateful nation atop its column.
The icon pigeon smeared statue in Trafalgar Square, imagine
a ghostly conversation from the plinth above tourists' scrums.
Long dead Admiral Nelson spoke to loyal Thomas Hardy
with concrete croak: “You see better than I, with my one
eye, Thomas. Tell me pray what do they with such devices,
the people below pointing up at me?” Guano shards fell
from his calcified lips towards the crowd. “Damned birds
defectating on me for ever, now this horde.” “My Lord,” said
Hardy, “It is, I read, called a selfie picture made of themselves
with your monument. It is a supremely selfish society: the mobs’
modern way, in this newly world. Self before duty and all else."
His stony eyes froze to its sculted pose looking forward to the
square scape, one arm holding a sword. Nelson slipped invisibly away.
He was at peace that his city haunt was over, returned to the
usual jaunt in fields of clover, with his lover Lady Hamilton. Happy
as ever was, given a ghost of a chance, to do his duty.
Coincidentally I too have just finished reading Oliver Twist. What I found surprising is how totally different it is to screen adaptations..
I found that too - there's so much more to the book, although David Lean's film is great. There are also large sections where Oliver isn't present at all.
I advertise myself in local papers
And change my name to 'Vicky' for the chore,
Male readers think I'm only
A woman who is lonely,
A one-night stand, another chance to score.
I always wear a sexy little number,
Max Factor makes my features come alive,
Chanel is good for sprinkling,
Nobody has an inkling
I've been around since fifteen twenty-five.
On dates if I am questioned by a suitor
The answers given are a pack of lies,
How often I've pretended
And when the meal has ended
They get that hopeful look inside their eyes.
The drive home to my flat increases tension,
I ask them in for coffeee, well aware
Although it is destructive
An offer so seductive
Will be accepted by men everywhere.
I play them Lady Grinning Soul by Bowie,
The candles flicker while we're having sex,
But just before eruption
There comes an interruption
When fangs sink into unsuspecting necks.
They scream in pain and pleasure as I savour
Elixir sweet as any vintage wine,
Delicious, red and sticky,
Some even murmur 'Vicky'
In passion as our bloody limbs entwine.
The Prince of Darkness told me to seduce them,
His bite was like a torturer's hot brand,
I made love to the undead
And now I have the one bed
Where ecstasy and bliss go hand in hand.
Love it musty! Made me feel a little uncomfortable and it made me smile. A brilliant contrasting poem. It inspired me to post one I wrote, but be warned: it's a whopper! I wanted to write a non-sensical story with a bit of eerie-ness attached. It was written for fun, but it's one long continuous verse. Hope you (and all you guys on here) like it:
The Quickest Way to Hell
As freezing rain pours from an angry sky,
Lights from cars dazzle as they drive on by
This is a night that will be endless and black,
I am lost on this road, there's no turning back.
There's a tumbledown house beyond on the hill,
When I see it I feel an enigmatic chill.
Something's amiss, I can't figure what
So I travel to the house, carrying all that I've got.
The rocky track to the hill is narrow and unlit,
I trip and in panic upon a mound I do sit.
From the troubled sky, rain continues to fall,
In the distance I can hear a scream, perhaps a distress call.
I am startled at the menacing noise that I hear,
And I continue on my journey, with newly found fear.
The hill path is steep and eternally long.
That scream I heard, was something wrong?
Was someone perishing alone in this rain?
Were they hurt, or in terrible pain?
It is baffling at what goes through your head
In times when you're apprehensive and filled with dread.
Eventually I get to the house, and I knock on the door.
There is no answer, but I hear a scream once more.
It came from beyond, over there in the wood,
It didn't sound normal, it didn't sound good.
Once more on the door of the house I rap,
At the very same time as a huge thunder clap.
The scream I heard echoes, it pierces my mind,
Someone is out there, but my conscience is blind.
As lightning flashes throughout the sky,
My innerself wonders if I'm about to die.
So I try the door-knob and it opens up wide,
It is dark within but I venture inside.
At least it is dry, there is no one about.
At the top of my voice I eagerly shout.
But no one hears me, the house is bare,
It is certain that no one dwells in there.
Outside I hear the scream, but this time it's near.
I try to ignore the noises I hear.
I should go and investigate, to put peace in my head,
But part of me thinks that I'll end up dead!
As the rain keeps falling and the thunder roars,
I explore the house and I open its doors.
Behind every one is nothing, a mass of doom
Bringing sorrow and blackness to every room.
The scream is louder, and then louder still,
And someone's behind me, I am feeling a chill.
I look around and am amazed at what's there.
A blood laden woman with an evil stare.
Her head is tilted, it leans to the right.
I nervously ask her if she's alright.
She opens her mouth, and then starts to cry
As rain continues falling from the starless sky.
As thunder roars and lightning beams,
Nothing is really as it all seems.
The crying woman is sobbing out her heart,
And she bursts out some words - her story does start.
She crashed her car, on a road across the moor.
She went for help but couldn't find her way back anymore.
She took many a path but they led her away,
So in this tumbledown house she decided to stay.
She tripped in the woods, she cut open her head,
And the incident filled her with terror and dread.
She started to scream as she was hungry and cold
Longing to meet someone who can help and behold.
This troublesome night is eerie and wet.
There's still many hours until morning yet!
Our cars are deserted, we are stranded alone,
Hungry, thirsty and chilled to the bone.
As the night progressed and the rain stopped falling,
On my mobile phone I decided to start calling.
A signal was absent, so no calls could be made.
But now safe in the house, our fear started to fade.
As the rain dried up and the moon started to shine,
Everything around seemed perfect and fine.
A beautiful light shining to the ground below,
Brightening the world with its silver glow.
The moon was full, the stars were bright,
A chill was present in this endless night.
But, as the moon shone through the tumbledown shack,
The blood laden woman was lying, in pain on her back.
She was wriggling and writhing as if fighting for breath
Was I witnessing her untimely death?
But she got up and stretched her arms out wide,
I felt discomfort and terror building inside.
Her hands turned to claws, her face started to change,
And suddenly there before me, was something fiercesome and strange
She was a werewolf, she came straight out of hell!
All of a sudden, I didn't feel very well!
She started to howl and she looked into my face,
I knew I had to get out of this place.
Out of the house I ran down the hill,
The world was silent, the world was still.
Then down a hole I went, I tripped and I fell,
I thought this was the quickest way to get to hell!....
But hell I didn't get to, I was safe in my bed,
For the day before I tripped and hit my head!
I was resting and drearily nursing my brow
And the werewolf slipped into my dreams somehow!
Perhaps a movie I watched, a TV show,
And the characters into a tumbledown house did go.
But, as my friend brought me shopping into my home,
She started to let out a tiresome groan.
The moon outside was silver and bright,
Then I heard a sound that gave me a fright.
My friend let out a howl, I ran out of the door,
I didn't want to have her as a friend anymore..............
At
the edge
of the woods
stands my tree.
Every morning I gaze out
from my bedroom window and see it,
standing patiently by the path into the woods,
waiting for me to come out to play.
The autumn wind is shaking its branches bare
and all around its sun-dappled roots swirl the brown leaves
that once covered my tree in shimmering green.
The familiar knotted faces on the trunk look down on me
and I call out their names and tease them for their
dumb expressions that change under the arcing sun.
Every day I dance under its gathering arms,
hands waving free above my head,
feet scrunching through the crisp leaves,
the seeds, the splintered twigs,
kicking up
swirls and
showers,
covering
myself with
the smell
of the woods,
joyfully
falling down
onto cushions
of leaves,
staring up
through the
criss-cross
of branches
through to the clear,
blue sky of my childhood.
2
The
blackened
skeleton veins
of leaves pile up,
rotten, on the damp ground.
Spindled branches, like the wasted limbs
of a hundred cadavers, arch over my head,
clasping to themselves the rotting stench of death
and dying that rises from all around my feet.
The mocking, twisted faces peering out
from the trunk crudely mirror my soul
with their shadowed expressions.
I idly kick a fractured branch
which breaks with a dully
satisfying thup and
spreads a cloud
of dusty
spores
from the
vampiric
fungi that
have drained
away its life.
I breathe
the thick air
with a grim
smile of
friendship.
It suits my time
and mood to be here.
3
I
am drawn
back this autumn
to the tree of my childhood.
In the distance I see its familiar,
stark shape by the overgrown path
into the woods. My old home,
long emptied of laughter and love and tears,
seems to be part of another life, out of my
memory, fading into the distance over my shoulder.
The low, golden sunlight strikes the burnished damp-dewed leaves that
decorate the floor around the foot of the tree. I walk closer, ever
closer to my tree, drawn by the rich copper, bronze, gold hues
of each fallen leaf, beaten by Nature’s hand into its own
precious hue. I gently stoop, then kneel and peer down
at the dew-speckled ground. I observe each leaf,
each cell in its own brilliance and remember
that long-ago smell of damp
and decay. I look around
my feet and
no longer
see death,
just leaves
sapping
into the
Earth.
Ants
scurrying
with scraps
down into
the ground.
Earthworms
tugging
leaves
into the soil
to feed,
nurture,
recycle,
resurrect
that which
was once dead
into a spring awakening.
What a corker of a tale Wizzy It must have taken ages to write but it kept me hooked from the start. Certain films came to mind reading this, including the marvellous An American Werewolf In London
I'm glad you enjoyed Vampiress, thanks for the feedback A few of my poems are written from a female perspective, an exercise I quite enjoy
A superb piece Sandy - epic, dark and Poe-like throughout. The descriptions here are so clear that I could really visualize the trees in all their glory.
Scottie, that is absolutely stunning. One of the most well imagined poems I've ever read. As musty says it has an air of Edgar Allan Poe about it. An absolute belter. Thanks for sharing.
Another cracking poem musty.
i was thinking about Izzy this morning. I hope she's OK. She hasn't posted for awhile. So, Izzy, if you're reading, hello and hope you are well.
A simpler poem today. Based upon the philosophy that life is for living:
Celebrations
Life seems to pass on by,
Without us realising it.
There's too much standing, rushing
But not much time to sit.
We barely even notice
When daytime turns to night
Yet every day, without asking
We assume everyone's alright.
We do not understand
Another person's tears,
We never try to remedy
Another person's fears.
We let each seperate day,
Merge into one.
We want the day to finish
Before it has begun.
A special occasion
Passes by
And yet we continue as before,
The sun shining in the sky
Casts our shadows upon the floor.
For we need to celebrate
Life should be lived to the excess.
Enjoy, laugh and learn to love
To diminsh those times of stress.
Everyday should be a celebration
Of all that we have got
And when we lay things in a pile
We learn we've got a lot.
There's no need to keep on pushing
To race through days and hours,
For by doing that we miss the sun
And only get the showers.
A superb piece Sandy - epic, dark and Poe-like throughout. The descriptions here are so clear that I could really visualize the trees in all their glory.
Musty, that's not a poem of mine.
I like the way scottie2121 has made the poem look like trees.:D
At
the edge
of the woods
stands my tree.
Every morning I gaze out
from my bedroom window and see it,
standing patiently by the path into the woods,
waiting for me to come out to play.
The autumn wind is shaking its branches bare
and all around its sun-dappled roots swirl the brown leaves
that once covered my tree in shimmering green.
The familiar knotted faces on the trunk look down on me
and I call out their names and tease them for their
dumb expressions that change under the arcing sun.
Every day I dance under its gathering arms,
hands waving free above my head,
feet scrunching through the crisp leaves,
the seeds, the splintered twigs,
kicking up
swirls and
showers,
covering
myself with
the smell
of the woods,
joyfully
falling down
onto cushions
of leaves,
staring up
through the
criss-cross
of branches
through to the clear,
blue sky of my childhood.
2
The
blackened
skeleton veins
of leaves pile up,
rotten, on the damp ground.
Spindled branches, like the wasted limbs
of a hundred cadavers, arch over my head,
clasping to themselves the rotting stench of death
and dying that rises from all around my feet.
The mocking, twisted faces peering out
from the trunk crudely mirror my soul
with their shadowed expressions.
I idly kick a fractured branch
which breaks with a dully
satisfying thup and
spreads a cloud
of dusty
spores
from the
vampiric
fungi that
have drained
away its life.
I breathe
the thick air
with a grim
smile of
friendship.
It suits my time
and mood to be here.
3
I
am drawn
back this autumn
to the tree of my childhood.
In the distance I see its familiar,
stark shape by the overgrown path
into the woods. My old home,
long emptied of laughter and love and tears,
seems to be part of another life, out of my
memory, fading into the distance over my shoulder.
The low, golden sunlight strikes the burnished damp-dewed leaves that
decorate the floor around the foot of the tree. I walk closer, ever
closer to my tree, drawn by the rich copper, bronze, gold hues
of each fallen leaf, beaten by Nature’s hand into its own
precious hue. I gently stoop, then kneel and peer down
at the dew-speckled ground. I observe each leaf,
each cell in its own brilliance and remember
that long-ago smell of damp
and decay. I look around
my feet and
no longer
see death,
just leaves
sapping
into the
Earth.
Ants
scurrying
with scraps
down into
the ground.
Earthworms
tugging
leaves
into the soil
to feed,
nurture,
recycle,
resurrect
that which
was once dead
into a spring awakening.
Another cracking poem musty.
i was thinking about Izzy this morning. I hope she's OK. She hasn't posted for awhile. So, Izzy, if you're reading, hello and hope you are well.
Hello im still around. I keep getting email notifications of replies to this thread - I hadn't checked here in a while, so finally thought I maybe should but I haven't written in a while. I'd like to but haven't been in the right frame of mind. I've been very angry lately, there's been lots of shouting (mostly from me :-/) and I get tired of writing negative pieces. I have numerous books to read too but I rarely feel motivated to read either, at the moment.
Ok, how's this? not great, a bit repetitive but ok, I think(?).
The Moon In The Dark of Night by IzzyS
Do you ever wonder,
what lies beyond?
in the cold of night,
on a crisp winters eve,
look above and consider
what may be.
Some nights the moon appears;
bold as brass,
proudly prominent in the skyline,
reminding us that there's more.
Up above and far into the distance,
a curiosity may be stirred in us -
as we ponder what is yet to be discovered?
where do we sit, in the grand scheme of things?.
Still the moon watches over us,
shining light down on a blanket of darkness,
where in parts illuminations do not reach.
As the year heads towards its inevitable end,
celebrations begin, our excuse to look past what we're given,
cold, dark days, the uncertainty to what extent mother natures grip will be felt,
from one year to the next winters hold on us may vary,
yet as a species we refuse to let the bleakness overwhelm us,
on bonfire night, bright explosions of colour zig zag, explode and trickle down,
booming noises echo throughout towns far and wide,
and soon lights will be switched on, in preparation for the festive season,
as we console ourselves - put our decorations up and convince ourselves,
things aren't so dark and bleak, are they?
After all, Spring only ever follows Winter.
Comments
If the spirit of Horatio Nelson inhabited that hard to see image
of an attribution of him from a grateful nation atop its column.
The icon pigeon smeared statue in Trafalgar Square, imagine
a ghostly conversation from the plinth above tourists' scrums.
Long dead Admiral Nelson spoke to loyal Thomas Hardy
with concrete croak: “You see better than I, with my one
eye, Thomas. Tell me pray what do they with such devices,
the people below pointing up at me?” Guano shards fell
from his calcified lips towards the crowd. “Damned birds
defectating on me for ever, now this horde.” “My Lord,” said
Hardy, “It is, I read, called a selfie picture made of themselves
with your monument. It is a supremely selfish society: the mobs’
modern way, in this newly world. Self before duty and all else."
His stony eyes froze to its sculted pose looking forward to the
square scape, one arm holding a sword. Nelson slipped invisibly away.
He was at peace that his city haunt was over, returned to the
usual jaunt in fields of clover, with his lover Lady Hamilton. Happy
as ever was, given a ghost of a chance, to do his duty.
Hi Wizzy, there is unusual weather for this time of year but a little blue sky is good sometimes during the day and the colder evenings for tea, biscuits and slippers.:D
That is a nice, atmospheric poem. I enjoyed it.
Ta Wizzy
I advertise myself in local papers
And change my name to 'Vicky' for the chore,
Male readers think I'm only
A woman who is lonely,
A one-night stand, another chance to score.
I always wear a sexy little number,
Max Factor makes my features come alive,
Chanel is good for sprinkling,
Nobody has an inkling
I've been around since fifteen twenty-five.
On dates if I am questioned by a suitor
The answers given are a pack of lies,
How often I've pretended
And when the meal has ended
They get that hopeful look inside their eyes.
The drive home to my flat increases tension,
I ask them in for coffeee, well aware
Although it is destructive
An offer so seductive
Will be accepted by men everywhere.
I play them Lady Grinning Soul by Bowie,
The candles flicker while we're having sex,
But just before eruption
There comes an interruption
When fangs sink into unsuspecting necks.
They scream in pain and pleasure as I savour
Elixir sweet as any vintage wine,
Delicious, red and sticky,
Some even murmur 'Vicky'
In passion as our bloody limbs entwine.
The Prince of Darkness told me to seduce them,
His bite was like a torturer's hot brand,
I made love to the undead
And now I have the one bed
Where ecstasy and bliss go hand in hand.
©
Happy Birthday to us all
Love it musty! Made me feel a little uncomfortable and it made me smile. A brilliant contrasting poem. It inspired me to post one I wrote, but be warned: it's a whopper! I wanted to write a non-sensical story with a bit of eerie-ness attached. It was written for fun, but it's one long continuous verse. Hope you (and all you guys on here) like it:
The Quickest Way to Hell
As freezing rain pours from an angry sky,
Lights from cars dazzle as they drive on by
This is a night that will be endless and black,
I am lost on this road, there's no turning back.
There's a tumbledown house beyond on the hill,
When I see it I feel an enigmatic chill.
Something's amiss, I can't figure what
So I travel to the house, carrying all that I've got.
The rocky track to the hill is narrow and unlit,
I trip and in panic upon a mound I do sit.
From the troubled sky, rain continues to fall,
In the distance I can hear a scream, perhaps a distress call.
I am startled at the menacing noise that I hear,
And I continue on my journey, with newly found fear.
The hill path is steep and eternally long.
That scream I heard, was something wrong?
Was someone perishing alone in this rain?
Were they hurt, or in terrible pain?
It is baffling at what goes through your head
In times when you're apprehensive and filled with dread.
Eventually I get to the house, and I knock on the door.
There is no answer, but I hear a scream once more.
It came from beyond, over there in the wood,
It didn't sound normal, it didn't sound good.
Once more on the door of the house I rap,
At the very same time as a huge thunder clap.
The scream I heard echoes, it pierces my mind,
Someone is out there, but my conscience is blind.
As lightning flashes throughout the sky,
My innerself wonders if I'm about to die.
So I try the door-knob and it opens up wide,
It is dark within but I venture inside.
At least it is dry, there is no one about.
At the top of my voice I eagerly shout.
But no one hears me, the house is bare,
It is certain that no one dwells in there.
Outside I hear the scream, but this time it's near.
I try to ignore the noises I hear.
I should go and investigate, to put peace in my head,
But part of me thinks that I'll end up dead!
As the rain keeps falling and the thunder roars,
I explore the house and I open its doors.
Behind every one is nothing, a mass of doom
Bringing sorrow and blackness to every room.
The scream is louder, and then louder still,
And someone's behind me, I am feeling a chill.
I look around and am amazed at what's there.
A blood laden woman with an evil stare.
Her head is tilted, it leans to the right.
I nervously ask her if she's alright.
She opens her mouth, and then starts to cry
As rain continues falling from the starless sky.
As thunder roars and lightning beams,
Nothing is really as it all seems.
The crying woman is sobbing out her heart,
And she bursts out some words - her story does start.
She crashed her car, on a road across the moor.
She went for help but couldn't find her way back anymore.
She took many a path but they led her away,
So in this tumbledown house she decided to stay.
She tripped in the woods, she cut open her head,
And the incident filled her with terror and dread.
She started to scream as she was hungry and cold
Longing to meet someone who can help and behold.
This troublesome night is eerie and wet.
There's still many hours until morning yet!
Our cars are deserted, we are stranded alone,
Hungry, thirsty and chilled to the bone.
As the night progressed and the rain stopped falling,
On my mobile phone I decided to start calling.
A signal was absent, so no calls could be made.
But now safe in the house, our fear started to fade.
As the rain dried up and the moon started to shine,
Everything around seemed perfect and fine.
A beautiful light shining to the ground below,
Brightening the world with its silver glow.
The moon was full, the stars were bright,
A chill was present in this endless night.
But, as the moon shone through the tumbledown shack,
The blood laden woman was lying, in pain on her back.
She was wriggling and writhing as if fighting for breath
Was I witnessing her untimely death?
But she got up and stretched her arms out wide,
I felt discomfort and terror building inside.
Her hands turned to claws, her face started to change,
And suddenly there before me, was something fiercesome and strange
She was a werewolf, she came straight out of hell!
All of a sudden, I didn't feel very well!
She started to howl and she looked into my face,
I knew I had to get out of this place.
Out of the house I ran down the hill,
The world was silent, the world was still.
Then down a hole I went, I tripped and I fell,
I thought this was the quickest way to get to hell!....
But hell I didn't get to, I was safe in my bed,
For the day before I tripped and hit my head!
I was resting and drearily nursing my brow
And the werewolf slipped into my dreams somehow!
Perhaps a movie I watched, a TV show,
And the characters into a tumbledown house did go.
But, as my friend brought me shopping into my home,
She started to let out a tiresome groan.
The moon outside was silver and bright,
Then I heard a sound that gave me a fright.
My friend let out a howl, I ran out of the door,
I didn't want to have her as a friend anymore..............
(c)
1
At
the edge
of the woods
stands my tree.
Every morning I gaze out
from my bedroom window and see it,
standing patiently by the path into the woods,
waiting for me to come out to play.
The autumn wind is shaking its branches bare
and all around its sun-dappled roots swirl the brown leaves
that once covered my tree in shimmering green.
The familiar knotted faces on the trunk look down on me
and I call out their names and tease them for their
dumb expressions that change under the arcing sun.
Every day I dance under its gathering arms,
hands waving free above my head,
feet scrunching through the crisp leaves,
the seeds, the splintered twigs,
kicking up
swirls and
showers,
covering
myself with
the smell
of the woods,
joyfully
falling down
onto cushions
of leaves,
staring up
through the
criss-cross
of branches
through to the clear,
blue sky of my childhood.
2
The
blackened
skeleton veins
of leaves pile up,
rotten, on the damp ground.
Spindled branches, like the wasted limbs
of a hundred cadavers, arch over my head,
clasping to themselves the rotting stench of death
and dying that rises from all around my feet.
The mocking, twisted faces peering out
from the trunk crudely mirror my soul
with their shadowed expressions.
I idly kick a fractured branch
which breaks with a dully
satisfying thup and
spreads a cloud
of dusty
spores
from the
vampiric
fungi that
have drained
away its life.
I breathe
the thick air
with a grim
smile of
friendship.
It suits my time
and mood to be here.
3
I
am drawn
back this autumn
to the tree of my childhood.
In the distance I see its familiar,
stark shape by the overgrown path
into the woods. My old home,
long emptied of laughter and love and tears,
seems to be part of another life, out of my
memory, fading into the distance over my shoulder.
The low, golden sunlight strikes the burnished damp-dewed leaves that
decorate the floor around the foot of the tree. I walk closer, ever
closer to my tree, drawn by the rich copper, bronze, gold hues
of each fallen leaf, beaten by Nature’s hand into its own
precious hue. I gently stoop, then kneel and peer down
at the dew-speckled ground. I observe each leaf,
each cell in its own brilliance and remember
that long-ago smell of damp
and decay. I look around
my feet and
no longer
see death,
just leaves
sapping
into the
Earth.
Ants
scurrying
with scraps
down into
the ground.
Earthworms
tugging
leaves
into the soil
to feed,
nurture,
recycle,
resurrect
that which
was once dead
into a spring awakening.
I'm glad you enjoyed Vampiress, thanks for the feedback
LS Lowry's
Bird's-eye views,
Rarely are skies blue,
LS Lowry's
Crowds and queues
Doing what they do.
Chimney smoke
Sustained by coal,
Factories of grey
Guarantee
Another dull
Humdrum English day.
Nothing much
Occurred of note,
Streets are always bleak
Where the busy
Matchstick herd
Work five days a week.
He admitted
Loneliness
Was the only way,
Bird's-eye views
Achieved success
Distanced from the fray.
LS Lowry
Painted clear
Scenes of what he saw;
Real people in
Lancashire
As they were before.
©
Scottie, that is absolutely stunning. One of the most well imagined poems I've ever read. As musty says it has an air of Edgar Allan Poe about it. An absolute belter. Thanks for sharing.
Another cracking poem musty.
i was thinking about Izzy this morning. I hope she's OK. She hasn't posted for awhile. So, Izzy, if you're reading, hello and hope you are well.
Celebrations
Life seems to pass on by,
Without us realising it.
There's too much standing, rushing
But not much time to sit.
We barely even notice
When daytime turns to night
Yet every day, without asking
We assume everyone's alright.
We do not understand
Another person's tears,
We never try to remedy
Another person's fears.
We let each seperate day,
Merge into one.
We want the day to finish
Before it has begun.
A special occasion
Passes by
And yet we continue as before,
The sun shining in the sky
Casts our shadows upon the floor.
For we need to celebrate
Life should be lived to the excess.
Enjoy, laugh and learn to love
To diminsh those times of stress.
Everyday should be a celebration
Of all that we have got
And when we lay things in a pile
We learn we've got a lot.
There's no need to keep on pushing
To race through days and hours,
For by doing that we miss the sun
And only get the showers.
Musty, that's not a poem of mine.
I like the way scottie2121 has made the poem look like trees.:D
Your poem looks like trees:D
Happy Birthday:D
Great poem, wizzywick, celebrations to you
Hello
The Moon In The Dark of Night by IzzyS
Do you ever wonder,
what lies beyond?
in the cold of night,
on a crisp winters eve,
look above and consider
what may be.
Some nights the moon appears;
bold as brass,
proudly prominent in the skyline,
reminding us that there's more.
Up above and far into the distance,
a curiosity may be stirred in us -
as we ponder what is yet to be discovered?
where do we sit, in the grand scheme of things?.
Still the moon watches over us,
shining light down on a blanket of darkness,
where in parts illuminations do not reach.
As the year heads towards its inevitable end,
celebrations begin, our excuse to look past what we're given,
cold, dark days, the uncertainty to what extent mother natures grip will be felt,
from one year to the next winters hold on us may vary,
yet as a species we refuse to let the bleakness overwhelm us,
on bonfire night, bright explosions of colour zig zag, explode and trickle down,
booming noises echo throughout towns far and wide,
and soon lights will be switched on, in preparation for the festive season,
as we console ourselves - put our decorations up and convince ourselves,
things aren't so dark and bleak, are they?
After all, Spring only ever follows Winter.
Have you seen the Moon tonight Izzy?
Quite bright a shine, doesn't say much but always there from afar as the stars, they say nothing, absolutely nothing.:D
You thanked me
like a hurricane
as I thanked you
like the autumn rain
after you went
came the afterthought
as the weekend begins
Funnily enough I saw it shine through my curtains this evening, thats what prompted it *quelle surprise*