Poems

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18 articles in category Poems / Subscribe

Eeach day he calls, sleek and dark, decked out so smart,
But nature alone bestowed the mode,
a formal joy  the looks impart,
and expert valeting bought its reward.
That ‘snappy’ touch of yellow zest
for added warm compliments the rest of his attire.
What a dandy he proclaims to be!
That blackbird in the apple tree.

STYLE by Wendy R. Chapman.

She can be contacted at: thetalewagger@hotmail.com

Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

Iin the cage of the sleeplessness, the nights never breath the same way. Even if the summers’ crickets and the winters’ harsh winds are the same, the nights’ song is always new. Nothing is repeating identically, not even the rare, monotonous tick of the clock, as a sleeping heart carrying along the sleepy blood of the night.

The only noise that seem to be always the same is the one that sounds as a smothered sigh. One could say the imprisoned soul is mourning, of someone that would have been buried alive in the walls. But it is only the restless grave of the words.

Tthe words have been condemned to death one winter night. And since they have not been allowed to be spoken anymore, they have snowed over the bloodless lips, burdening them with a painful silence. And if they sometimes dare to cry the sadness of being killed too early, this happens only at night when there is no one around to hear their sigh with an echo of sea waves and sad distant strings.

And when the dawn comes, they stop again as if they have never spoken, wrapping me in their silent network that grows heavier day by day ….and I will die the day when I can’t be seen anymore through their thick mist, useless silk-worm in the dough of the unspoken words.
The End.

THE WORDS’ GRAVE by The Lonely Shell
Visit my website at: http://roxelmar.cjb.net

Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

Fairies flying through the air with starlight on their wings,
are planting all the mushrooms carefully in rings.
While elves sit sentry-duty to guard the special place,
and spiders weave their magic spell to cover all in lace.

Sleep on then little child so sweet, and dream of this til morn.
Then you will see where last they were, by the circles on the lawn.

Dream by Wendy R. Chapman.

She can be contacted at: thetalewagger@hotmail.com

Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

Wwinter’s white fingers
Frosting branches, trees and fields,
Move silently on.
—o0o—
Wwhite winter trees pose
Adorned in lace robes of snow,
Temporary guise.
—o0o—
Aasoft gentle sound
Carried on the evening breeze,
Whispers “He is here.”
——o0o——
Hhaunting melody,
Sad requiem for lost love
Always remembered.
——o0o——

HAIKU by Jean M. Lewis
© Copyrights reserved Jean M. Lewis February 2001

I’m Coco the chocolate puppy, my life is  full of fun.
Around the bushes, trees and plants, I love to run and run!

I try to eat most anything, it comes in handy to know
another source of food, because those humans can be slow!

They pat and stroke me quite a lot and, when all is said and done,
what a really good life it is, when you are nearly one!

The End.

Puppy Love by Wendy R. Chapman.

Dedicated to my grandson’s Chocolate Labrador, who sadly died aged 18months.

She can be contacted at: thetalewagger@hotmail.com

Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”

So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us (we heard it crack!)
and bore us till we reached the gate.

Then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you.

© Copyrights reserved Mike Burch March 2000
More poems plus by Mike Burch at www.thehypertexts.com

Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

 

kent

 

 

 

 

 

Graceful Lives in Wholly Peace.

The landscape from my home is clear,
as cotton-wool clouds dab gently in a cooling breeze.
A sway of poppies transfuse the golden morrow’s bread
and crops of fruit that fill the land,
while yonder hill stands green and proud.
A busy lake with waterfowl,
and leaping fry and stealthy tench.
Here glows a peace on Earth, this clean
and pleasant land of dreams, this England!

********************************************************

ME3

 

Disgraceful Evils in a Holy War.

The landscape in the Middle East is blurred,
by acrid clouds from burning fields and orphaned homes.
Stilled, human scarecrows guard the crops of wanton waste
as unseen guns shout out their prayer of hate
and prey upon a sacrificial paste.
A crater with some water foul,
a shattered church, a burning mosque
and Holy Smoke defiled with stench.
Here grows a place of Death, a nightmare that’s intolerance.

© Copyright 2013 The Talewagger           talewagger

Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

Mmy beauty is ageless, though lines scar my face,
I radiate and shimmer with green patterns of lace.
My arms, although gnarled, give me no pain.
I blossom at Springtime, with finery grand,
an arrangement in keeping with nature as planned.

Wwhen days turn to cold and frost chills my limbs,
my greatest performance of all then begins.
And people are spellbound gaze with much awe,
my beauty, my grace, my curtsy, my fall.

Nno debutante fair could ‘present’ with such glee,
in  my Autumn of Life, a mere single old tree!

The old Trouper by Wendy R. Chapman.
All copyights reserved.