Under the veil of season's clouds hide those haggard raindrops of winter to tint the whole sky with some gray shades. I cache some broken crayons of faded colors in my pockets to paint the sun and the azure sky of summer on the canvas. I'm a mere poet but I turn into an artist when the orange and yellow hues of autumn's season appears in the canopy. And I hang it on the wall with some lights on to bloom like springtime where the fragrance of October render the aura breathless.
This piece serves as my attempt at multiple recent challenges. Thank you so much for reading! Also, I need to request your patience in regard to reading/reposts, because as our cross country move is drawing near, my presence here will be sporadic for a month or two. Thanks for understanding and bearing with me. ♥️
The Merchant Marine & His Irish Queen by lovenotes_from_carolyn A wild and winsome wayfarer Set sail with the Merchant Marines To a land called the Emerald Isle That's decked out in the loveliest greens
'Twas perhaps the luck o' the Irish That led up to next event For there, in the naval office 'Twas a gal who looked heaven-sent!
A bright lass was she, named Jenny With brown hair and eyes of blue For him, it was love at first sight And I reckon it was for her too
Yes, that was my gramps and my gran In a meeting designed by fate There's a whole lot more to that story But the hour is growing quite late
Fast forward to one whole year later Oh that Irish lass, gramps sure did miss So he brought her back here, to the States Where they married, in wedded bliss
They got on with the usual business Of living their day to day life And soon enough, gramps did discover He had a fine cook for a wife!
She prepared all the food to perfection From hors d'oeuvres to roasted meats To veggies and soups and salads And of course, all the goodies and sweets
Huge feasts she'd create to delight us Not a single time e'er did she fail For as soon as she'd bring out the food Cheers of delight would prevail
Her pies were sweet and superb Her cookies, a chewy delight And she'd send us on home with the extras When we left at the end of the night
In the chill of midwinter on Sundays I'd sit right by gran at her feet As she'd tell me the tales of her childhood While munching on goodies to eat
By then, she had barely an accent But still, it was there in some way And oh, was I fond of her voice Which lives on in my heart to this day
All Rights Reserved 13 Oct 2021 9.55 am _____________________
Poetry sits on my tongue like a pack of camphor and I light it with my own hands, without trembling or quivering. It burns me, bleeds me, cuts me, wounds me but not as much as my heart burns inside my ribs //
I'm someone who hates routine, and discards rules, yet I make love to syllables every day w- hile the Helianthus heals morning mist with a- n upward curve of petals and every night while night jasmine drips honey for a far away moon. I'm someone who abhors principles, yet I shed my thoughts in free verse to seal envelopes of poetries just like the autumn wind shakes the maple leaves to pirouette all the way to land on pavements. I'm someone who abandons legac y, yet I stitch sonnets in the sombre seconds of existence, levitating between life and death, lo- ve and hate, grief and glory.
I'm someone who ignores traditions, yet throug- hout the lane to my hireath, I've planted haikus in hues of a dream palette. I'm someone who g -ets annoyed with similarities and embellishme -nts, but my garden flourishes in similies and m -etaphors. I'm someone who skips side dishes, but my taste buds are acquaintance of tanka a -nd limerick. Repetition irritates me but villanelle and blitz are my rainbows and sunshine. I avoid confessions of all kinds, but odes are a mystery my mind often whispers. I don't try to pen down letters, but love pushes my heartbeats to weave my feelings as a kerchief for my dreamboat. I don't offer wreaths at the gateway of death, but my heart laments in elegies and eulogies.
I have a spot near the valley at the far edge of the waterfall. There's a river flowing inside me that's gushing to reach there, where I sway with the summer breeze and break myself into specks of wishes. To fly with the wind as multiple wings of a dream, while the world is wailing in winter frore, I'd be sipping the honey of spring.
It's the aftertaste of that honey, that time treasured on branches of birches, which burns with the fire dancing on my tongue. I chew some chords of ballads and barf symphonies at the eleventh hour, I bleed some phonemes and morphemes as an epitaph and a last will, before the curfew curse imprisons me in slumber. By dawn, poetries had sprouted around my grave with my signature as flowerets and my fading voice echoes around those oxymoronic daffodils and ironic daisies.
If my poem doesn't rhyme, the feet of every syllable twirling inside the wineglass of my thesaurus glides through my throat until my emotions overflow at a spontaneous symphony. Behind my broken heart, I carry tapes of teary notations and discs of euphonious rhythm, the treasure chest in my soul never empties, as long as my life's lit on this altar.
Poetry is my last hope to revve up the stars falling astray Painting the welkin with broken crayons in my bag of blueth //
Finally my first POD is here after four years. I'm really grateful for giving me this honor. Thank you so so much @miraquill
Thank you so much my dear ones for your every wish❤️ and to be with me in my happiness. I apologize sincerely because it's really difficult for me to take out time to reply each one. I'm grateful to you all