Poems Poems

thanksgiving is a time of gatherings and luscious smells.

ham and turkey with succulent, sauces and tasty pumpkin pie.

everyone chats over hot buttery rolls; full belles

over and over they tumble, colorful specters playing.

the dying leaves of autumn have one last chase, before passing.

they will sleep in painted canvas ground, recycling

The willow blushes in the Sun’s caress,

such a colorful personality lending its’

ambiance to the greenwood.

Tiny catkins peek from morning bud-beds

to greet the dawn of this

The river pours itself down lakes and streams;

along its way, collecting its baubles;

drift wood, rocks, feathers and leaves for its scrapbook.

  It likes to wax

One day a rainbow, painted itself upon a still damp sky. 

It’s palette of pastel soft orange, yellow, pink, lavender and blue,

slowly blended by its own

Poetry is of everything,

Inspired emotions,

from the hearts that bring,

That certain notion,

could be a song to sing,

Of minds devotion,

Poetry is

    So swift behooves....

    in challenging quest....

    competitive hearts...

      race their best...

     A treasure to win...

   one measurable test...

    for equine

The Sage

Adam, let Eve be,

 Come and Lie with me

 And make the Future free.

No woman was

There to utter things as

Sweet as these to save

Us

If your eyes have enough compassion to see,

Every other eye sings poetry . . .

Just hold me in your arms,

And never let me go;

I’ve been craving for your love,

And I ask for nothing more.

I’ve been longing for restful calmness

That

There must be a reason the wind blows.

The sun shines so the crops can grow,

The night comes with darkness to sleep,

The leaves grow to produce

BEN’S BACK
a Poem
by Austin Mitchell

That morning we ran to school
We had to be early
The morning was so cool
We could see

The beginning and soon to be the end
Money we love less of them we spend
All untold and clearly fold
Unused in the lives

Look at our daughters
They now show no ill in laying with men old as their fathers
Look at our sons
Nothing is holding them

Sweet architect!
I hope you are listening to the clamors in my head
I hope you see the pain I feel in my chest
I

3 lines a Haiku.
Seventeen syllabels tell,
A lifetime of words.

But the modern day is contemporary,
Lives are captured in the words.
Far from the

                                                         THE DUST ON WORLD’S EYES.

The earth  crying  of pains , the Sky’s  eyes running tears, complains of losing sight. 

Rolling in phases  the  destruction

The hillocks where the village folk

Assembled for a fun-

There then at length dissected all

Subjects under the sun.

The roadside shop, where middle age

When I appear there Nature seems to
Dance and dance and dance,
When I disappear she is prone to
Weep and

A sophist saint in ancient Grecian land
Said whatever he said was a falsity,

Was asked to state anything before

Today I had a strange experience,
Not in this group but in another group.

‘Poetry and Lit′rature' it is not,
In

Him fountain of eternal joy from
Where life is renewed,
Ageing and life to be drained out, exit
From the world is

Ages there are in which the ration'l man
And th'intuitive stand side by side, the one

In fear of intuition, or