A walk in the woods (repost)
I listen to the silence that echoes
I hear a leaf rustle in the wind
walking a path I know not where it goes.
On silent wings a bird flies quick then slows
red feathers to the sky ascend
I listen to the silence that echoes.
Green-leafed branches entwine to form windows
brief glimpses of blue that does not end
Walking a path I know not where it goes.
Around me everywhere I see shadows
Fauna who with the dark will to blend
I listen to the silence that echoes.
Of nature’s beauty poems I compose
Wishing I could share them with a friend
Walking a path I know not where it goes.
I find brief respite from the constant throes
of suffering life towards me does send
I listen to the silence that echoes
Walking a path I know not where it goes.
Summer Broadcasts
At the Villa, where we settle our affaires,
the French balcony stays ajar
as Warblers and Larks offer up Summer's wares
An English secretary, atop the stairs,
set so's we might listen on par,
at the Villa where we settle our affaires.
The Tahitian window box triples its shares,
lu’au'ing a fresh wax washed car,
as Blue hummingbirds offer up Summer's wares
Here on high amidst green leaves and falling cares
amid whispered fairytales, near, far,
at the Villa, where we settle our affaires;
There's a divan in the sky instead of chairs
grand Cinema styled, for a Czar,
as bright Kingfishers offer up Summer's wares.
We whistle along to cool fountainpen smears
with a Spirit --no-error-mars,
at the Villa where we settle our affaires,
as Finches and Jays offer up Summer's wares.
The Tick
Little grips the blood, with fear, like idled hands.
What slips across the face, iced as shadows...
Gloved, with most benign of custom, and demands
the Governess, sweeping wayward curl, that lands
...Frozen for a moment, upon arched brows...
Little grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.
Devil may care, for these hot and shifting sands
that course, and burn, human fingers and toes;
Failing to hold firm The Count's countless demands.
Oh juggler, you, of minuets and grandstands!
When all applause ends, and our rest follows...
"Little," grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.
Don't speak of Evil, or a bird in the hands!
Empty of work, or wistful candle blows...
of Figurative... or Literal... demands.
Just a tot, inside, taking part, between bands.
Inadequacy, behind the glass, shows:
Little grips the blood with fear... like idled hands
...as Grand Father tolls, Mother's fatal demands.
05.29.2024
Villanelle Challenge @CKMunsell
The Mockingbird
Alive and aware in full sight --
Trees and songs and colors and birds are true.
I’m alive, I’m alive, but not quite.
At last the blue curtains seem right,
With quiet fans turning, and thoughts dusty blue
It’s okay that I’m alone again tonight.
I sit every day in the dark and the light
The blood in my veins churning, with thoughts of nothing very new
No, wait – if I sit to write – lines will arise, so I breathe again in spite
Nothing new, nothing right.
I’m so tired of getting by, and so tired of making do.
What makes sense in this world of blight?
So, I sit in the dark, in the middle of the night,
I listen to a bird sing these tunes,
It’s a mocking bird singing at 2AM, with beauty and with smite.
I attend to meaning; I attend to life,
I believe in this bird and this woo!
Sing again mockingbird; I’ll be here tonight
It is you bird; it is you tree; it is you wind -- I invite.
CK Munsell © 06.12.2024 All rights reserved.
Silent Wings
All of time’s passing is a silent flight
An owl whose ancient wisdom ever grows
Carrying on despite how desperately we fight
We age from our eyes first, creases and lost sight
Slowly, the rest of our body faithfully follows
All of time’s passing is a silent flight
We seek to hinder the inevitable fading of our light
Too strong is the current that through us flows
Carrying on despite how desperately we fight
Memories made and fade, as the emotions they incite
Like all things they will meet again at life’s close
All of time’s passing is a silent flight
Each of us will reckon with what we thought right
The peace of eternity is the only thing that knows
Carrying on despite how desperately we fight
Taking everything from us with its endless might
And giving us all we have in both highs and lows
All of time’s passing is a silent flight
Carrying on despite how desperately we fight
Waking
Sleep comes easily on two feet,
no greetings or formalities,
like a nightwalker in the street;
To many shuteyes counting sheep
...in familiar realities...
Sleep comes easily on two feet.
Tail in hand, Sleep hounds, with entreat
of enlightened brutalities,
on opposite sides of the street;
Understanding we've earned our meet
in shortage, and totality.
Sleep comes easily on two feet:
Slips pistol-like from twilight's sheath.
Sleep aims at our idolatries;
Light and shadow, stalking the street.
Moon rise, a copper, on the beat
---Somnambulists 'cross all cities!
sure, Sleep comes easy, on two feet
like a nightwalker in the street.
Strengthening the Mental
In exercise the Cycle breaks,
sometimes, at the wheels
Riding, over dubious stakes
in a pace, or place called Breakneck,
or South Bend, it steals
the breath, between dream state and wake
For sport, some have opted for fake
stiff treadmills, small meals,
To exorcise the Cycle breaks
Navigate juju by handshakes
through ledger board reels
and phony spokesmen's pattycakes
As to raise the deal Life "mistakes"
over Fortune's wheels,
gilding detrimental stakes
The feeble conscience muscle rakes
in tired appeals...
for the turn in strength that it takes.
In exercise the Cycle breaks.
2024 JUN 12
The Hat in the Hall
To hang my honor in shame.
See the unworn cap, left nigh?
the hallway hook calls my name.
It's a silence most profane,
tilt of brim, half to deny...
To hang my honor in shame.
Of all good deeds, most mundane
sits the pillbox by, and bye—
The hallway hook calls my name.
And calls the dark like a Dame,
to our dust that now doth fly,
"To hang my honor in shame!"
One fine gesture might remain,
to yet beg the conscience, why:
the hallway hook calls my name?
As all the worlds' stage proclaim
indecision's plateau's high—
To hang my honor in shame...
the hallway hook calls my name.
The Treasure of Pleasure
I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near
so deeply within it can’t be ignored
a treasure that weathers all that I fear
I never buy treasure with anything mere
and bury my hope with passions restored
I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near
I measure my pleasure in how I adhere
to a life that I live while hoping to hoard
a treasure that weathers all that I fear
but whether that treasure for me is right here
there’s much that I find that I cannot afford
I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near
my pleasure is feathered by what I revere
and haunted by all I haven’t explored
a treasure that weathers all that I fear
in my leisure I treasure your every tear
and wonder, my love, if you’re my reward
I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near
a treasure that weathers all that I fear
A Soul-Shaking Nightmare
Last night I had a terrible dream:
I was in a tunnel drenched in darkness,
and buffeted endlessly, like a meme.
“Help me!” I yelled, but no one heard me scream
as the walls kept turning with such hardness
that my very soul was shaken, it seemed.
Then something began pulling me full-steam
to a pit littered with many a carcass.
I fought, but it was like swimming upstream.
I awoke, covered in sweat like a cream,
wondering, “What evil did I just witness?”
“Was this a portent of hell?” “What did it mean?”
Soon, my worries faded in daily routine
but I also went to church to confess
my shortcomings to the Being Supreme.
At night, the dream again hit my esteem
but this time a smile I managed to harness
as a hand pushed me to the tunnel extreme.
I noticed the sign: “Bottles, Cans: Redeem.”