highland bull came to us on a lovely spring day
we could tell by his high kicks he was ready to play
a pink butterfly with plethora of dots futtered his way
He was not shy in giving her a “hey, hey, hey, hey!”
Wondered if he had wandered from the Meadows in Bray
Had no idea how to get him back there that day
A full schedule meant he would have to stay and play
We did give him feed, and a soft pace to lay
The pallet we made him was filled with the softest hay
Not his fault he is lost, said my cousin Lucie McKay
When we returned from work, he had meandered away
We were thrilled we had a Highland Bull for almost a day
She wished neither to be loved
or adorned
yet wished for the tresures
that Lovers deserve
and those who are adorned
receive as gifts.
He wished for someone
who loved him in
needed him could only disappoint
but being valued as loved
he could be man enough for her
There personalities clashed
and were completely opposite of
one another and often out of sync
Echoes the nights
were the need of
being loved has him
lonley and unwanted
yet she finds reasons
to need things
they sparkle
to shine for others
to admire her
Echoes the Nights
when the things that
posses me
are thetrickets
that give him way to
me
might I suffer
to need her to
love me
He is neither neglected
or has Love faded
we exist to co-mingle
and habitat
Kisses and whispers
might arouse a need in me
that he may belive
to be his vision of Love
He cries
Yes sometimes
The memory burnt in
Hot iron press into his weak mind
He saw the flowers yet again
Some bustling with life
Half drooping and dying diligently
And he saw
Theres something sinister in the mind
When you realize you near the end of a chapter
All you can do is read on until it ends
...
Well what if you dont want it to end
Stopping reading would be stopping everything
And reading is your life
Escaping or reality of the mind
He knew he was nearing the end of that chapter
All he wanted was to hold on
Read a little bit slower
So mabye
Just mabye
He could enjoy his comfort for a little bit longer
See he is plagued
Not with a disease no
But with foresight
He knew again it was ending
And it ended
And it broke him
All he could see were the flowers
Tears meandered the regular path on his dry cheek
He could still see it
As he slowly forgot her face
The flowers
Sitting atop the dresser
From the rising sun in the east
To casted shadows after dark in the west,
Our tribal marked faces show,
A timeless story, aglow.
Seasons come and go,
Hiding shades and dimmed sparks.
Beneath the sprawling swamps,
Cornering meandered mangroves,
Our roots run deep,
Anchored in attires of legacy.
Our heads see without light,
Guided by old wisdom unspoken.
Truth and strength wrap us,
Like leaves hiding the stem,
This binding keeps us to mother earth,
Fatherland, and to each other.
The river Nun whispers
Future tales of our past,
Her ebb and flow carry songs of joy,
Of resilience, of hope.
Wells oiled to bustle with life,
Echoing voices of a southern people united,
Crafting stories with each fishing net,
With each catch and harvest,
With each chant that shakes the air.
We stand with one another,
As trees in a forest,
Strong and steadfast,
Each branch reaching,
Each leaf singing,
Together in harmony,
Brothers and sisters fit to guide,
The new call of the river Nun.
Sitting attentively on a rickety park bench
My thoughts as deep as an ocean trench
People scurrying aimlessly with their daily lives
In time they’ll fade too, into the archives
I notice a young family, a dog and a cat
After they draw a last breath, what awaits after that?
Billions departed throughout the lineage of man
Bygone times, forgotten lives; been quite the span.
What is the meaning of life in this place?
Why have some never shared a loving embrace?
How many souls have meandered here?
Each with their own struggles to persevere
Who makes it to heaven and who does not?
Will some scorch in hellfire in flames molten hot?
Are we amid a spiritual war for our soul?
The weight of such questions takes its toll
I hope that together, we make it in the end
To a realm without fear, where we joyfully ascend
The righteous, the tainted, and all in between
In a land of eternal peace, pure and serene
Ah Kite! Kite with the golden wings, this wet clouded noon hour
Shed tears no more soaring higher and higher, by the river Dhansinri!
The croon in thine voice reminds me of her gloomy eyes, runs along into fading
Likewise the princesses of this world , she meandered a far, beauty , her carved tracks along
Why buzzing to remembrance once in back? Who would long for a heartache
digging into the wounded soul!
Ah Kite! Kite with the golden wings, this wet clouded noon hour
Shed tears no more, soaring higher and higher, by the river Dhansinri!.”
under a sullen moon
silence hovered
my mind meandered
the two soon
inextricably
entwined
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
The years meandered ‘long ‘til I hit twenty
dreams of fame, girls and money
Married too young, I was a jerk
tethered now, to the daze of work
Lost in their haze, decades sped by
spent a fortune, wondering why
Finally quit, seventy nearly
my body’d paid ever so dearly
And yes, the years meander once again
in a comfy rocker ~ with paper and pen
beneath a sullen moon
silence hovered
my mind meandered
the two soon
inextricably
entwined
AP: 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on January 10, 2025 to BRIAN STRAND'S contest 'A 2025 POSTED POEM' - RANKED 3RD
Down a grassy lane,
I trudged beneath pale blue skies,
a rambling spirit,
vivid scenic hues a spur,
to a literary verse
Images abound,
for me to seize and savour,
in a magic whirl,
or vortex as I ponder,
shrouds of verdant silhouettes
Hedges, bird shrieks, rocks,
taunt and tease wide awake eyes,
stirring cues unfold,
lavish signpost for lush mindd,
creative deft scroll then poised
Downward Plod I chose,
as title of lines scribbled,
for my first poem,
whose birth meandered footprint,
a release for budding pen
He sat captured in a surprised look,
Middle-aged, youthful and vibrant,
He was committed to his work and family,
An uncommon balance admired by his colleagues.
His story was that of grass to grace,
From humble beginnings,
He moved up the ladder,
He meandered and blossomed,
He was a shooting star in the night sky.
He took a wrong leap,
It was an anguish reap,
It pierced his soul and wrung his heart,
He couldn’t steer a middle course for long,
He plummeted into darkness,
He eased into the night at his prime.
A keepsake of him fading away gradually,
Slowly erased by time and clime,
Brought back to the light,
Awakened by technology.
September 19, 2024.
He trundled his way up the three heavy steps
His mop of hair searching every direction
In the middle of the stage a brash spotlight
shone on a large drum kit
Behind a curtain dangled over a hand painted sign
The burgundy curtains partially
covering the letters making it look like alent sho
The boy now seated behind the kit dwarfed by its side.
He adjusted his seat slightly, closed his eyes and
took a breath
The crowds murmurs abruptly cut by some drunks
sloshed repartee -Hey.kid you, a belch breaking his sentence-forgot your sticks
With a tiiter of some of the onlookers
The young boy slowly opened his eyes
A tear slowly rolled down his pale cheeks
Swaying from his chin for a moment
before falling
It meandered along the cymbal's it’s tremor almost melodically before snapping upon the snare
Each tear falling in perfect formation
No beat missed a methodical beat
One after another
The silence of the audience
mesmerised by his music
He played with such sadness
The tears of those watching only adding to his symphony
Age is over rated
I went from cute and cuddly
To terribly two
In the flip of a calendar
From being inquisitive
To being nosey
From pre-teen
To A TEENAGER
Meandered
Through the military
Into construction
And against the Vegas spread
Married
And became a father
AGE
That sly bastard
Has made me
A grandfather
And a great grandfather
I have taught them all
To spit, to curse,
To love
Even the seemingly
Un-lovable
Age has slowed me down
Stolen my fastball
It has not been able
To wither my wit
Stifle my laughter
Or contain my enthusiasm
I still laugh
Too loud and too often
Too frequently at the “wrong” things
The children and grandchildren
Share their “Papa stories”
Most include mud puddles
A few scars from the jungle bars
H U G E….ice cream sundaes
Getting hit by a baseball
He threw to show you
It wouldn’t hurt that much
To get hit by the pitch
I may be getting “old”
But age had better be ready
When I round third
Headed for home
He’d better be holding the ball
With both hands
Cuz there will be
A collision
Before I’m
Called… “OUT”
Where fleecy clouds, on rosy-quilt meandered,
Motifs amethystine wowed tangerine horizon
Embroidering on magenta arc, designs crimson,
Beckoned by blushed-musings of marigold sun
Spraying amber gold, on burnt-yellow attire,
Scattering breaths sapphire, on periwinkle fire;
As tunes chrysanthemum, sung of eve’s desire,
Choreographing themes of dreams romantic,
In symphony of colors shimmering on ripples
Sprinkling twilight on tapestries of blue ocean
Painting azure fabric, in aureate brushstrokes,
Quivering our essence, embraced in passion.
This is where we were, when first-time eyes met,
When sight of love fueled embers of romance
And smitten hearts spoke through lovesome glance,
Admiring from bridge, sun’s glorious farewell;
Where we stand today, as heart-rhythms resonate,
Synchronizing with love, and melodies of sunset.
Line 2: Tangerine sunsets composing chrysanthemum hymns
Ephemera, a short lived life
of cherished times before the strife
meandered into detritus
with depth enough to bury thus
beneath the memories with spite.
Photographs torn up by his wife,
the shreds did cut him like a knife,
and nevermore did he discuss
ephemera!
Will his life soon be free from rife,
will he discern a golden fife
to lead him on without a fuss,
down new pathways where he can trust
treasure in the scraps of his life's
ephemera?
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