Spring Returns

 

Art by Andrezej Berlowski

Spring Returns

Awake, awake deep from long restless sleep

cast off your shadows from grey winters’ grief

horizons adorn, the day is reborn

with blanket of warmth to bring us relief.

The balance returns by a sun that yearns

with the seeds of life in full embrace

of crisscrossing streams and paths to our dreams

where the flurry of essence gives chase.

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Painting from the Soul

Painting from the Soul

Creation brings reflection,

in the paintings of the soul,

quiet moments, visions,

they combine to make one whole.

New canvas of confession,

a blanket of fallen snow,

inspirations from the past,

emotions begin to flow.

Reds of broken essence ride,

greyish outlines dark with scorn,

shards of language so imbued,

by the pains of being born.

Orange sways indifference,

compassions absolve the breech,

flowers pining forgiveness,

by moments tinged in peach.

Pastel waters, calming themes,

emotions absorbed in light,

tans and browns foundations built,

where a bridge appears from white.

Brushstrokes blue with empathy,

soft tones hail the rising sun,

forgiveness dreams on canvas,

from the days when there was none.

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If only I could paint and provide a proper photo. ;) 

Where Ice Winds Blow

Painting By: My Great Aunt "Phoebe Harney" (Circa 1916)

Where Ice Winds Blow

A mighty forest once graced the dell,

so green and lush, the lungs would swell,

birds, so many, were full of vigour,

the skies back then bright blue and bigger.

Our home of grace built long ago,

saw harmonies dream and spirits grow,

along the mighty river Grand,

where crystal waters blessed our land.

In life we toiled in rock and earth,

our blood and sweat, our death and birth,

destiny ours, belonged to none,

and everyday came moon and sun.

Alas, the darkness brought its weight,

outside the barn, the post of fate,

trails in snow, so crimson black,

animal’s sacrificed, hung out back.

A child sobs his curse for food,

with eyes so flush his grief imbued,

outside the evening’s cold and damp,

while oil wick Flickers in his lamp.

Despondent howls sing through the night,

wolves in chorus under moon’s light,

sleep is restless, while nightmares surge,

drowning in fears, where guilt’s converge.

Haven crackles with fire and heat,

bungalow kept so warm and neat,

canning done, jars waxed and sealed,

packed away, our autumn yield.

Through winters barren lifeless thatch,

bundled with care behind the latch,

fields desolate, covered in snow,

whistling gusts, where ice winds blow.

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About this Poem: A photo struck me in a Poetry contest I entered recently, called “Outback Shed”. The Photo prompt in the contest was of an old homestead in the Outback that conjured up a memory of a painting my great-aunt made and gave my grandfather in 1916 (100 years ago.) The painting, depicted above, is of a farm at night, where outside, clearly visible is a trail of blood leading into the barn…the painting left an impression on me for a long time, that I’ve just now expressed in this Poem. Life and times were very different 100 years ago but this painting will always remain chilling with a reminder to me that all life is precious…

Match Day’s End

Photo Credit: Artist Bob Barker Painting “Secret Messages”

Match Day’s End

Winter furnace, row on row,

chase away the evening’s cold,

lights are out, the days at end,

half past twelve, as night descends

Match day fest has come 'n gone,

the derby, cup and the song,

all is quiet, town asleep,

save two boys still on their feet…

Backyard friends so delighted,

they’re joined by wire and cup,

message sent to each other,

two boys that shouldn’t be up.

Brimming joy n’ happiness,

excitement still fills the air,

game replayed by their voices,

in detail and great flair.

All seemed lost, all seemed over,

biting moments in the game,

seconds remain with a corner,

last chance for glory 'n fame.

Moments held in pensive thought,

their defense was bullet proof,

Teddy banged the header in,

eighty thousand raised the roof.

Euphoric moment caught in time,

that includes two boys of eight,

electrified emotions,

being part of something great.

Stadium’s roar still lingers,

when the match resumes again,

the ball in our possession,

by our captained side of ten.

Ref looks down to check his watch,

reds solve their tight formation,

a forty-yarder tally,

sending all into elation.

The Bench and stands do empty,

pitch covered at Wembley way,

players aloft, paraded,

everyone carried away.

Shining smiles replay the game,

well on into the night,

reliving glorious moments,

two friends in red and white.

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About this Poem: Some magic moments in sports stay with us forever especially when experienced in our youth. All our worldly problems with their daily strife falls away to ecstatic feelings that embrace moments of hope and divine thought; and so this poem depicts the lingering euphoria of that moment by youth, having won the championship.

Visit: Artist Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on: Facebook

A Mid Night’s Walk

Photo: Wet Feet Warm Heart – Bob Barker

A Mid Night’s Walk

The blue grey flicker of theatre’s twilight,

pales and recedes to red velvet curtains and end credits.

Fright night is over, and just begun,

for worried faces with no way home.

Movie house ushers left behind,

two boys barely nine,

unattended left in mid nights darkness, alone,

walking empty streets, they plan their journey.

A mile to go,

roads devoid of life, dead,

young audacious intellect no longer composed,

agree upon the shortest distance to sanctuary.

Autumn fog floods the air over cobbled streets,

leaving atmosphere crisp with biting chill, swelling panic,

and two young boys attentive to surroundings,

ready to bolt on the faintest sound.

Evenings haze billows on nights breeze,

absorbing lamp light, voice and vision,

to mirror strange reflections in pools of water,

on stone roads and imagination.

Shadows lurk on silent streets, trailing,

provoking image, form and being,

by young omnipotent minds,

creators of tales, myths and legends.

Dragons breath emerges from sewers and moorish fields,

ringing alarms heard by two quickening hearts.

Foul stench and fires steam,

shed the weight of cumbrous legs.

Eyes of the beast zigzags the nebulous fog behind,

Spreading panic in the marrow of its prey, fearfully running.

The screech of the dragon is upon them,

Enticing one last blood curdling shrill of life before their fall,

Adrenalin pumping, blood flowing, lungs inflate larger,

Speed and pace faster in guarded rhythm, accelerating…

The glaring whites of the beasts eyes close in,

Nooooooo! Therrrrrrrlll…

“Who you running from? Get in the car ya dumb kids!”

Arriving at the right moment, our champion slays the beast,

and drives us home with much relief.

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About this Poem: Two young boys walk home after a late night horror show.

Photo Credit: Bob Barker – Official Website

Bob Barker Art on - Facebook

Vision of Beauty

Adolphe Étienne Piot (1850-1910), Femme dans un manteau (1871),

Oil on canvas, 40 x 52 cm. Via Sotheby’s.

Vision of Beauty

A vision of beauty imprisons me,

I'm overwhelmed by an empathic soul.

I must move in for a closer look,

this viewing that makes me whole.

And there my gaze unfurls,

at the painting on the wall.

Impressions of a lonely girl

Hooded with a shawl.

A smile content with ruby lips,

eyes serene and open.

With hands in clasp, thoughts do slip,

her heart no longer broken.

Compassionate feelings plain in view,

expressed by her caring thoughts.

Imprints on my mind a new,

no longer am I fraught.

Happiness abounds unfolding,

from eyes without despair.

A vision so bright and beholding,

this girl before me in prayer.

Portrait of Immortal Vision,

so misty eyed and clear of mind.

The artist captured your decision,

and the inner peace that you did find.

I must come back to have a look,

at the lonely girl on the wall,

Her tender smile fills my book,
when I visit the museum hall.