
Where have the flowers of spring gone?
Those were the days of our youth.
Spent in the hope of something better. Only to be wasted by those who did not understand their value.
#passion #poetry #art #my words #soapbox

Where have the flowers of spring gone?
Those were the days of our youth.
Spent in the hope of something better. Only to be wasted by those who did not understand their value.
Short words on a long day
Doors closed on faded memories
Listened to quiet hello’s
Silent good-byes
Young children and older siblings
Watched the wind blow through the spring leaves
Yellow daffodils visited by the honey bee
Remembered young faces to be put with old bodies
Cried because that’s the thing to do

I wander down forgotten trails
Searching out forgotten tales
Weary feet carry on
Beyond each bend and twisting turn
In every moment
I retrace
The memory of this magic place

Tall, slender, leafy green rods
Shower out their brilliant yellows
Marking the crest of summers glory
Harbinger to the falling leaf
It wasn’t that long ago for me
I still remember
Summer fields fresh plowed
Planted with seed
Green tips slipping upwards
Little fingers grasping for sun
Watchful of the blackbirds
Grey-brown grasshoppers slowly grazing
Very much like an errant cow
Turned into the wrong field
Yes
I remember tripping over the tilled furrow
Clumsily wandering about my chores
Daydreaming about some other life
The future
Now here I am
Oddly wandering in my golden years
Picking through each furrow of my mind
One moment I am the locust
Next the slow grazing cow
Searching out each savory grain
Every tender green wisp
Until reality wakens me
And the startled crow
Nimble and quick
Takes flight
Gleaning away another memory
Forgotten
Distant hills and ridge lines fade into the hazy grey of hot humidity
White clover edges out the crimson in their number
The yellow-black stripping of the bees competes quietly with the hummingbird for nectar
Lost among the slender tubes of honeysuckle and trumpeter vine
I find myself content to watch the pale lime green of buds transform from winters brown nodules into verdant colors of hand sized leaf
Even the constant change of sky
First downcast in early morning fog
Then radiant golden as sun blazes through
Only to once again darken by the approach of rain
These bring me happiness
All the while measuring the width and height of the labor to come
Thinking about spring
I find it all described with words an old man would use
The cool crisp air mixing softly with the early morning mist
Each petal of the paperwhite daffodil
Contrasts solid and hard with it’s yellow cousin
Here and there a bumble bee prowls
Tiny droplets of pollen and dew cling to her sides
Even as busy buzzing wings brush back the careless hand
Distracted by the beauty of the rising sun
The soft muzzled cough brought Alice back from being lost in her usual daydreams.
It had been months since she had walked freely about the streets. Even longer since the blind run through the dark forests of another world.
If this insane self-imposed quarantine had to continue for very much longer, Alice was going to leap back through into the brightly lit hall beyond. Once there she was more than willing to try her luck at some other random doorway.
“What then?” muttered the low voice of the sage.
Alice could tell he was talking more to himself than to her.
Alice replied anyway, “Anywhere but here.”
The look of the old mages floor length beard partially muzzled by a soft swath of mask looked ridiculous. The rope ties for the ears could not reach so Alice had helped him braid the ends into the facial hair just beneath the cheeks.
The effect gave the ancient librarian a hipster grunge look.
The ink stained hands of the sage had been hard at work rubbing his face again. Either an allergy from the ink that now tinted his nose or from the dreaded Covid virus had been making the elderly gentleman wheeze and cough. He had coughed enough times that Alice had demanded the face covering.
The sage grumpily complied just to silence her complaining.
The whole request struck him funny since it came from a woman wearing no clothes at all…
The doorman had been busy hanging invisible signs about the hall. Each had been hung so that an individual entering could see them with little effort. He was certain when the complaint department was called he would be found blameless in the spread of such ignorance. Each entry had been clearly marked with a request for a mandatory fourteen day quarantine, and each infectious destination properly marked.
The Gatekeeper had even replaced his usual Welcome mat with one that read, “Masks Required”.
“Yes”, he thought, “in a reality of inexistence the flattened curve wasn’t going to catch him in another surge, hoax or not.”
Pat sat watching the falling leaves. The peace autumn brought was a welcome change from the dry hot days of summer. Still the thought to lay naked in those golden rays made his pulse quicken with youthful memories.
“The seasons change with the turn of a word,” he whispered to the quiet room. Though there was a large crowd, no one heard him.
Pat was aware that the sentence could be thought of as political, as well as environmental.
Opinions were changing. Impatient populations desperate for a miracle.
Come November another four years of greatness would be chosen. Hopefully one that meant the destruction of a party founded in racism. If not then things weren’t going to look too good for the home front.
It had been bad enough that this man-made virus was unleashed by corrupt policies of the criminal elite in the attempt of a one-world-order coup.
To have to suffer under the heavy-handed tactics of the cosmopolitan could lead to an actual armageddon between good and evil…
Pat watched the falling leaves. The beauty was not wasted on him. The mix of yellows and reds drifting down. Sometimes in soft spirals, sometimes in a direct glide. Individual leaves and groups all randomly blowing about with a kaleidoscope of color.
None of the meaning was missed.
Everything had a purpose;
Pat just had his own preference in how things should end.
All this change from the green leaves of one tree. Nothing was ever missed…
Before my days grew cold
Naked and unafraid
I walked the wilderness
bare
The coarse earth bore my presence
Silent footfalls beneath the endless sky of blue
Golden light filtered through green seas of leaf
Undulating waves back and forth moved with the soft breath of God
Floating feathered squadrons in an endless circle
Farther each moment
High above
The sharpest blade tarnish and dull without the touch of decay
The strongest bull and fastest horse stumble upon the rock
Youthful vigor drains away evaporated with disuse
In old age wisdom flounders where truth has lost its worth
I am forgotten upon those places where once I traced my name
No sacred tree carries remembrance of me
All time worn stone and fire scarred wood have long dissolved with bone
And yet I hunger for tomorrow
Though I never see the day