A treat for my faithful readers. Bullwinkle Muse one of my favorite poets on my main writing site, Triond, was good enough to offer up three poems this weekend, including the weekly challenge by our pal Duff who has also been featured here as well. you can see his blog, Frostbite Falls here on my blogroll to your immediate left, and see his Triond profile just below, note, this man is a legend in writing circles.
BullwinkleMuse's Triond profile.
Winds of Fate
For Writing Challenge 15 – to compose a work using the words "rainbow" and "damaged goods".
If I stack my failures one by one,
too numerous to count;
Scale the heights and depths of all I’ve done,
and stand upon that mount;
Will my cries for mercy from its peak
ascend above the clouds?
Or shall lips that part to dare but speak
condemn me with the proud?
There are Winds that blow through mortal souls,
which scarce a man can bear;
And the way they go, it’s said, controls
the state of his affairs.
Thus I’ll steel myself against the cold
as Their gelid Fingers pierce so bold
my secrets veiled within;
With my feet held firm on rocky ground
I’ll make my final plea:
“May these Winds take me to where I’m bound-
toward heaven, or to sea.
If the heavens greet me as a friend,
a rainbow I shall see;
By this sign I’ll know of whither end
these damaged goods shall be.”
Here atop this craggy hill of shame,
beneath their shrilly whine,
The Winds of Fate whisper a name;
‘Twas yours! (or was it mine?)
Whether high or low, or in between
on fateful winds I blow,
If my end be set or unforeseen
’tis soon that I will know;
So I stand here ‘pon my life estate
and gaze up to the sky;
As a vane to gauge the Winds of Fate
for which way I shall fly
Another treasure from Moose below, enjoy
A Measured Life
On life and times, in English sonnet form.
As I approach the winter of my years,
the summers I have seen appear so few;
In spring, I was still wet behind the ears,
Now autumn fills my eyes with mourning dew.
Once April danced with May straight into June,
and all my life was summer mixed with spring;
but now September plays an august tune
October won’t remember how to sing.
On Saturdays my game was hide-and-seek,
but Sundays found me kneeling down to pray;
the cycle still repeats itself each week,
as I approach the evening of my day.
And so as winter looms, and blooms deflow’r,
I’ll kneel in morning dew to greet the hour.
Another from the Moose Man
Home is a place at the end of a road
with mile markers measured in tears…
Stop signs and speed limits along the way
had no meaning to him before;
with no destination and no price to pay
his pedal was kept to the floor.
Bright shiny metal, like a peacock’s plumes,
he drove carelessly down this road;
making detours for the scent of perfumes,
and what little attention they showed.
Short were the joy rides that his passengers took,
and seldom did they ride again;
Of fares, he kept records in a little black book,
in pencil and never with pen.
Somewhere along the way he realized
his journey must come to an end;
the hollowness in him that he’d kept disguised,
these road trips would never amend.
Fuel running low and with no map to guide,
a flower stand came into view;
bright lilies declared “It’s time to decide;
your arrival is long overdue.”
Sundress and moonbeams had clothed her that day,
with a smile that said ‘welcome home’;
a bluegrass day lily, she beckoned he stay,
though his nature was only to roam.
He said “It’s my lot to continue this ride,”
and to keep my company new.
I look at that seat that has been at my side,
and wish I’d reserved it for you.”
She said, “I don’t mind all the miles that it took,
what matters is that you got here.”
With that he discarded his little black book
and said,”Come and ride with me, dear”.
She told him, “I’ll go anywhere that you choose
and stay in that seat next to you.
There’s nothing I have I’m not willing to lose,
and nothing for you I won’t do.”
He looked at her lilies on the stand that she’d made,
then saw them reflect in her eyes;
Here was this haven she was willing to trade
and break with him, from all these ties.
He took out his car keys and tossed them aside,
in hopes that this wasn’t a mirage;
And knew at that moment that she’d be his bride,
and parked his car in her garage.
Home is a place at the end of a road
with mile markers measured in tears;
a bluegrass day lily in her roadside abode
was waiting to calm all his fea
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