Toe Poetry

[austintorn@aol.com]

Camphire, the scent of Paradise, inspires,
Reminding us to what our soul aspires,
As spontaneous desires overspill
To tell us of duties we must fulfill.

Daffodils, arranged in their elfin way,
Wear their yellow skirts, like Fairies’ Dresses,
And brighten, through the spirit light of morn,
Into the fuller radiance of day.

Butterflies come to life in Pansies’ psyches,
Embodied by extension into flight.
They’re flowers floating on the air, propelled,
Leaving shadow prints behind on the petals.

The air fills with Honeysuckles’ scented nets,
From fairies blowing those honey trumpets.
There they sow vermilion red Geraniums,
That grow wild into many countless sums.

The Golden-Throated Lilies sing at morn;
Maiden Flower blushes, its pureness reborn;
There, galaxies of Sunflowers sway,
Echoing the luminosity of day.

[MJA]

The Butterfly is Me

Whilst bicycling through paradise today

I felt the infinite love of the universe

The eternal glow of my own heart.

Then a beautiful yellow butterfly flew near

Wanting to alight on my nose.

And now I know how close

God is to me.

=
MJA

[austintorn@aol.com]

Eve picked some Dandelions ripe enough
To have gone from gold to just so much fluff,
Reminding us, when soft blown with a puff,
That time will spread us, too, amid the dust.

Chrysanthemums drink the mellow day;
Falling petals carry the light away.
The autumn fog enswirls, the mist upcurls;
Into nothingness the wisp slow unfurls.

[austintorn@aol.com]

Woodbine wets the air with its cooling musk;
Bluebells herald the dim and dewy dusk
And ring the dance and song of evening knells,
Music tinkling in fairy festivals.

The Evening Primrose only in the night
Opens its cup to drink-in the moonlight,
Then gazes round with silent love and smiles,
Much as we would upon a sleeping child.

Its phosphorescent light guides the flight
Of the flying creatures that love the night.
It looks the swelling moon straight in the sight
As they make love in the haunt of midnight.

[timeparticle]

Underground
by, Tp

I am the underground, the very nature of still,
in darkness groping everlasting unearthly will,
I seek only flickers, candle lit wick shimmering .
knowledge as it seeps through the hammering
cracks and slithering crevices like moonlit
cream dripping down over silky smooth stone sits.

My eyes open wide as the darkened corridors
light up, as I sit underground, not speaking, floors
empty into long stringy shadows lengthen,
as the light grows, milky white foam pours even,
splashes bubbles of white, flakes of colors weave and
braid through the mixture of darken underground
home, safe in reclusive unbroken life sound.

The very nature of still, I am the underground,
crawling over sharp, spaded rocks, bound
together by thick molasses pulsing into slats,
into hardened slate walls, misty air mats
across the sparkle tips, as wisdom softly
dims the deep cave pit, hidden far away, free
from judgment, I relax into the underground.

[austintorn@aol.com]

WORTHLESS AND PRICELESS

The poet works only for love,
And for nothing more.
There’s no profit in coin,
No wealth below or up above,
No fortune told,
No living made.

The poet writes only for love,
For there is nothing else:
Just a few readers, and
No business worth speaking of.
Yes, I know that I’m no bard,
And that fame is only met,
If at all, in the graveyard,
Where, far beneath,
I cannot grasp the laurel wreath.

As a poet I write much of love,
Of it’s worth and wealth
Measured in goodness
And beauty seldom heard of.
Without promise, the poet writes on,
And knowing well
That there shall be no award;

But ever on the poet writes,
And lives, and works for love,
For he’s found that love
Is its own reward.

[labelwench]

Perhaps another day...

'Took a wander through the T.O.E. Quest forums today,
The latest postings, newest members and such to survey.
More to learn of science and life, human growth and decay,
From whence we came, where we go, why we work and play.

Each poster is unique, in their use of words and cliche,
Their ideas, thoughts and feelings, they strive to convey.
Weaving past, present , future, to metaphorical buffet.

Yet, outside the window, the morning light holds sway.
Woodland trails beckon me, "Be now off and away,"
I shall return to this venue, perhaps, another day...
For now, I heed the calls, of nicker and neigh.....

[austintorn@aol.com]

[timeparticle]

The Blues
by, Tp

Guitar strings humming, to slow rhythmic
singing on dirt sidewalk, 1928 deep south lic,
hard times turn lyrical phrase blues,
"Mississippi" John Hurt in colorful hues,
on "Avalon Blues" and "Blue Harvest Blues".

Pulling up old grief feelings, seems endless
to him, can elaborate to music, from relentless,
pushing, provocation to fall, but instead,
creates bumping notes across the strings, threads
to move in darkly slow progressions fed.

People stop to listen, him singing
on the old porch, throw coins, ringing
in the can, for food money,
He nods as they tip, funny
old dog sitting next to him, hungry.

Something about the Blues,
a connection is made, a memory ensues,
for many around the world are drawn,
to the slow rhythm, coats their pain, sawn
to redemption, like thick black oil
lubricating red, rusty gears of soiled
time clock tower, as it keeps moving in toil.

[labelwench]

Contemplating Condiments

The pickles and olives, she’d been asked to apprize.
Could we lower the profile? Would she please advise.
And increase holding power of some brands and size?

Twelve feet wide and seven high, the shelves before her eyes,
Hours of work, all these many jars and cans to revise,
“Better you than me,” laughs one of the guys.

Each four foot shelf, she would clear and restore,
The product piled on carts, jars on the floor,
An occasional discard, past it’s “best before”.

The time glides by, and her arms feel long,
Her goal, restore order, before day’s dawn,
One of the guys humming a familiar song....

Pickled onions, sweet and sour, gherkins and dills,
Artichoke and olives, capers too, she fills.
Tons of product handled, and without any spills.

All comes together, with minutes to spare.
Stands back to survey; decides it looks fair.
“So, how was your shift?”, asks her friend, with a giggle.
“Delightful!”, she replied, “I spent the night pickled!”