The perfect morning
depends on how you see it
Cloud obscures the sun
the freak storm brings misery
Inside perfection still reigns
copyright Leofwine Tanner 2019
Waiting for the rain,
don’t go out there, just in case
Once outside, it rains
copyright Leofwine Tanner 2019
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Climbing the dune,
wind heavy in our faces.
We squint (or do we smile?),
our laughs and quips
diffuse in the air.
Young legs carry you
ahead to the summit,
where tufts of green cling
to an existence. Then you’re
a sudden lithe silhouette
against a racing sky.
I revel in your victory;
your gentle hand hauls me
up close to ocean eyes,
an elfin smile, teeth
pristine like breakers
on the distant, crashing
shore, that white noise
filling our ears.
To look into you
is to look as men
have done for centuries.
you’re the pearl left
nestling in filth.
So take a look –
can anyone steal time?
An hour here or there,
we leave our footprints,
no foothold anywhere.
I am the painter of this shore –
you are the model.
Again and again,
we return to wrestle
in familiar hues;
deep alizarin crimson,
yellow ochre, phthalo blue,
making it real. Stay in this
moment, we bless and bless.
It has to be you.
copyright Leofwine Tanner 2019 and 2011
Summer doesn’t officially begin until June 1, or June 21 with the Summer Solstice, according to some.
But a few warm days in early May lulls you into that typical false sense of security, leaves you thinking summer may have come early.
Then, of course, the heavens opened and May returned to its usual, not entirely unexpected mixed bag of meteorological mayhem.
And that’s just it, the downpour reminded me of many previous Mays, and by all accounts the temperatures will be almost back down to single figures by the weekend. This is a normal May.
That’s why I said ‘Au Revoir’ at the start. So, like the French might optimistically put it, until we meet again, dear summer…
© copyright words and images rp
Gulf of Mirabella and island of Pseira, Crete, Greece (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
He didn’t know how to handle it, the sheer
heat of Crete; nor
the first sight of her, bikini pink, and later
sauntering around carefree
in even less,
through the clam of every evening.
And he’d certainly never seen
a cockroach before. It scooted up
their wall, brazen and antennae led—
she leapt straight out of bed! But
this one hadn’t counted on
the soul of a size eleven shoe.
While she drew a star in her diary, he
flung open the windows
each sultry morning, looked out
across the milky Mirabello Bay,
then down below, where
right on queue, Adonis
hosed down the tacky taverna floor,
leaving him to remember
what was cold and rain
© copyright David F. Barker 2012
Blackbird (Turdus merula), singing male. Bogense havn, Funen, Denmark. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The First Time
Blackbird, you must believe me,
but I didn’t set out to praise you.
So much can seem pastoral,
hackneyed, and plain ‘done already’.
But your song today
when I opened the window,
once the lashing rain had passed
and a feeble sun had come out –
it was so vital and clear.
You were not troubled by worry,
not hamstrung with minutiae,
nor at all concerned about
what you should be doing.
You simply sang from your heart,
a heart which I can’t always find
or even acknowledge in me.
Today then, at least let me say
it was like hearing you
for the first time.
Which of course, I was
Poem © copyright df barker
He was looking at the rivulets
stuttering down the glass,
ignoring the sodden cat on the windowsill
and the puddles in the grass.
Sitting down, I braced myself:
He’d say it wouldn’t do any harm.
I suppose it was his way of seeing things
when in the safe and warm.
Never mind that spring was passing,
never mind that I’d forked the grass over
for five darn days on end,
to drain away the numerous ponds.
Yet still there are some who insist
that we are the lucky ones!
So I put on my best April gear,
braving the cold and the wet.
I had to get out of his face, you see,
to hear some pessimism instead,
about the weather, the world,
or the state of this or that.
Sadly though, I have to say,
rain makes even the shy ones talk,
though they’d better watch out —
because I’ll be stabbing with my fork!
poem and image © copyright df barker 2012