Ode to Winter, Ode to Summer

By the west end of the Lake
is a bittersweet orange
it is the tang and oder of sorrow
and the sweet citrus skin of newness.
I bring these things from the lake,
the west end of the lake in june
so the waters rise like a slow baloon
and the winter crawls out from its snowy cocoon
and the oranges flower at noon.
by the west end of the land
she spies you
and her hands grasp at her middle
as a sharp longing.
to feel the same as a child
and yet to never be forever young
it scraped at the bone marrow of her.

You left a little bruise on her cheek
and she smiles.

It is like the soft rain beating against a drum
sprinkling her soft berry stained lips.
the oranges are all tied to her bedside
and the smell is like sorrow
covered with the feathers of a crow
and all of the feelings
that were once new.
by the west end of the Lake
is a bittersweet orange.
it is the tang and oder of sorrow
and the sweet citrus smell
of newness:
to begin again on the same road
is to never end,
it is to know the skies
as well as you do your brother
with the faint rustle of trees
in the fall,
on a morning
oh so aching
as a welcome
haunting
call.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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Blackberries

P.S -there is supposed to be a break every two lines but unless I upgrade this blog, I will never be allowed stanzas (boo hoo)

Blackberries

This blackberry darkness turns faery ghost white,

And the dawn shakes the dust off the cold hungry night.

And the demons and goblins and witches agree,

And the moon rising up and the sun setting down,

And the black of the evening comes in with a “BOOM”

And the thousands of eyes coming into the town.

Little lakes leave their poise and their placid overlay,

Stretch out hundreds of years to the rock and the bay.

And I ponder, beside these, on rocks by that pool,

Near a thunderstorm’s clash when the morning is cool

And the summer’s awaiting to pick and be plucked,

Int his vast open world, there the baskets are tucked

And in Summer when hotter the juice of a fruit,

Set to sonnet and music and Zither and Lute

And the blueberries blue, and the blackberries white,

when they crush, when they melt, leave unturned in the light

And in Swarthering winters, they wither and die,

Left to moan in the cabins, to yearn and to cry

But their songs never cease, in the cabins they frost,

And in frozen young Winters the berries are lost.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry