I listen to the silence that echoes

I hear a leaf rustle in the wind

walking a path I know not where it goes.

On silent wings a bird flies quick then slows

red feathers to the sky ascend

I listen to the silence that echoes.

Green-leafed branches entwine to form windows

brief glimpses of blue that does not end

Walking a path I know not where it goes.

Around me everywhere I see shadows

Fauna who with the dark will to blend

I listen to the silence that echoes.

Of nature’s beauty poems I compose

Wishing I could share them with a friend

Walking a path I know not where it goes.

I find brief respite from the constant throes

of suffering life towards me does send

I listen to the silence that echoes

Walking a path I know not where it goes.

At the Villa, where we settle our affaires,

the French balcony stays ajar

as Warblers and Larks offer up Summer's wares

An English secretary, atop the stairs,

set so's we might listen on par,

at the Villa where we settle our affaires.

The Tahitian window box triples its shares,

lu’au'ing a fresh wax washed car,

as Blue hummingbirds offer up Summer's wares

Here on high amidst green leaves and falling cares

amid whispered fairytales, near, far,

at the Villa, where we settle our affaires;

There's a divan in the sky instead of chairs

grand Cinema styled, for a Czar,

as bright Kingfishers offer up Summer's wares.

We whistle along to cool fountainpen smears

with a Spirit --no-error-mars,

at the Villa where we settle our affaires,

as Finches and Jays offer up Summer's wares.

Little grips the blood, with fear, like idled hands.

What slips across the face, iced as shadows...

Gloved, with most benign of custom, and demands

the Governess, sweeping wayward curl, that lands

...Frozen for a moment, upon arched brows...

Little grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.

Devil may care, for these hot and shifting sands

that course, and burn, human fingers and toes;

Failing to hold firm The Count's countless demands.

Oh juggler, you, of minuets and grandstands!

When all applause ends, and our rest follows...

"Little," grips the blood with fear, like idled hands.

Don't speak of Evil, or a bird in the hands!

Empty of work, or wistful candle blows...

of Figurative... or Literal... demands.

Just a tot, inside, taking part, between bands.

Inadequacy, behind the glass, shows:

Little grips the blood with fear... like idled hands

...as Grand Father tolls, Mother's fatal demands.

05.29.2024

Villanelle Challenge @CKMunsell

All of time’s passing is a silent flight

An owl whose ancient wisdom ever grows

Carrying on despite how desperately we fight

We age from our eyes first, creases and lost sight

Slowly, the rest of our body faithfully follows

All of time’s passing is a silent flight

We seek to hinder the inevitable fading of our light

Too strong is the current that through us flows

Carrying on despite how desperately we fight

Memories made and fade, as the emotions they incite

Like all things they will meet again at life’s close

All of time’s passing is a silent flight

Each of us will reckon with what we thought right

The peace of eternity is the only thing that knows

Carrying on despite how desperately we fight

Taking everything from us with its endless might

And giving us all we have in both highs and lows

All of time’s passing is a silent flight

Carrying on despite how desperately we fight

Sleep comes easily on two feet,

no greetings or formalities,

like a nightwalker in the street;

To many shuteyes counting sheep

...in familiar realities...

Sleep comes easily on two feet.

Tail in hand, Sleep hounds, with entreat

of enlightened brutalities,

on opposite sides of the street;

Understanding we've earned our meet

in shortage, and totality.

Sleep comes easily on two feet:

Slips pistol-like from twilight's sheath.

Sleep aims at our idolatries;

Light and shadow, stalking the street.

Moon rise, a copper, on the beat

---Somnambulists 'cross all cities!

sure, Sleep comes easy, on two feet

like a nightwalker in the street.

In exercise the Cycle breaks,

sometimes, at the wheels

Riding, over dubious stakes

in a pace, or place called Breakneck,

or South Bend, it steals

the breath, between dream state and wake

For sport, some have opted for fake

stiff treadmills, small meals,

To exorcise the Cycle breaks

Navigate juju by handshakes

through ledger board reels

and phony spokesmen's pattycakes

As to raise the deal Life "mistakes"

over Fortune's wheels,

gilding detrimental stakes

The feeble conscience muscle rakes

in tired appeals...

for the turn in strength that it takes.

In exercise the Cycle breaks.

2024 JUN 12

To hang my honor in shame.

See the unworn cap, left nigh?

the hallway hook calls my name.

It's a silence most profane,

tilt of brim, half to deny...

To hang my honor in shame.

Of all good deeds, most mundane

sits the pillbox by, and bye—

The hallway hook calls my name.

And calls the dark like a Dame,

to our dust that now doth fly,

"To hang my honor in shame!"

One fine gesture might remain,

to yet beg the conscience, why:

the hallway hook calls my name?

As all the worlds' stage proclaim

indecision's plateau's high—

To hang my honor in shame...

the hallway hook calls my name.

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

so deeply within it can’t be ignored

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

I never buy treasure with anything mere

and bury my hope with passions restored

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

I measure my pleasure in how I adhere

to a life that I live while hoping to hoard

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

but whether that treasure for me is right here

there’s much that I find that I cannot afford

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

my pleasure is feathered by what I revere

and haunted by all I haven’t explored

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

in my leisure I treasure your every tear

and wonder, my love, if you’re my reward

I tether you, dear, with a pleasure so near

a treasure that weathers all that I fear

Last night I had a terrible dream:

I was in a tunnel drenched in darkness,

and buffeted endlessly, like a meme.

“Help me!” I yelled, but no one heard me scream

as the walls kept turning with such hardness

that my very soul was shaken, it seemed.

Then something began pulling me full-steam

to a pit littered with many a carcass.

I fought, but it was like swimming upstream.

I awoke, covered in sweat like a cream,

wondering, “What evil did I just witness?”

“Was this a portent of hell?” “What did it mean?”

Soon, my worries faded in daily routine

but I also went to church to confess

my shortcomings to the Being Supreme.

At night, the dream again hit my esteem

but this time a smile I managed to harness

as a hand pushed me to the tunnel extreme.

I noticed the sign: “Bottles, Cans: Redeem.”

Heroes are made

They aren’t just born

When their courage is tested, they still stayed

Laying their life down, if that’s the price to be paid

When the choice is tough, and they are torn

Heroes are made

Faced with impossibility, they aren’t unafraid

Hurt and defeated, their hope is worn

When their courage is tested, they still stayed

To all they aid

To whom their protection they have sworn

Heroes are made

Their lives for others, they would trade

Even as they’re faced with scorn

When their courage is tested, they still stayed

Their heart may now be weighed

Thier lives may be mourned

Heroes are made

When their courage is tested , they still stayed