Pink petals descend,Whispers of springtime’s embrace—Blossoms kiss the breeze Amid morning dew,Sparrow flits with whispered grace—Sky’s secret revealed. Autumn leaves, mottled—Sunlight weaves through ancient oaks,Whispers of time’s touch. Help a thirsty author and fund me a coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/josephiu
In the quiet of dawn, when shadows retreat, The world awakens, its canvas incomplete. Mottled hues emerge, a whispered refrain, Nature’s brushstrokes dancing in gentle rain. Bark of ancient trees, weathered and wise, Wears its history proudly, etched in disguise. Mottled like secrets whispered to the breeze, Each scar a testament to resilience and ease. …
The measured lines and rhythmic beats become like mines souring the sweets. So be impressed when poets wrest a timed-beat rhyme © Stephen W. Buchanan 2020 Originally published “If You Haven’t Got A Sonnet” The Sonnet’s Joy I'm re-posting this as Stephen W. Buchanan's poetry amuses me.
Looking back, until these last couple of weeks, I had not written a poem since December 2022. I had been busy writing, but writing books. Books are long and hard, they take time, research, resources and an awful lot of patience. To create a document of around 90,000 words is challenging. It takes a lot …
I went into the mall today. People cut in front and I say, “sorry.” A toddler trips me up, and I say, “sorry.” A woman rams me with her pram And I say, “sorry.” Someone shoves me from behind, And I say, “sorry.” Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, is all I utter. No one seems to …
5th September 2024 I started a blog in early 2022, I have not written anything on said blog since then. I know what you're thinking, what the heck has Joseph R Mason been doing for the last 2½ years? Procrastinating? Has he been ill? Is he dead? Well, none of those things actually. I have …
A slightly completely rambling and nonsensical poem Hiding is not sheltering from a storm, hiding is in fear of death or mortal injury, or worse. Collected in a hearse, not dead. Except inside my head. Sheltering is not hiding, unless it’s raining, It’s only water, you think, not complaining. Sheltered under an old tree, rain …
Privacy, Subdued, Blinded A painted smile... Privacy I seek when I’m subdued, A private place to contemplate my mood. Sometimes I am blinded by just how bloody-minded I can be. I’m surprised I’m not abided by those who are high-minded enough to know that it’s not really me. So, wrapped up in my misery I …
How I see myself as a blogger Closer to the truth, except not quite that ugly or old! http://mohawkvalleygirl.com/2024/08/28/im-a-monstrously-bad-blogger/
