Reflections of the Season…

I watch, from a shoreline at

autumns pulsating marshes

where motionless in an idle

stream; swam a Swan with

graceful black wings.

A Red-Tail Hawk circled; flying

high over Oak and Popular

trees, then a song sweeter

than any I have ever heard

came floating from among

the reeds.

Beautiful birds a long voyage

ahead for some; their winter

home in southern lands until

their Spirit says that it is Spring,

no need to linger long as the

season to come will be

relentlessly.

The day warm and sunny, Gods

paintbrush had provided a

Heavenly scene, winter silently

waits, a season that I love; but I

push forward in my mind visions

of spring.

 

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

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Shifting Seasons…

 

The seasons of the year,

quickly come and go,

spring brought flowers,

summer a swimming

hole; winter the snow

and frosty winds will blow.

 

Many will take secluded

walks, others at the cold

weather will balk; snowflakes

will soon drop one-by-one,

children will run, play and

have fun.

 

Sleet may fall, thaw and drip,

the oldsters will slide and slip;

squirrels scurry beneath the

snow moving around in buried

leaves; birds flitter, dip and

weave.

 

Clouds in the sky fly, the northern

winds shriek and shrill; the sun

surprises the earth with a warm

day, through melting snow peaks

the fearless daffodils.

 

Colors’ appear among hills of

green, wildflowers unfurl to an

awakening world; children and

oldster dream that soon there

will be the coming of spring.

 

White beaches and coral-shells,

salty air and sweet summer

smells, swimsuits and blowing

hair, children and oldsters

scampering everywhere.

 

Finally, summer will disappear,

autumn leaves burning, crimson

Sumac and purple skies;

ornaments will dangle from holiday

trees, ice-covered mistletoe peaks

up out of the snow, children and

oldsters will once again say, “Oh

my, how quickly the seasons go”.

 

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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Wings of Poetry…

To poets, writing is the blood

that flows through the veins,

words the sinew of their being.

 

Creating the movement of the

body, finishing uplifts the soul,

failure not an option as the story

must be told.

 

The lines may read of sadness, of

stars hanging in the dark blue,

shivering in the distance, creating

against all resistance.

 

Waiting for the finished poem to

float in on a “Morning Doves” wings,

in perfection ones poetry must sing.

 

 

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

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