On the vale of thorn abreast we ambled.
Un-frazzled, to the hawthorn we held.
Though a twinge we felt, the haw we sought and
heyday we dreamed of.
Out of vague future luminous dreams we hewed,
though nadir soared, and hope in the depth of sea
of cruel fate brawled to emerge, but with verve
cocooned in glaring dreams firmly on the part to
heyday by grass of murk overgrown we trod.

Echo. Ever echoing come
words from the wild wood

drifting, always beckoning
that I should come for good

to the deep and the deepening
dusty silent still

heart, heart of the forest where
the thumping darkness will

find every thought in me
and lay them thick and flat

out on a carpet
of moss and bluebell sat

down, down in the forest,
lost to the mystery

solved and resolved to the silence
ever encircling me.

Those birds I ponder near my house
Have holes in trees as flitter mouse,
Except they flitter through the day.

Such grating songs they always play,
Part cuckoo screeches calling loud,
All arrogance and preening proud.
Right rudely do they guard the nests-
Rough arguments; effusive pests.
Oh, sparrows are a noisome bunch
When break my fast and spoil my lunch.

And when of wind they might run dry,
Nowhere is there a silent sigh.
Damn chickadees now chide and bitch.

My love is like a clear spring day
whose golden sunbeams go their way
then suddenly explode in dew
to sparkle once again like new

Like spotting a quail upon the ground
her young ones following around
with a tiny chirping sound
this bird not sure just where she's bound.

Or spying a small calf just born
a frolicking this sunny morn
crying out with joyful bleat
while running 'round on tireless feet.

I woke up one day
I thought I'm in dream.
All the people were happy.
Nothing felt or looked the same.

The stunning birds were whistling.
Singing and chanting all around.
Giving the best of melody
Up, the skies echoed the sound.

The stars descended from their milky way,
Like the diamonds, towards earth, found a way.
Flowers and roses nicely bloomed.
They sent their scent away.

“What could be the day”? I wondered
Trying to find someone to say.
Why are women so pretty?
And men so gay?

Jess (Weirdelf) is running a bit of a fun workshop - publishing the first poem (warts and all) you ever wrote. Go on, sign up. I've laid my soul bare, so join me.............
Remember to sign up for the workshop and then select 'Poets first poems' under the workshop tab at the bottom of the page, before you post to the stream.

Just for Weirdelf's workshop. This is the first poem I ever wrote, it makes me cringe to read it and I want to edit it like mad, but here it is.