Spirited poetry

 

Pilot Mountain

© 1995 Don M. Blews

 

 A sea-floor grumbles, spewing his core,

 spawning anger in shock-waves of fury.

 In a clash with a giant, afloat near a ridge,

 he thrust her torso in breasted peaks.

 Of this violence was born a young butte.

 

 The darker side of winter’s mount,

 lay bare her bones, obeying a foe.....

 polar air pierced by frigid wind,

 with life asleep in its path.

 Weather’s tyranny tames a young butte.

 

 A sapling groans, burdened in ice.....

 boughs of glaze under sprays of frost.

 As a pop resounds, amid the trees

 are raised a quilt of crows.....

 over a weasel of snow, fleeing the horde.

 

 The lighter side of winter’s mount,

 bares her growth to morning chill.

 As night clouds break their grip,

 sun is freed, and warmth is blessed.

 Nature’s wellspring clads a young butte.

 

 From this butte’s birth, of ancient span,

 weather’s template, and nature’s rule,

 evolves a mount of modern years;

 Spirited from depths of ocean and time,

 pierced with erosion, came pilot’s Mountain.

 

 

 

 The Quarry

© 1995 Don M. Blews

 

 I’m terrain.....gouged and jagged,

 ice groans within my soul.

 I’m frozen.....bitten by frost

 with chilblain touching my depths.

 

 I’m white land.....stripped and barren,

 void of inherited colors of warmth.

 I’m coldness of rock....frigid

 under layers of quarry till.

 

 Within an icicle beard I shutter,

 once winter’s waste is soon summer’s grace.

 In spring I’ll transform to green land,

 fertile with species and colors abound.

 

 Catfish will wallow where permafrost lay;

 Flora will thrive as cliffs shed their callus;

 Forests will grow up from the callow;

 Fauna will come bearing their young.

 

 I’ll be terrain.....gouged and jagged,

 as grass chants joy beneath life’s feet.

 I’ll be trees.....playing the wind

 with creatures clawing my knees.

 

 

 

 The Caretaker

© 1995 Don M. Blews

 

A clatter too close seized my wit,

 sounds of gourds..... scaled and frenzied.

 A fury of buzzing froze the air.

 Illusive to spot with eyes scared still,

 then to oblige.....his stare met my spine.

 

 Sensing the warmth, his tongue found my soul.

 With belly to ground he knew from the start,

 who carelessly tramping, entered whose home.

 Nesting a coil of tense filled terror,

 he primed his pride for the ultimate test.

 

 From the leaves of past, I searched his life.....

 one of ten, born live of this hammock.

 Now would I honor.....who entered whose home?

 I retreat.....he descends, slinking the slopes,

 as if viscous fluid surged his body.

 

 I tread with caution strapped to my feet.

 I carry his presence under my skin.

 Taller I am, this makes me no king.

 The true king left me guardian of this.....

 hammocks to grow and creatures to flourish.

 

 

 

The Antlion

© 1995 Don M. Blews

 

In the sand lies a pit,

 at grass’s edge;

 one small cone.....

 a whirlpool set

 in grains of earth.

 

 In the pit looms a larva.....

 unearthly hideous

 deep at the bottom,

 jaws wait silent

 as clamps of death.

 

 When breezes gust,

 the sands come alive;

 grains tumble down,

 flanking the sides,

 to the heart of the pit.

 

 In the creature lies instinct.....

 an impulse reserved,

 now alive in a frenzy;

 the vortex erupts

 spewing its sand.

 

 His spiny jaws

 burst into view,

 snatching at madness;

 the futile larva

 fell prey to the winds.

 

 Now an army of hundreds

 marching on by,

 left one astray,

 as they went on their way,

 and the larva dug into his lair.

 

 This soldier too close

 stumbles into the pit.

 as the vortex erupts,

 in a stage of fury;

 an ant turns prey to a lion today.

 

 

 

A New Spring

© 1995 Don M. Blews

 

When nature unfolds the leaves of spring,

 redbreasts dip under drops of green.....

 humanity erupts with the birth of man,

 as pools overflow the soils of virginity.

 

 While forests wane the leaves of summer,

 furs bounce through floods of growth.....

 one thriving race brings strife to another,

 as bodies lay waste on the soils of rape.

 

 When earth paints magic, the leaves of autumn,

 sun tears through shades of color.....

 populace mass lead squalor and famine,

 as fertility spills on lands of bounty.

 

 While a season ends with leaves of winter,

 threads of ice lace grounds of frost.....

 an era of man lays bones to the humus,

 as protests bleed from tired souls.

 

 When leaves of a new spring lack competition,

 specks of green spatter shades of gray.....

 the birth of a new man finds beauty and hope,

 as one rising race brings love to another.

 

 

 

Road to the Cape

© 1995 Don M. Blews

 

With the black of tar rolled to earth,

 Sands of my bed bares the sun’s red,

 Baking my back with furies of blaze.

 

 The grass’s brown, bowed to the wind,

 Signs the dunes, as the grass’s greens

 Tickle my sides and a signature creeps

 As a gash in a field of color’s lair.

 

 Rolling and swaying, pulled to the east,

 I dare to sink in the cool’s blue wave.

 In the sand’s white, stretching ahead,

 My spine strains to mull with a gull.

 

 The greens of life and the grays of death,

 In mounds to the west, huddles my breast.

 Grains clutched in the silver of breeze

 Bounce in a wisp across my knees.

 

 As blues lap my feet, braced in white’s froth,

 Wisps and furies lash out to my hands.

 I trust the grays and blues to the serpents,

 The browns and greens to nature’s care.

 Whites return to the eyes of gulls,

 While black waits as my road to the Cape.

 

 



© Don Blews 2016