FINE IMMORTAL ESSENCE
Glimmers of the sunshine light,
splays its first rays, at the new dawn,
bathing the lands, in a sheer translucence,
sparkling gleams, at all, that is born.
Those young pansies, of violet hue,
frolic in the breeze,
where winter, berries still bead, their lustre
in the brilliant, hedgerows and briars, of scarlet hue.
The black cap still warbles, its song – like, beats,
while the white, throat bird accompanies,
other tiny mites, of feathery dress,
welcomed, by the spring blackbird, the thrush
that render their tunes, as velvet resonance,
in those nesting trees.
Comely eiderdowns spread, adorned
with lilac bluebells, that ruffle their crowns,
spiraling mazes of purple down,
surrounding a castle’s walls -
this, that overlooks, the distant town,
as if, upon its heritage, such history,
such time can be measured,
though the golden eagle soars, upon the hills, still
the swifts have returned from the wintry, chills
the salmon race in the streams, to spawn
and the stag will cry, its lament once more,
up beyond the moor -
aware, that time cannot contain,
what stays, within the soul of life,
while fall those spring rains.
Though a stone will reveal, but a dead name,
yet the light only betrays,
what exists, so far away,
as if with this light, eternity, beckons and calls,
as if those seasons with the cosmos,
dance, to those music strings,
that with all this expanding,
responds to each sound, each living core.
So be this sweet, existing fair,
this complex beauty,
unravelling itself, out there,
a place to dwell, yet, resting here, within,
forevermore.
DEFINING A DREAM
Easy grace of ardour, of fire,
where the heart and soul alone, desires
for nought, but the fine talk, of soft resonance,
each lyrical, sound that vibrates, in the universe,
overspilling, into ethereal voices,
that spell out, the free – flowing, verse, each beauty word.
The mind liberated, amidst this idyll,
where the ritual of expression, requires, little
of noise or humdrum chit – chat,
the bane of others’ gossip, enjoyed
by folk, who say, they love.
Rather, the will drifts, like the light – foot, pace
of a little, child immersed, in his play,
lapping up, the morning sun,
to frolic wild, in those verdurous fields,
see those first, timid hares, emerge and run.
Dreaming, those pink, cherry blossoms,
floating, in the breeze
while the winter, robin no more, pleas
for bread, now, the spring has come.
The mind’s eye, dazed, by the light,
espies the little wren sing, rhythmic, alongside
the blackbird and thrush,
as if to exude and conduct, with each tone,
all that will unfold, with this new dawn,
while within those shady groves, by the marshy fronds,
drift those waders that feed, upon these wetlands,
these silt – filled, streams dappling, along
and a pageant of purple bluebells, leave their lilac, trails
inviting, young ones, having fun.
Turbulence of heavy cloud, is no more, seen
amidst this rural, scenic green,
where the sunbathes, golden,
the lands, the prairie meads –
drawing out, this fire, this zeal,
to grow and produce,
thrive, amidst this wilderness of peace,
where the mind remains lost, by all, here, faced -
the soul’s ritual, a beautiful place.
DISSOLUTION OF THE ABSOLUTE
When all will dissipate, crumbling,
like a pillar of sand,
through what you hear and understand,
as much that floats, in beauty’s guise,
yet, like the seasons, that whirl
and change their colours and hues,
so, all will pass, into the ethers of light,
die, to those long, days and hushed, nights.
Voice so fair, to listen acute,
to this far away cry, leaving your frame, as mute,
as the deadening numb, so loathed, to speak
excepting, from this place that informs,
this inner realm, where such words, spell out
each wonder, you seek.
To rest, yet still, as a song,
will the mind orchestrate,
this harmony of the spheres,
extracting, amidst the silence,
this overflowing exuberance,
that creates your dreams.
So stands alone, one who learns, of all
amidst Nature’s realms,
each sound that resonates, as music’s beat,
as each songbird heard,
where the pulse throbs full, upon the ear,
still in awe, with each curfew of the night,
each lyric phrase, every scenic picture,
etched, upon the mind.
Finding known, at last,
of these art forms, profound
imitating, what is perceived, filling up the senses,
with all, so wild, that pounds –
aware, that this, so gathered and heaped,
fine, as gold,
reaping but peace, until age weighs, old
yet, as the breath, as the beginning, until the end,
as the very senses that waver,
like the whispering gust, the call upon the winds,
so, this voice will haunt,
to beckon you, to your final home -
where love hosts dear,
each little bird that sings.
REALMS OF THE MIND
Love swells, where those angels, dwell
hearing such music, such song
amidst paradise realms,
or within the mind, where the imagination fills up,
with each image, each rhyme
escaping, from this mundane world,
amidst these fantasies,
where the heart holds out, to nothing more,
than what is dreamt alone, to adore –
though at times, a nightmare unfolds, its ghostly drama
where phantom spectres, hover and wail -
black silhouettes that figure, but only, the self
haunted, by each fiery, spell
shrieking, with haggard face,
voicing, but doom, in every place.
Yet alone, remains one, merely just, to love
this atmospheric domain,
that compels the mind once more,
to transcribe all this excrescence,
that though rests, still
drifts, as a sweet reverie, within the brain.
So remains this gift, to adhere
to these beauty words, that upon each sense, appear
recalling too, much, that harnesses, each wild dream,
amidst every scenic idyll,
of what lies so fair, in Nature’s peaceful green,
of what goads the passions, still
by those oceans vast, that beat each rhythm,
each melody, upon those waves,
of what fascinates the mind, to hear, so faint
this distant call, beyond a world,
so often, racked, with pain –
beckoning the soul, that wonders, in awe,
like a mystic hum, fading, into the obscure,
listening, until all, will die
into this distant, waning dim -
threading your dreams,
that drift upon the winds.
THE TORPOR BLAST OF GUSTS
The ice – frost, hewn: -
when all melts at the thaw of the freeze taboo,
when it circles crisp around the clear round moon,
upon the dark nights of winter’s toll, as of the tomb.
So, like acid or icicles gnaws the rivers streams,
as the biting winds blow.
Seeing beyond, in the black
the sable vampire trees, shaping silhouettes
to eerie rack the very nerve, so folk will shiver
trembling, in a home where the lantern bright
sets all, a quiver.
Wanting to roam alone, when the once sparse, meadow
brims over, with flowers
when the summer season, from the skies
is hit, by the golden star, of heavens.
Free at last to wander light - foot,
gazing at trees that burst from a shoot -
yet all yielding, seized by the brigand -
the rape by the ice freeze, to strip naked
all that was given.
Looking nowhere through the pane,
the cruel howl of gales, blasting once again.
No heat nor rose, nor sweet release
within the lonely place, of the dim -
assail, arouse a voice, a birdsong feast,
but yet silence in the deep will breathe a noise,
as of the beast,
while the hurtling ocean to this wrath
will once again hissing, sing.
Maria Downs - Has been playing the piano for fifty years. She a has painted over 150 artworks, of garden scenes, moorlands and seascapes for fourteen years and has been writing poetry, concerning Nature’s realms, the universe and the soul, for forty years, writing over 2200, verses.
Maria has lived in Lyon, France, studying French and in Florence, Italy, studying the history of art, musical drama, history of Greek theatre, aesthetics, Italian language and classical music with emphasis on the composers, Robert Schumann and Debussy.
She reads excessively and now, mainly loves writing her verses, reading biographies about interesting gifted people, playing upbeat pop music, easy listening, and Motown, Rhythm and blues and Soul music on her piano. She loves to read, a genuine “good book”.
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