The Mossy Spring Poem by Herbs 'n Planz

Dying...........

(progressive is this art)
sent Artemis to gather stars,
to set them down as seed
Helios retrieved,
basking of colours to intrigue.



Unwinding time,

our efforts loosen
unwrapping
vixen, lichens, cheese, parables and prophesies.

Tomorrow …

Mission of the day,
no rain is sought
to swamp tear ducts a-flush,
imprints behind it all,
modus operandi,
that Trojan Horse,
as hangers drape
experiences a must,
clothed in regalia that shifts
osmosis over molecules at war.



… think lacrimal she thought

with presbyopic eyes,
they found the spring
deep in the bracken's shade,
the flow was cool
as it caressed cold stones
all dressed in moss
and rounded by the hands of time.



They rested there and heard
the music from a distant land,
its echo was the sound of mistletoe
remembered from that fateful day
when untamed flakes combined
into a storm the world had never seen,
it felled majestic trees,
their tenant critters trapped
inside their hidden homes
until the silence had returned
and it was hurtful to the ears
to sense a gaping gorge
within their unknown destiny.

And then, as if by sly command,
a smile uncurled her lovely lips
and it rose from the meadow
like the bird they call the Kolibri,
and soon all feathered friends began to sing,
each in their skills but drawn into the tune
that touched the wings of bumblebees
as centipedes joined in the happy dance
and soon, the forest was alive,
the sound of music as a mockery and tease.

Yet on the tableland below,
sobriety had flung itself
onto the clandestine distillery,
all underground and cloaked
in coloured chains of daisies for them all.

Your tongue
buds of a palate wise
succumbed to whispers of the night,
lapped lobes awash
embankments of canals,
airwaves in touch with life
surface to depth,
armed with the purity of sounds,
beyond the nomansland,
a potpourri of love.


The walls, in close proximity
they seem to be of velvet,
of satin and pure silk, all woven
into one to tease and then to please,
oh wanderer, you may now still your thirst,
stretch weary limbs and rest your head
on welcome cushions offered here,
nightfall is never far, of leaves I'll make your bed
the land of dreams, in star-lit splendour it is near.

Hear now, I am Poseidon of the deep,
I come to you from depths you fathom not,
I sense the heat of life before we sleep
and I demand that we adopt the donkey's trot.
You may regard this battlefield a place to seek
to ascertain of little truths and outright lies,
yet there is none who would subscribe to join the weak
who'd take the whoppers but toss out the box of fries.