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In my garden gambol
green beetles
by twos and threes,
who sing to High Tulips
blushing pink
in harmonies.
Flushed,
adoration-framed,
they rainbow through
emotions gained
from beetle songs
choir sung.
I part the foliage clef
to observe what enchantment deft
musical beetles pant
to flowered plants
swaying in the green.
I am transfixed
in this gloaming,
where songs stroke
the airy night;
uplifting
tulip bulbs-
rhapsodied
and honey dewed.
On me then
euphonies:
Beatles sing
because we don't,
to balm absence's pain.
They sing our song
of high praise;
because we won't,
for tulips,
gardens, soil and loam.
We are the children
who've lost
the songs
which were mother's songs
now vague;
distant,
gone.
Our ears
deaf now,
withdrawn.
The beetles stand in for us
sing our songs
in their metallic
greens,
arpeggios falling to
my journal page
explaining
why they sing
to tulip bulbs,
flushed
on the green:
all quiet now-
each bulb
reminded-
it is loved.
Reviewed by Christine Tsen
2/25/2013
Enchanting! I can hear it all through your words.
Blessings,
Christine
Epiphany
by Gary Stephens
“We’re going to use nine megaton warheads in space and we’re not sure they’re large enough to be effective. Why would you even consider using kiloton-range surface-to-air warheads as back-up?” The answer was succinct. “Because they’re all we have.”
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