T-kun Unusual Wordsmith III

Ways of nature, rumbles the lands, casting the winds that of oceanic waves. Flowing ripples of the passing seasons, painting all the world into the most common colors made for the four seasons of life, known widely to mankind.

Screams of gentle greens into the spring.

Humble rosy signs of summer.

Autumn dances the salsa in giggles of gold.

As the soulful but none less a broken song beneath the snow that blinded by sparkling white.

As animals set ways of living and death. Horses gallant just as the seasons. Bugs fly and found resting about the lands around.

To the skies, birds of pray, flew, marking the open high world as their world to hold. The echo of a soaring joy came by them. Signing all of any passing changes in season of greens, roses, gold, and white as always.

For the rules the kingdom of animals, never change. A shape in the mist forms all around, blending all, making all as one soul. Clouds fill, diming the sun’s aglow, casting hidden shadows of another world, all know as the nether realm.

Soft drops come, a touch in the rain, wetting the lands in a shine coat. Refreshing future task free of grime.

Where up from the spirit cosmos, they cry in happiness for in wildness you come again and stronger than ever before.

And in wonder to travels thus far in asking, as if to you and goes in such a way as this; you tell us what used to know in the past mistakes and the chances to fix them, in where others can only be done in secrets.

For what better ways to fix things, but by one owns way. As the animals would ask in return to the distance blood love kinship, as saying: you speak for all the fine wild things whose way were ours when the wind had wings, so let us carry what couldn’t be done.

Nature as always took it’s calls, filling the airs of changes and chances, over that of disappointments.

Within the wildness speaks, hear it, breath in, open one thy eyes wide, and see those wings of the wind.

When The Wind Had Wings by Bev Doolittle

Poem is use: A broken song beneath the snow, the echo of a soaring joy, a shape of mist, a touch in the rain, in wildness you come again . . . you tell us to know . . . you speak for all the free wild things whose way were ours when the wind had wings.

Year of when painted; 1994

Location of when painted; unknown

Is it hard to say that word?
I would say so.
But does that mean I don’t really know?
It’s a simple word to some.
But to others . . .
It could mean the end of the world to some.
Can you say it?
To whatever comes out the next person’s mouth.
Would you say it?
Without a second thought?
Or would it bite you in the ass in the end?
Could you?
Would you?
Should you?
A simple word.
Made of three letters.
Could you say it?
Within or without reason whatever question is to come.
Say it with pride?
Or in shame?
A simple word . . .
That holds more than what it gives.
As that weight on one’s shoulders become too much.
Say it?
Or don’t.
I’m not holding your hand for it.
A simple word . . .
That is more of a danger than most things.
As most things happen when answering . . .
With that three letter word.
Again, my friend, could you?
And not run in shame?

When coming to a site like this,
there of was one of many people,
that sent a small strike a fear in me,
and in this case,
there is one MAN who comes to mind.

Knowing so little of this person,
didn’t make it easy,
for if one wrong step,
he could and would reply,
WITH lack of any mercy.

But I have come to see,
that given it time,
he’s really a nice guy,
if you look deep enough,
and see there NO evil in him,
but more of big brother putting you in a headlock,
for he cares,
even if it annoying to you.

I found it a way that,
he’s trying to make others tough,
keeping others chins high,
for that’s what he lacks,
is a CHIN himself,
or he used it so much,
it was knockout to the point of no return.

There isn’t much to it, for the size of it is no threat; meaning it can little to no harm.
But is that true; that the matters of size, really mean anything to fear?
It can’t be, there has got to be more to it; than just how much space it can take.
It’s small, does nothing; for it means nothing.

True or not, relies on the person; if size really the matters to get things done.
Thinking true; how far does it take one person, in knowing this.
If not on size, what is there left to know; when knowing is all we have.
True or not, and not is true; where true is nothing at all.

Think for a moment, on the size of matter; whatever the matter is.
And go for it, think; but recall on the facts that are true and not.

Small the matters of way of life, really so; or so really a tall tale of lies.

Facts only go so far; as does the laws of lie, knowing what is small enough to know . . .
Relies on the being; who hears all, but only takes in small volumes.

Is that you, little thinker; or are you a big changer?

J have to be for Joy, he brings it, for everyone has a place in life, he’s here to show it with a smile.

A goes for how Alert he is, the sign of trouble, he’s there.

M goes for how lack of Misleading he’ll give when you ask for a chance, he sees something and goes for it to let others see it too.

E for just how Eleemosynary that heart of his, never stops for having a shoulder to lean on.

S is for Spunky moments he can dish out, for he shows he’s like everyone else.

In the skies of the most clearest and modest nights of space. Where bountiful stars gather to meet a wonderful fate.

A fate that feels only as a child’s tale to tell, but even in the fables by the elders, they too do the same.

Granting a wish, to a most simplest way to say. But alas, as some stars would giggle happily to ever-so be known as a wish come true is not something that happens to all the little flickers.

In a case to one star, a northern lights, fell victim to an wish filled with a void of darkness that matched close to her home, the weaving belt of family and friends watched from a distance as that cursed song ranged through her ears.

Heaving her body, to where she was not able to stay in her home anymore. As she was not alone in the matters, as may before, during, and future wishes to come.

The poor stars falling through the open, cold, and unwelcoming of space. Showing many planets of their fading lights, their vales of aftershock horrors forever in the dark lake of cosmos.

To say a child were skipping a stone, leaving swells of where it was last seen, flitting taps of a softer echo of a lone star screams, within finally the skips stops, as does the star’s screams. Leaving behind the blinding shines of mourning stars to any of their last.

Tearfully, the lifespan of a star is never long nor short, for it’s the weight of the wish. An wish can be a strong and weighs nothing.

Yet, some wishes never seem that eager to grant, for the voice to speak, weighs more than on the greediness for it happens quickly, then let time do the work.

It’s hurts to see falling stars showering the night, but the pain only grows when a young star, barely able to age in grace, crashes from the skies all for that greed is what the voices reek as liquor, drowning the little star.

When so small wish-makers, have those dreams gently leave one lips in smooth wonders or a little piece of one’s heart will fall into a endless mourn just as the stars before, during, and the futures to come, for it something that has yet to find a final goodbye.

Falling Star by Witold Pruskowski

Made in the year; 1884

Location when painted; in a small village outside of Kraków, Poland

G is the Goodhearted people can be, if you let them in, and show more that is far more than words of mouth.

A goes how Amazing things go, when not blinded by hate, it can go a long way.

Y for the Years of change that are needed, small step make big differences, all you have to do is take that first step and go for it.

In the lights, fly.

Go far than ever before.

Show the world what you can do.

If have fear…

Means only you ready yo face it.

Think only of the inner prize of what is waiting for you.

Go, go, go!

Fly.

Be the little bird and flap your wings.

Leave the nest as some would say.

Go and show the world.

There is more out there than what left here.

Just fly.

Look up to that open sky.

Notice the wideness of it.

How it looks like something is needed.

Something new for other eyes to see it.

Just fly.

Go, go, go!

Just fly.

You have it in you.

A fear that is also you being brave.

Go!

What more do you need to know, you can do this.

My words would mean little.

But your own words may give that…

That extra push that is needed.

Go!

And fly!

U is how everything can be Under the feels of great moments to come, in matters like this, they are few and dying.

P has to be the Pressure of how others want to most out of you, but they what you can’t do, leaving you in a mess, you must clean up.

S for how everything just seems Set in order to fail, you are the trigger to so.

E is how some become an Enigma. ready to get a rise an out of people, aiming for those, that will be worth the watch, don’t fall for it!

T is for the Terrible outcomes to be, weapons sharp and ready, all for to kill, and breaking someone within.

Last night was one of the best,
With the sky clear,
No lights around to sidetrack that of natural light.

That light of the moon and stars.

From the distance they were from our planet,
Scattered every where,
An action that would remind one,
Of when a small child,
Spilled a bottle of glitter.

Messy in one eyes.
Wonder in another’s.

With the slight chill,
running smooth skin with bumps,
reminds that this isn’t a dream.

Laying out on a blanket,
resting on winding-rough ground,
One hand used as a pillow,
The other maps out the stars.

Stars found in books of history’s well-known names,
Stars found in the mind of a child’s imagination,
Stars found in map charts of known and hidden planets to come,
Stars . . .

That old rhyme is wrong,
They don’t twinkle,
Nor shine in words of profoundness,
Nor glint as the basic metals,
Nor blind the eyes of thought for future comings.

They are stars,
Simple yes,
But beautiful all the same.

Living in the vast space of the deepest black there is,
All to glow down,
All to others to do is to look up.

Knowing little if others agree or not,
Is another tale to say,
But it rises the question,
Do they understand if they have done or do the same?

Woods or city,
The sky is the same,
Just one needs to look up,
And let the mind go.

Those words that the sky is the limit,
They do not kid,
Even more so,
When the night sky comes around.

Oh the blue skies are nice,
Maybe the some clouds for depth,
And a bright sun to light the world.
But what is that affect when the night sky comes?

Yes,
Both times of day are wonderful in their own way,
Even the time when the world meets in the middle,
Where the colors mix,
Forming a new type of rainbow,
That you have to chase to look for,
Or focus what colors there are.

Once more,
Look up for the next night,
Where it’s clear with a moon,
Half a moon,
Sliver moon,
Or no moon,
And look up.

What does that night do,
When just letting go,
Enjoying the night outside,
With nothing else but a blanket,
A good place to rest,
An open mind to wander,
And child-like eyes to catch whatever stars,
Are out that night.

Simple again to do,
Once all before is done,
Just look up.

As one man would say, in any other talk of life, would say in the most enlighten spoken words. Of how anything is an art, in anyone’s eyes, just takes one of the few, to look beyond what the eyes see, and relies on what the rest of the body can give in an answer.

As to this slim, aging, posh man wearing his best suit for something of this kind of day, with the wearing tape, once black numbers faded into a light gray of yellow-whitish tape. A well used pencil toyed between his thin and capped lips, in the most deepest thought. Tips of the oval-framed glasses slide down his nose also in that forever bottomless thought bubble, as his eyes remain fixed on his art.

His art of science, a rare bird skeleton, not common in the lands of his people, rested on a pedestal in full glory.

The bones of the bird, handled with care, pasted together with the calculated hands of the man, that he earned in his years.

Just as anything else in his calm but messy study, his overwhelming but wonderful work, and his short coming but meaningful years.

Yes, the man’s eyes would still glance back at the bony animal to his papers not far from the bird, a blue feathered eye, white being with black tip winged and cap, pale gel stork; it was before dying unknowingly and leaving its bones behind, found in the lands far east from the man’s land, but again only seeing the messy smudges and his foresighted measures and notes, tabled under his bags, again noting, that once this was done, he was going to dash off once more.

As his work is never done and over so soon, in anyone’s life. His or even yours.

Even again, this man would recheck all his work from a clipboard, held under his arm, close to his heart. In a small gesture such as that, does that not come close, to what matters to this man? If asking is needed to know, for lack of understanding, than a answer you’ll never get.

Science is Measurement by Henry Stacy Marks

Painted in the year; unknown

Location when painted; unknown

L is how Lost one could become, when hearing that word.

O goes for that it’s an Option to follow through with it, and another to break away.

S is that Simple things, make anyone a winner.

E can be for how those Extra moments, may define one person, but has many chances.

R is for now, it’s best to take the chance and Reduce that word, and be more.