Crocuses in spring

Pic by letnotyourheartbetroubled



I gaze upon the naked tree
with branches bare for all to see.
It’s waiting for the birds to sing
which shall announce the birth of spring.


The crocuses beneath the ground
are praying for the patter sound
of rain before they take a chance
to creep upstairs and take a glance.


Delighted by the wondrous sight
of clear blue skies and geese in flight;
of gurgling streams that lazily flow
and gentle whirlwinds when the winds blow.


They then put on their Sunday best
to take part in the joyful fest;
the crocuses dance, pout and tease
like colourful flags in the breeze.


Their antics rouse the buds to burst
and grass to green in little spurts;
renewed and ready to have fun
beneath the gracious, smiling sun.

Dusk by the beach

Etched in my memory are shadows from the past.
Regret cannot chase them away.

Butterfly

Enticed by the bright city lights,
a butterfly quietly flits;
one of the more colourful sights
that throng the dark but vibrant streets.

She flutters about red lanterns
with a fine shamisen in tow;
she plays in teahouses and taverns
pausing only to take a bow.

The bright hues of her kimono
fill up the emptiness of night;
gay and chatty, she seems to know
how to raise her tipsy clients’ delight.

Regretfully, when daylight breaks
in this Land Of The Rising Sun,
the sleepy butterfly slowly makes
her way back to the cocoon she spun.

Patiently

Wailea Point, Maui, Hawaii.

patiently
awaiting my return -
aloha


Lee

The Old Man and The Sea

This photo was taken at Kona, Big Island, Hawaii.

I watched as the old man took his paddleboard out to sea.

Lee

When day meets night

When day meets night, do we look forward to the future or back at the past?

The Bluebells' Dance

Pic by Pixerella.

Awakened by the call of birds at dawn,
I follow quietly their lovely song
to misty forests hiding in the morn
where darkness lingers, but does not belong.

From far, I spy a captivating glow;
a bluish hue the trees try to conceal.
Then from the distance, as the cold winds blow,
a million dainty bells begin to peal.

A wonderland beneath the blue spring sky
where thrushes sing a melody so gay,
the bluebells dance, with their skirts wafting high,
in wild abandon as they bob and sway.

Delightful memories of it remain;
I have to wait till spring to see again.