“ I Want To Tell ” – of things that sing –

    Listen to audio

                                                             Photo, Marianne D

 

“ I Want To Tell ” – of things that sing –

 

I want to tell

Of time that brings,

In early spring

Of things that sing,

Restoring life

To summer brooks,

With twisting ripples

Through shady nooks…

 

I want to tell

Of stars that twinkle,

In your eyes

As you allow a smile,

 I want to tell

About the wind,

Plays in the trees

To kiss the leaves,

That flutter lightly

In a gentle breeze…

 

I want to tell

Of things on wings,

Held butterflies

Who decorate the skies,

Be of nature’s doing

Hence until they die…

 

I want to tell

Of bumblebees,

Bumbling leisurely

Where they please,

As summer plies

Its mellow zephyr,

Thus till fall requires

Nature’s dance defers…

 

I want to tell,

Of world defined

As a man made hell,

May spare a mind

That so wants tell,

With love to give

Thus so to bring,

That we find live

The while we cling,

To things that sing!                                                                      

                                                                       © Jean-Jacques Fournier

 

“ I Want To Tell ” ~ of things that sing ~

I want to tell

Of time that brings,

An early spring

Restoring life

To summer brooks,

Of twisting ripples

Through shady nooks…

 

I want to tell

Of stars that twinkle

In your eyes

As you allow a smile

Replace a shy disguise,

More than a while…

 

I want to tell

About the wind

That plays in trees,

To kiss the leaves,

That flutter slightly

In its gentle breeze…

 

I want to tell

Of things on wings,

Said butterflies

Will decorate the skies,

Be nature’s doing

Hence until they die…

 

I want to tell

Of bumblebees,

Bumbling leisurely

As summer plies,

Its mellow zephyr

In nature’s dance,

Till autumn requires …

 

I want to tell

Of things that sing,

The while you live

With love to give,

May spare a mind

Of man’s made hell,

A world we can but find!

 

“ Old Crows ” ~ fly by in rows ~

 

Alas old crows,

Ever so black

Fly by in rows,

Tho rather old

For winter flights,

Must suffer cold

And failing sight,

Be on spent wings

Bide dying light

Heading for spring

To end their plight,

That they might rest

Thru dead of night!