Winters Crackling Lullaby
The Scent of Autumn
The scent of autumn, damp and deep,
lingers in flowers where the last colors sleep.
A fragile perfume, soft and low, fades as painted petals
let go.
Petals of rust leaving — echoes of summer’s final glow.
Rain on the cobblestone plays a gentle rhythm,
whispering of the cold to come.
Gas lamps bloom in amber haze, ushering in autumn’s tender gaze.
Tall stone buildings stand so still, their watchful windows gently fill
with quiet grace and muted light, wearing the lamplight’s glow at night.
The old world sighs a breath of grace on cobblestone streets,
in autumn’s face.
They creep across the pavement’s skin as dusk and silence settle in.
The world is washed in shades of gray, the tired bustle of today
is tucked away.
Listen to the rain and stone— turn toward the dim yellow light
feel the city’s softened tone as it settles gently into the night.
T.J.Tomberlin
T. J. Tomberlin
Winters Crackling Lullaby
Autumn Teatime Well Spent
The wind, a whisper, rustles gold and red, A tapestry of leaves on paths we tread.
The sun hangs low, a gentle, hazy gleam, A quiet, slow surrender, watching the afternoon light stream.
Then indoors, where the world is soft and slow, A kettle sings a song, quite low The kitchen, bathed in honeyed, amber light, A sanctuary from the coming night. On a cherished heirloom plate, the sandwiches rest, their crusts neatly trimmed, a gesture of loving finesse. A whisper of cucumber, thin and crisp, A taste of ham, caught on an autumn wisp.Each bite, a moment, delicate and small, A gentle answer to the season's call.
The tea, a warmth that settles in the hand, A fragile truce with this enchanted land. time itself seems to pause and rest, a perfect stillness, testing us to simply be—quiet and content—on the warmth of tea and sandwiches, well spent.
TJ Tomberlin
T. J. Tomberlin
Winters Crackling Lullaby
Winters Crackling Lullaby
Winters Crackling Lullaby
The First Sip
The First Sip: A humble rite, a sacred pause.
Where steam ascends and gently draws the mind from worry, haste, and noise,
To simple, solitary joys.
The ceramic's warmth is a gentle claim,
A whisper breathed, a whispered name of comfort deep,
of earth and spice,
A moment born of careful vice. And then the sip—a liquid grace—that finds its warmth in this timeless place.
A subtle dance upon the tongue, where silence whispers,
Tasting from the delicate porcelain cups that we cannot replace.
A sweet release, a familiar flavor, a quiet respite in this moment of gentle grace.
T.J.Tomberlin
I am excited about sharing poetry with you th
Your Teatime Poet
Tory
castle.code@yahoo.comWinters Crackling Lullaby🔥
hat makes the spirit glow.
Then, through the glass, a sudden splendor streams, as morning wakes from winter's quiet dreams. The golden sun breaks through the clouds of grey as they slowly travel byand paints the carpet where the shadows lie.
A perfect blend of nature and the hearth, the dearest moments shared on this cool earth. The gentle, low, and reassuring sound of logs that catch,where warmth and light are found. With every flicker, every spark that flies,Let the crackling fire softly sing us a lullaby.
T.J.Tomberlin
The old wagon road, a forgotten trail, where maples weep and aspens wail. A splash of russet against the gray, the last embers of a summer day. The creek below hums a gentle tune, reflecting the face of this mid-afternoon. It carries fallen leaves downstream, a moving reflection, heeding nature's scheme. Walk this road where the wind sings low and feel the heartbeat of the earth below. For the old wagon road, in its autumn splendor,
The oak stands fast, a grand, brilliant tree, clinging to leaves for the world to see. The sumac bleeds on the winding way, a final, burning, dramatic display.
The wind speaks softly, a rustling tongue, of the songs of harvest, long ago sung. And the falling leaves, in a silent stream, are the faded pages seen in a light beam.The old wagon road, a memory cast, in the dynamic and vibrant autumn blast. A living canvas, a turning tide, where the end and beginning now reside.The journey concludes where the final leaves descend, along the old wagon road, filled with gentle memories to lend.
T.J.Tomberlin
T. J. Tomberlin
Winters Crackling Lullaby
Rainy Afternoon on an English Street
The Rain pouring down in the
picturesque English town.
dripping raindrops
the trees align with
historical old buildings
The flowers embrace the raindrops
enhancing the shining beauty
The rain is heavenly
felt
so drenched from the downpour
enriched to the core.
on a rainy Afternoon on an English street
the ambiance is complete.
T. J. Tomberlin
The Branches' Summer Song.
Golden sun on brilliant leaves, summer branches,
Their brilliance, soon to fade away,
As autumn hues come out to play.
For now, they shine, a vibrant show,
Where softest breezes gently blow.
Bright blossoms bloom in hues, so bold
Their story through the blooms unfolds.
The crimson blush, the lemon glow,
A painter's dream, a vivid show.
Each branch a grand, exquisite stand,
With summer's bounty close at hand.
The Branches reach for skies so blue,
Secrets of summer come into view.
Birdsong echoes, joy it brings,
In cheerful notes, the season sings.
A dance of green and golden light,
Leaves in the sun take graceful flight.
Each bough a cradle, strong and true,
Cradling fruit in morning dew.
They tell of days that never fade,
Dreams lost in summer's golden shade.
T.J. Tomberlin
T. J. Tomberlin
Summer Rain in the Meadow
Deep drinks the meadow, dust parade washed from each thirsty blade. Bright wildflowers shimmer, bathed in light, the air alive with clean delight. Earth sighs a spell, as summer's rain, sweet and long, subsides. Sun's vibrant song then breaks, and new, the meadow gleams. Each drop is a gem, a woven dream— a florid world where beauty teems
The meadow drinks, its parched blades deep, where dust of long parades now sleeps. Wildflowers glow, a vibrant sight, bathed in soft, ethereal light.The air, a fresh and clean perfume, as earth exhales and sheds its gloom.
The summer rain, both sweet and long, then fades, and the sun breaks, clear and strong. The meadow sparkles, fresh and bright, each droplet; a gem in morning light— a world of magic, gently spread, on gossamer threads, by beauty led.
T.J.Tomberlin
;
The Rain pouring down in the
picturesque English town.
dripping raindrops
the trees align with
historical old buildings
The flowers embrace the raindrops
enhancing the shining beauty
The rain is heavenly
felt
so drenched from the downpour
enriched to the core.
on a rainy Afternoon on an English street
the ambiance is complete.
T. J. Tomberlin
Share the big news
Share the big news
Share the big news
Have you opened a new location, redesigned your shop, or added a new product or service? Don't keep it to yourself, let folks know.
The Path of Glimmering Gold
The low-hung sun, a butter-yellow eye, Pours liquid amber from the western sky. It catches fire on the woods' damp floor, and shines on riches no king could store. The path itself is lost beneath the bright, Thin, brittle branches reflecting back the light. Each little maple twig, with a wood sheen. A perfect m
The Path of Glimmering Gold
The low-hung sun, a butter-yellow eye, Pours liquid amber from the western sky. It catches fire on the woods' damp floor, and shines on riches no king could store. The path itself is lost beneath the bright, Thin, brittle branches reflecting back the light. Each little maple twig, with a wood sheen. A perfect mirror where the sun has been.A shimmering current that begins to flow With every breath, the gentle breezes blow.
A dazzling chaos where colors collide, Too vivid for sorrow, too restless to hide.A walk-through fire that is cool to touch, Loving this season and its gifts so much.
The golden path Is now surrendered to the falling night. The gleam is gone, yet richer I depart, With autumn's burnished glory in my heart.
T.J.Tomberlin
About Poetry Collection
