Bald eagles soared to climax
winds following suit
reaching Mother Moon’s orbit
pink-blue wings swirling in space
feathers reach essences dissolving
Love innocent endures —
Breastbones transmuted at
point of no return
we sailed into Void, fluid
zéro apogee in vastness
stoic points absent to
pierce poinsettia
throbbing Hearts
bleed red —
_________________________
Silver Winner Poem
Allpoetry: Sept 26
Form : Brevity
Prompt : apogee
Tomorrow will come today
As I look behind to see past my second sight
Tomorrow is now as yesterday is future tense
I linger in this unknown moment as the universe
Tilts on its axis as my mind fumbles in the dark
The planets aline along the horizon’s edge
A blade sharp across desolate dreams
As today is tomorrow in hindsight, now
A future is here to the next, a world away
Tomorrow is now and forever at play
The present is the next day and beyond
I linger in the moments between time
As the planets are a line in the universe, divine
Creation in its apogee, I’m in my mystery
Tomorrow is today as futures are passing away…
Swirl above beyonds
maximum overdrive change
the chaos of time
hibernating pain
awakes from slumber
a long rusty nail
plunging deeper and deeper,
piercing
into the heart's chamber,
driven by resounding blows
from Thor's hammer;
apogee
of her grief.
Should tardy relief take full years more
To grace fallen visages with angst taut,
Let kind nature her multiplied joys hone,
And gild final grins past art's fickle fault.
May saddest souls that now fret most
Gleam with heaven's grandest succor,
No more numbed by fear's fake ghost;
Free from inky mists and bleak rancor.
The gloomiest of hearts down with care
Shall glitter under jubilation's final glare,
And forget prickly sorrow's ghastly pain;
Wholly unafraid of shame's broken train.
He'll his victorious head at last carry high
After blacking ignominies and stigmas go;
None shall Art's virgin blossoms blight so,
Killing fresh dreams whose sign inch nigh.
This star-crossed champ at last shall reign,
And his chafing fan her dead cheers regain.
A wedge of moon
persists in a cobalt sky,
as light fractures itself,
splaying its fingers
through the reluctant dark,
soon to be gone.
Black lace filaments
on licorice black trees
dangle their dainty digits
in a waning wind.
Hushed and shy is dawn
as she adjusts her
flamenco skirts
to brush the morning sky.
Not night now,
but not quiet full of day,
teetering, give - take
until day at last wins.
And in that apogee
that is not one or other,
does time stop
and take a breath, pulling
itself back into
its cycle eager to go on?
No longer ...
Are my eyes my own.
My ribs thrum with a drunken heart,
Your drug, molten and pure, coursing my veins.
I am the smooth cheek to your tears,
Warmed by the waiting ...
Let dash, your fury upon my reef,
Your concern and cares,
Ebbed with worry to the depths.
My lips brush tiny shivers on your skin,
(Anticipation doing what the autumn air can not),
As I whisper sexy words to the curves of you ...
Your henna-painted fingers like electric tendrils thru my hair,
Pulling me closer, tighter ... closer.
No longer are my eyes ...
My own.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "September 2018 Standard" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
Zenith of mount
Apex of all
No peak too high
No aim too tall
He reaches, he strains;
He wears himself thin.
He toils, he strives;
His drive to be perfection's kin.
O mighty indeed
But the goal causes fall.
Prodigious intellect
But not wisdom for one, save all.
He hath tried and hath fought for
What he still wills to attain.
"Eminence" and "Pinnacle";
"Crown of Man" the title he wishes to claim.
But how you have strayed!
The world watches and waits.
Sneering and jeering
As languishes one who was great.
To be escalated and elevated
Indeed he did intend,
Instead stumbled and staggered
And only did he descend.
Shadow of self
Shell of past
A look none will give
To him a glance none will cast.
"Dunderhead" and "Derelict";
"Schlemiel" is his name.
Ne'er to be remembered
Is his former fame.
There are few who know
Fewer who understand
But should you be aware
You would weep o'er this man.
Power, glory, and strength
Were to be his right hand
But dishonor, poverty, and disgrace
Are now the garland upon his head.
: the highest point.
Oh
dear
sweet summit
Your touch enraptures
the soul of me
beloved pinnacle
Of mine affections
so strongly standing
Fall not to the sea
Lest I should follow
By way of deepest sleep
Should this sweet apex be no more~
Whose hearts shall then beat?
Should it be-- left to the climax of sorrow?
Nay, Let us then stay as love's sweet zeniths for today
Hopefully we shall lovingly share, all of our tomorrows...
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