a thought strikes a match
nothing much, a little flame
moths alter their course
someone whispers, what if this—
the curtain catches the light
a balloon inflates
sky requires another sun
string loosens, goes slack
already counting the stars
on the backs of envelopes
morning finds the chairs
still facing yesterday's stage
confetti in shoes
someone refolds promises
along familiar creases
after all, a spade
fits superbly well in hand
soil under the nails
the gate can't bend or unhinge
rain dons handle with slippers
no trumpets today
the kettle attends to rain
a chipped cup, still warm
someone has darned the elbow
of the coat we nearly threw
Upon the loam where ancient shadows creep,
a severed vein now yields its vital breath,
and writhes upon the floor in torments deep,
consumed within the iron jaws of death.
No gentle breeze attends its rapid fall,
nor sunlit grace to soothe the tearing pain;
It strikes the rotting moss and scarlet wall,
drenched in the fury of a weeping drain.
Yet watch the fiber twitch, the pulsing spine,
as blind-eyed beetles strip the tender skin,
and carve away the green with teeth malign,
to feast upon the fever locked within.
The forest laughs while slowly torn apart,
and grinds the winter's refuse in its heart.
“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
SOBER-:-
teetotal
sustainability
abstinence
nonfermented
sobriety
rewarded merits
a CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH
unmalted
dealcoholized
balancing
restart
recovering
SEVERE DIPSOMANIA
anonymously
attends
powwows
shared
stories
Love attends you,
coming from a country
you have long forgotten
or never even seen.
You ever emerge,
like a flower blossoming
from darkness into light,
from pain to peace,
from fear to hope,
from sorrow to joy.
So, you and your
flowering are
well worth
waiting for
Christopher M. Swan 2010
A little child in tattered clothes
Cries alone, sadly no one knows
She attends school, but sits alone
Having no friend to call her own.
Classmates call her ‘The Lonely Weed’
They don't realise her heart bleeds
She feels sad, of herself ashamed
No one that cares, no comfort made.
Apart from the teachers that is
They feel the pain of the poor miss
Teaching her to become the best
Keeping her up there with the rest.
She intends to become someone
To herself and to everyone
Absorbing all that she is taught
Even in misery and fraught.
Working by day and working by night
So her and mom will be all right
The Lonely Weed, intends to be
Prosperous with security.
My great aunt eats salmon every day
mentions her Mercedes on the hour
brags that she attends a mega church
my mother’s sister is the opposite of my mother
my mother was unassuming, modest
no kind of braggart or name-dropper
I love my great aunt’s voice so I overlook her braggadocio ways
She has voice inflections similar to my mother
Not her exact voice, but inflections I have missed for five years
We cling to traditions
And habits and friends
And gatherings where
No one lately attends.
It’s hard to let go
But how long one pretends
Things are just like they were –
Well, that kind of depends.
If whatever we cling to
In some way extends
To those with whom we share it,
That surely transcends
Any reason to lose it.
Still, time’s flow portends
Letting go is expected,
Since everything ends.
Today is so mendy
But more a mane that covers busy days
In it I had enough repose
To attack the awaiting wakefulness
Defending the hit ground of possible mendicancy
Thou just don't make this known to my Teddy
For no dream will attends me of absent fantasy
I count the way of moon's disappearance
I recall mouthwash
The water's violence hush
Watching the stars' absence
As the chill of the atmosphere espies
May be the other; thou could recognize human
By what he hath on
Set out at midnight solemnly
To cool off the absent harmattarn triumphantly
And bless it to all prosperity
To compliment the hot spell mildly
I wish all winter back again repair
Thy gath the temple a rounded taunted hair
But all a sudden become far chilly fair
Seeming ambiguous and dull
Hath added me creditability mull
Agile and confidently in full
Let the night builds strength
Not to fight my breath
But hang upon with love, so fortunate
To set me on days singing by favors' consent
I sleep beneath the frost tonight,
The quiet moon attends my dream,
Its silver breath on branches white,
Soft murmurs through a frozen seam.
Though I see it, I can’t feel it,
This hush that settles over me,
A world enclosed, yet infinite,
Where silence hums of what could be.
I make my case for love unseen,
For warmth that never truly dies,
It lingers still in all between,
The earth, the stars, the tender skies.
If spring forgets to find my door,
My heart remembers evermore.
dulcet …
the night …
holds far too few hours
to attend you, pure … proper
in twilight reverence
your body’s song is my scripture
the braille my fingers ache to read -
sexy verse moonlight recites
and orates to my blood
longing’s lullaby
spoken glyph-by-glyph
and plopped like sugar on my tongue
where it attends …
yours …
speak to me with
your coy and curvy whispers
such fair flesh tells an epic tale, erotic
few know the language
but I am fluent
I will listen with an anxious ear
and reply in cursive on your dermal page
my game?
to raise those tiny little bumps -
catkin skin that jumps to
the touch, as my adept answers wind
their warm way south
to the source …
come, let time stand still
night is too fleeting
and a delicious pas de deux awaits -
a torrid tale of pillows and percale and
moonbeamed madness …
where minds and moans and motions are
met in one rapturous breath …
of breathlessness
ghostwriter … and manuscript
this tome is ours -
you and I … lost
to ourselves …
to each other …
to the world of whys and whatevers
and to everything …
but us.
“Each day drifts to our pile-
pray, it's stamped with a smile.”
_by Poet
Each waking day arrives as new-
it's up to us how well it ends.
What lies between really depends
on how we choose what we should do.
Must think about the day's value;
how every hour is used- portends
each waking day arrives as new.
It's up to us how well it ends.
We're happy when the day stays true,
accomplishing whatever lends-
to peace of mind, our choice attends.
Then face tomorrow with the view-
each waking day arrives as new.
Bacchus confronts us in a shady place, A tangled grove, and he, astride a cask. Gross limbs and belly, small besotted face, And lips pursed to the uptilted flask. A buxom dryad, white against his tan, Attends him (sturdy spirit o' the trees) ; As free a woman she as he a man, But gracious-limbed enough to please. Sportive, she smoothes his unambrosial hair, And binds a ruddy vine about his brows; A filet fit for marry-makers, where the wild and tendrilled berry grows. But stay, dryad, what need hath Bacchus' head of leafy trimmings ? Twist a leaf or two and wreathe his hardy nudity instead~ Garland him largely, Dryad, do !
___________________________________________________________
As I sat ...
in slight immersion
amongst a pond
of varied sprites
depth rippling tryst
trend simple reeds
in distance fair
partitioned pure
claimed by three
spartans affair
the mere sight of me
sacrificed precious lamb
midst circle of life
selective attends
their genteel swim
o'er cupped fingers
a ringless hand
begs of pleasure
this glorious realm
enriched am I
steeply blessed
the rewards of privilege
the shallow benefits
their minutia smiles
in that pond
... as I sat.
"O blessed Java Sparrows mostly, the rare Opals then the plentiful Greys--palm frond squatters, and the ever so oft, Mejiro birds, a.k.a., the "Japanese White-Eyed," chartreuse bodied against the legendary red Lehua blossoms of the Ohia tree," ... by the Poet's House
Negligible motions, Java Sparrows,
haiku artisan, deep in thought, attends,
dawn break wings flapped--an idea narrows,
wake unassumed thoughtless emptied pretends.
Shelved packaged bird seeds feignedly addressed,
bird tray absence spilt seeds stretch, preached as well,
slight spread outwards, fashioned spawning impressed,
near and far, Meijiro's numbered midst swell.
Shunned Java Sparrows, aimless namesakes,
Meijiro's not pleased, their own--true Zero,
starved be-trayed craftsman sentiments opaques,
overburdened, labored--the birds, ditto!
Food fills the starving, and water quench thirst,
pleased chirps harmonize--receptive mind, versed.
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