Best Cyclical Poems

Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect...

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Dorrie Ann left Herman again.
It happens on a cyclical schedule.
October, January, April and July.
A quad-yearly thing.
We cousins take her in.
Knowing in a day or two Herman will show up.
Sweet, with candies and maybe flowers.
He will sweet talk her back home
because he is tired of frozen...

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The wind waits for no man,
Nor tarries on steps of his fortune.
The tax man equates his ledger,
Ever wary of time that brings him none.
Great cities multiply and refuse to listen,
As pushcarts, filled with hubris,
Paint the sky with longlived hope for 
change.
There, above the laws written...

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As unforgiving

   nature may appear sometimes,

          autumn leaves return...



*...

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Unequivocal
Divinity, eyes-shut Spring
Weathers winters’ all!...

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where one fist is thrown 
another will see the knuckles displayed &
with each connection the rage from one
primate to the next comes spiraling downward---
there is a visceral reaction that brings the 
onlooker back & if they are not sufficiently 
distracted,
the cycle turns in motion like...

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In this the third
Week of April
I loofahed from top to my toe

Every inch of
my scaly magnificence
bidding the lost parts go

Always loving a monday,
   A first,ground zero
A change

Whether August or May
Or dawn of new day
I eagerly sought to know

To be at the pop
that starts...

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Spring as the first rays fall on frozen ground
The dew glistening in the early morning sun
And below ground the green curl begins

As heat from the astronomers source
Penetrates the distant land
The budding fern begins her journey

Long fallen autumnal foliage
Settled over winter under snow
Degraded now, brings new...

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there’s a problem with faith.

Yes, I’ve seen mothers with interlaced fingers
& optimistic minds will god into
sick children.
Faith firm as cinderblocks,
building retaining walls against floods
of adversity.

Yet, I’ve seen fathers with frayed hair
& sweat-stained shirts fall
broken, like bone china
to the weight
of brackish, ebon water.

The duality of faith,
cinderblock...

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Dawn drinks daylight.
Sunshine spreads supremely.
Briskly brightens bays and beaches. 
Restless readers reclined rise up.
Freshness flashes fair faces.
Wildlife awakens watches.
Life loves lusciously.
Man makes much merriment.
Responsibility reckons…repeatedly.
Continuity continues its cyclical connection.

© November 14, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen...

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Happy children with masks parade house to house,
Sneaking and creeping in way of a mouse.
Wearing cheesy cat ears; one a rhinestone crown.
There goes a princess in a glowing evening gown.

Superhero with invisibility cloak, power of flying.
Hershey bars next door? You’d better not be lying!
Blurry harvest...

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Hitting all the highs then the lows
thinking it will stop, on it goes
like a river, life just flows
water falling, break my bones.
I suppose I must keep swimming,
though the lights just keep on dimming,
joy and laughter keeps me winning,
till the next day finds me sinning.
I finishes...

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The pushing pelvis,
the slippery and new -
minus recall.
Amnesia drone
coming or going
home,
cyclic rebirth,
peddling hard to uncertainty.
Dozy or bright
dynamo light
self-made
doomed to fade
uphill and over
pushing through
toward an ill-defined 'it.'
A lifelong nap,
a newborn holler
into the latex catcher's mitt.
Headlong life buzz.
Squeezing through forgetfulness.
Born again into the holy whirlpool,
of - what...

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II. Nature's Cyclical Dance

End is not death. Changing into something new is good.
A leaf falls, then goes back into the dark soil.
Next year's flowers sleep under winter's quiet.
We fear the end, but nature shows us it's not bad.
Death is a new start.

My Anishinaabe mentor Little...

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The Well

The Watcher watches all the watchers, for the Watcher knows
That what the watchers are watching, is something to behold.

But what are they watching? The Watcher can’t tell.
For it appears to be only a plain looking well.

The Watcher asks and pleads for the watchers to...

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