Best Enactment Poems
POTD 23rd June 2019
Maria Williams
Presents
Dance to Love
A tribute to my Dad, the late - Wilfred Forbes
She danced with wild abandon
she danced without a care
With sun kissed skin, her arms flung wide
Wild flowers everywhere
I chanced upon this secret glade
while walking early morn
A sacred aura surrounded it
a jewel in the dawn
A type of place where angels dwell
A place of Hopes and Dreams
A magic place of lush green plants
And sparkling bubbling streams
I drew back lest she saw me,
I dared not break the spell
Wild petals swirled around her
and to the ground they fell
Like homage to a Goddess
that she must surely be
For Gods to but gaze on
not mortals such as me
She twirled around so fast
I could barely see her feet
And even though I stood afar
I knew she gave off heat
When her tempo slowed right down
the air became quite chill
The Elements were but her slaves
she ordered them at will
I could have watched forever
so mesmerized was I
What would I give to dance with you?
I murmured with a sigh
To dance with wild abandon
with this Angel from above
A hundred birds would sing out loud
to watch us Dance To Love
by Maria Williams
This tribute is an enactment of a vision as told to us by our late Dad, which he maintained he witnessed as a young man.
He was an extraordinary orchestral musician and teacher to
some world greats.
He was accomplished in no less than 18 instruments, his favorites being the lead violin and xylophone (played with 8 hammers).
Thank you for listening and watching this video.
Copyright © June 2019 Maria Williams
Video arrangement, production, direction
and compilation:
Ron Williams
Video editing, sound mixing, graphics:
Jayne Hartanto
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POTD 23rd June 2019
Watching old newsreels sadness washes over me
Highstepping horses, gentle eyes transformed in fear
valiantly charging under men that could not yield
Amid the noise of cannons, over the death-filled battle-field ,
sides flecked with foam, so far from home,
somehow they know how desperate is this final charge
hoofbeats pounding, hearts bursting, falling in their stride
Now the faded image shows a glory past and gone
Yet we must remember them and how their courage shone
Lest we forget the horses, or the majesty of them
In solemn re-enactment we must remember them
And grant a special place in paradise where they can roam.
Written for the Australian war horses that went overseas
and never returned
Some Paradise Where Horses Go Poetry Contest
Michelle Faulkner
Placed 4th.
Justice delayed from fringed time frazzled cry
Until the DREAM can heal itself and broken trust
******* shackled minds in the velvet shadows try
Evolving with a nation drunken in bloody lust
Trapped in tragedy of a blurred emancipation line
Edged to the margin of Reconstruction, it tells
Empty enactment lagging that Constitutional hell
Nattering historic lies, blood and tongue dispels
Truth against the moral lie, all brotherhood a shell
Heaven's rich cause stumble in raged hearts to fill.
No more this verdant sight no more the sound
No more the heart of mist at nature’s dawn
No more victims of constant pressure found
No more the fool of man’s enactment borne.
To worship a foundation so ancient
The last bastion of one’s ancestor
Then one bears scars of prudence so poignant
When complied to appease the molester.
Our Fathers who wove within nature’s loom
So soon eras of memories destroyed
When at the mercy of Europe’s new broom
Leaving many dreams retrenched redeployed.
Hearts and minds linger still at Purple Haze
Ghostly cascades of falling tears amaze!
For all the farmers systematically force from their lands
in a orchestrated albeit subtle way
after the UK joined the European common market 1970's
A Poem about of one of those farms "Purple Haze"
© Harry J Horsman 2011
Deepening Dusk
by Odin Roark
How might this relentless approach of final darkness
present its final moments before curtain?
The acts have been rewarding,
even as the protagonist and antagonist
missed some cues,
made a few false entrances,
and at times confused the audience
of only me.
Thankfully…
My catwalk view
where having long ago embraced
Gordon Craig’s Uber-Marionette concept,
his self-aware-life-enactment
being simultaneously puppet and puppeteer,
prepared me well for the Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations:
“All of us are creatures of a day;
the rememberer and the remembered alike.
The time is at hand when you will have forgotten everything,
And the time is at hand when all will have forgotten you.”
Such is the synchronous epiphany
with a drama’s final curtain
allowing a moment’s pause
before one’s inner-house lights
illumine yet another transition,
from “what if” to “what is” to “what might be”.
Hopefully the staging of one’s mirrored life
becomes companionable for the journey back home,
that place in one’s mind
where comforts remain tenuous
by often reluctant acceptance,
when overcoming challenges
is beyond one’s ability.
Yet…
To prepare for the final unpredictable,
when one’s deepening dusk
no longer finds the stage lit,
when illusion and delusion applaud together
the finished performance of one’s choices,
one’s experiences delineated into one’s
inner-monologue of truth.
“Pass, then, through this little space of time
in harmony with nature and end thy journey in contentment,
just as an olive falls off when it is ripe,
blessing nature who produced it,
and thanking the tree on which it grew.”
Marcus Aurelius
THE EAGLE
From sheer Jurassic precipice he soared
Surveyed the land for gifts it might afford
Across the broad flat valley’s rich domain
With viewpoint high, low altitude disdain
In languid circling track approaching nigh
The eagle now came level eye with eye
He seemed to nod to one perceived as peer
Acknowledged coexistence without fear
His self assurance of a privileged strain
In higher echelon of victual chain
No predator to make threat to his being
Where flight has no concomitance with fleeing
We two shared aspect regal and remote
Above a distant world seeming to denote
A subject to be seen with cool detachment
From other lives set on their own enactment
The matchstick men in matchbox cars below
Proceed in patterns conjunct, fluent flow
As if directed by a master plan
The pieces moved as by an unseen hand
Yet inside every box there is a mind
That makes decisions well informed or blind
The myriads of choices of direction
Have source within those living souls’ election
I marvel at this concept: life centricity
The thought of such abundance, prolificity
Of individual life forms each conferred in
The ability, its intentions to determine
Some say we’re mere machines therefore robotic
Or otherwise controlled by force hypnotic
And some aver a plan: divine intention
By God who makes judgemental intervention
I claim no knowledge, or insight on this score
Perhaps one day I’ll know with sureness more
‘Til then prefer this chosen metaphor
- In freedom I would with the eagle soar
Every man, woman and child long for no more strife
Behold the mind visions of a much better life
Reality desired manifests through thought
Post-passing the wisdom each individual has got
Will through enactment to live out the vision
Total understanding, the new found decision
Fulfill the requirement of expectation
To ensure the result of manifestation
Love, the key, must be the foundation
Breed inspiration through affirmation
Bestow with faith to secure the existence
Strong hold desire with everlasting persistence
Thus it be that the vision hold true
Creative the heart, not impossible to do.
The Colosseum is a Roman work
Capable of seating thousands or more
Used for gladiatorial contests, mock battles
Such action seen in its famous battles
Or re-enactment of a classic work
They have all people shouting loud for more
Fierce lions attacking Christians and more
Imagine such things in life and death battles
Fighting or staying together won't work
All shouting for greater work,more, battles
I see her as the woman on the road,
and in the distance just inside her sight,
one solitary male approaching—that alone,
draws up within her, latent fire
and by its warming she must genuflect
before the altar of desire.
There is a silent passion, holy in its touch,
that sparks connection, unexplained.
There is electric purity within its cloud
that strikes across that narrowing space,
creates magnetic lust in celebration
of the naked thrust oncoming,
finally to close the gap
between her trembling body
and his throbbing heat.
I see divinity in that.
I see the re-enactment of the woman made
to be the glory in that polymorphic act
inspired from pagan dreams of paradise,
gifted yet today
upon the god-blessed whoring saint
called humankind.
~
(Some of you will be offended by this poem,
but I am more convinced than ever that there
are times of affinity between the states of
sexual attraction and holy blessedness)
black reality…
maimed and killed on video:
daily news tv.
injustice must go---
what’s seen is no enactment;
it’s real as was meant.
all of this crap stop.
our lives are in jeopardy;
by hands of rogue cops.
no justice, no peace---
empty chants easily ignored;
when will the breach cease?
attempt self-defense,
and we’re a violent threat:
blacks with no damn sense.
next season will be:
keeping up with the new blacks---
hook on being free.
remember the dead---
no sequel will be for them:
they are really dead.
yes, we are alive---
fighting to the very end:
that our heirs survive!
let’s keep faith on set---
her flame must never go out;
she’s never failed yet!
faith---the horizon---
waits upon the rising sun
justice has been won!
Your reaction to any moment in time
Is dependent on your true understanding and acceptance of oneself
Instinctively we react to our own perceptions proving that all variables
That have occurred, do occur and will occur
Are simply frivolous in nature…random or happen for a reason
What do you believe…
To respond to one’s perception will create a foundation
To categorize the positive and negative experiences in your life
These provoked moments also supply a true test to the laws of Karma…
What lies within your soul consciousness
The layers of inner peace
That have been etched in time
Running parallel to your personal growth…
The unprovoked moments
The stillness of time
The emptiness of your thoughts and physical space
An unprecedented inner strength
Within oneself there is a core of values that can be optimistically limitless…
A positive force of energy
If you believe…in virtues over vices
And the concept of Nirvana does exist…
It is the anticipation of trepidation when seeking such a complex truth
Your spiritual upkeep must be consistent and cared for
Or you will simply lose your way
To the reactions of your own life passing by…
To view yourself before enactment is more powerful than a premonition…
Envision all moments and variables before they happen
To foresee your positive and negative reactions…
Is to sustain congruence and learn bountifully
This accomplished energy would be your EVERYDAY ENLIGHTENMENT…
At night when we lay content
at the conclusion of our day,
wearied from labor
but glad in our endeavors,
I will inevitably say,
something of inconsequence,
while our barrier’s down
to feel your laughter,
slide inside my soul
and curl in my womb.
Our re-enactment of
Loves conception.
The sound of your laughter
echoes in my mind
long days after
our moment of joy repast,
like the trill of a bell
beneath a fairy mound,
who rings in the wonder
an infant’s first cry rebounds.
She sat on a chaise longue waiting for the big revelation
after years of therapy she still hadn't healed that part of her
that was unconsciously broken beyond repair;
A lifetime of failed relationships and abandonment
had taught her not to trust her feelings nor her choices.
In this darkened room what did she hope to attain?
a semblance, a re-enactment of her past life, perhaps then
she would finally break the mirror of deceit and discover the truth.
He sat there talking to her softly, guiding her deep into hypnosis
noticing the way she wrung her hands as if trying to endure
Upon deeper inspection, he noticed red marks on her neck
when she told him about the gallows and how she was hung,
from a Dule tree long ago in Great Britain;
Past life regression is not easy, nor is Re-integrative Therapy.
When she opened her eyes he whispered softly,
"Anne, I'm Sorry"
March 9, 2023
When, oh when, when will it end?
The inhumanity that recurs again and again.
Mere mortals true, but true animals too.
Too many with hearts dark, through and through.
History stained with innocent blood drained,
The countless lives lost and nothing gained.
Sad excuses implied are forever justified,
Reasons unreasonable that leaves one mystified.
How long can this last, with such a tragic cast;
The re-enactment of our Medieval past.
On a bitter stage, we witness the rage,
That affects one and all; no matter the age.
The suffering masses and agonized classes,
Unmeasurable grief that nothing surpasses.
Chiseled in stone, the heartbreak alone,
Justice bereft and chilled to the bone.
With limited mind, can we hope to find,
A path that deems all as truly one of a kind.
When, oh when, when my friend,
When will humanity begin and insanity end?
For the contrived inducement of fixated being,
the transmuting tenet of uniqueness,
the personified indented identity,
changes in the self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon slyly cocooned,
paints the shifting façade of deception.
In the ostensible enactment of life’s incredible drama,
the performance perfected in one-act play
with the obsession of passion professed,
gilding the consequence crafted by alchemy,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another,
is an axiomatic drive of the dormant design.
Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade
on the tangible visage of virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality,
reflecting the real rendering of identity,
rinsed with the primal hues of persona
of the distinctive disposition embodied once.
The spasm of schematic perception splits the mirror,
the shapeless shards of shattered pretence
scatter as discarded debris willfully abandoned.
Transformation creates the deluding entity,
an alien in its own renovated realm,
completes the illusive paradigm of contrast.