Best Enclave Poems
VIDEO: LovejoyB: BALLOON
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fduyWFQ-JXg
"DAMASCUS"
There is no collaboration in War
Poison winds and bullets
The fallout from a silent bomb that arrives out of nowhere
Lives left dead and damaged in the rubble
Line's drawn
Zip code
Zip locked
A Child's Tears
A Mother's Face
A blood running river silent scream
An absent State of Grace
A pointed loaded gun
Homeless nowhere to run
The enemy could be close
those you know
havoc reeking destruction
A pointed loaded gun
Another's War
Damascus
(Lovejoy-Burton/2018 Feb)
1.
https://www.dailystar.co.uk/news/latest-news/605359/syria-nuclear-world-war-3-bible-prophecy-damascus-armageddon-donald-trump-vladimir-putin
2.
https://www.hrw.org/news/2018/01/11/syria-children-under-attack-damascus-enclave
3.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2018/02/20/children-among-dead-71-killed-assad-regime-bombardment-eastern/
4.
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah+17
5.
https://www.youtube.com./watch?v=fduyWFQ-JXg
The sun is setting
As she prepares her for evening
After dusk dinner with her lover in gardens over there
Basket of love all wrapped with love and flair
She sets down the cutlery
Pours two glasses of red wine
A dozen roses she places on the tombstone
Candles flicker surrounding the grave
She clinks glasses, too you my love
I smile meekly, taking a sip
She whispers how she misses me so
She gently caresses me and sings our song
The moon is out, so full and bright
We dance entwined, both past and present held tight
She seductively sways, in the candle lit night
A lone tears appears upon her cheek
I am silent, intimately studying her face of sadness
She knows I love her, even from below
The wind and the sky both tell her so
Her tear stained scarf falls right where I lie
I smell her perfume, her passions my soul keeps
The night becomes chilly, for our tears so weep
She lays down beside me, holding me in stone
She whispers you shall never be alone
Before sunrise, up she is her basket packed to go
She places one black rose upon me as the clouds part way
She returns to her reality and me to my grave
Turning round she speaks these words
You can never leave me
You can never go
You are always beside my heart
For I love you so
In the morning sun
The grave keeper is mending and pruning things just right
As he walks over me, I am startled a wee bit with fright
You see I had a dream just this last of nights
That a lover came to whisper devotions and hold me tight
There was no woman, no lover, no visitor to my enclave
For even the dead and soulless, have dreams from underneath
My hell on earth is to be buried right here in earthy toils
Knowing no lover will place a flower at the foot of my grave
The wind blows
Leaves twirling up in the sky
The wind blows
A black rose falls upon my grave
...adapted from the novel 'Mr Pye' by Mervyn Peake
Balding and sprightly, he's filled with bold dreams
to make us all happy and free.
He selects as his target a small Channel Island,
a sampling of people just like you and me.
All he wants is that folks get along
without all their disputes and fights.
He tries to bring peace to this sheltered enclave,
just by doing good deeds he can sleep nights.
He practises witchcraft to bring them together,
'if it works' are his words for the day.
A sense of humour is paramount these days
to keep those nay-sayers at bay.
In the midst of these noble endeavours
he feels discomfort that turns out
to be wings that are sprouting quite clearly,
a cause for concern there's no doubt.
It seems that his kindness has made him an angel,
the more good deeds, the bigger they grow
'til they're actually poking right out of his shirt,
my goodness, they're starting to show!
So he counters with bad deeds in hopes that they'll shrink,
indiscretions and plain bald-faced lies.
Sure enough they diminish, in fact they're all gone,
he need not prepare a disguise.
But this scheme that he's started gets odder,
there's a growth on his temples, two horns;
he's been so busy negating the good that he's done
he's turned Devil, good heavens! he's torn
between Good and Evil, just what should he do?
he's conflicted, and lies in disgrace;
he sits down to ponder which way he should turn,
it's as clear as the nose on his face!
On the horns of a moral dilemma,
he simply gives in to pure Good;
he embraces his folk, he just loves them to death,
'til his wings are full-sprouted he'll
take to the air and keep flying
as far as infinity goes,
so he bids his people a tearful farewell,
next stop for our Spirit, who knows?
Aye and ’tis a bonnie glen
And for us the Laird’s enclave
Dinna fush the soldiers’ menace
‘Tis this moment that He gave.
And we gaither ‘neath the stars
And we tak the wine and bread
And we cleave with benediction
To each Word arr Saviour said.
This is Church
Mind not the dampness
And the laing hike to and fro’
For the Pastor of our choosin’
Meets us here, and helps us grow.
Though he lives just like an ootcast
With a price upon his head
He can still preach Heaven doon t’us
And we treasure all he said.
Sure ’tis hard times we endure
For the One King of our Kirk
Jesus, here, atop this hillside
And His glorious finished work.
And a lark flits kindly by us
And a sheep bleats out content
And we learn through sterling sufferin’
What the hunted Psalmist meant.
Hebrews 11: 38
(well spoken of the Scottish Covenanters of the mid 1600's)
Pearl
rapids
steam cascade
haunting canvass
a red dawn smoulder
to prise sluggish eyelids
of zestful bright mood riser
who gulps in rapt awestruck spoonfuls
of mosaic zone enthralled enclave
awash with random sun drenched blue pool plops
Where giddy children cast green hue pebbles
as dulcet birds tweet from gaunt elm twigs
and rainbow trouts skim silver streams
wet grass clumps sag on mud banks
a grey fleck morning haze
that scene shift migrant
a spring usher’s
mint leaf scent
in faint,
gust
Nameless nomad from nowhere needed nestling niche
Emotions enveloped evermore excitement exuberant
Vague venture veered on valiant venerable voyage
Ever eager to enter enticing enclave of enduring endearment
Recognized remote rhythm of romantic reverie in rippling rapture.
Life’s listless landscape lighted lunar luminosity lured by your lilac love
Evidently eager I’ll earn, emerge enamored at edge of ebullient ecstasy
To tread the twilight trail, travel to your tulip tinged turquoise terrace.
My mind marauding in mauve meadow murmurs don’t maroon me
Even if eroding emerald enchantment ever ends embedded in ember.
Glitzy green garden gone grey, growing gloom grabs, never let me go
Open obscure old orifice on orb, I’ll orbit out of oblivion owning you.
March 27, 2019
Contest : Pick A Title, Vol 3 Alliteration
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
Title chosen : Never Let Me Go
We have moved to higher Grounds.
The ridge enclave in mist and cold
Sight is poor as in jackets we fold
Peering below at the stagnant pools
-Covering to brim our hoeing tools.
Ink that was too thick is diluted
Scribbling leaves with water polluted
We’ve moved to scribble on the higher rocks
We’ve move away from the flooding docks
The streets are full of my works I never sold
Stories I thought will never be told
Only, I had already told them and someone else was bold
No- bolder than I ever were my dreams to uphold.
And now these earthquakes has also robbed me
Stolen the duet written by Maya and me
It has rolled and warped it in earths bare dust
Maya thinks I betrayed her most treasured trust.
And so when we couldn’t stand the waters flowing
When into our warm beds the stream came rushing
We took our feet and mind and our family of poets
And moved to higher grounds, we live again as cave poets.
We scribble in the darkest night
With splinters red enough to glow morsel light
We remember the glow of a car parking light
And we press the ochre harder, lips held tight.
We write on the rough walls of our refuge cave
Writing poetry in coded images of flower and dove
We write our fury in dark wooden coal,
-And happiness in a picture of an owl school.
Our hearts have enjoined from its broken bounds
But we still remember with the scariest, loudest heart pounds
And still we write up-up the filling rocks. Filled with words
-Words about the higher grounds and the flooded grounds.
The rocks floods with sentiments of frustration
-of the sired generation now lost in the canyon
-age has caught up to us and the cave is dripping with poetry
-so we pick a box of special pen and one or two poultry
-and we move to higher grounds.
Where the rocks are clean and caves are darker and empty
...adapted from 'Mr Pye' by Mervyn Peake
Balding and sprightly, he's filled with
bold dreams
to make us all happy and free.
He selects as his target a small
Channel Island,
a representative sampling of people
just like you and me.
All he wants is that folks get along
without all those disputes and fights.
He tries to bring peace to this
sheltered enclave,
just by doing good deeds he can
sleep nights.
He practises witchcraft to bring
them together,
'if it works...' are his words
for the day.
A sense of humour is paramount
these days
to keep all those evil-believers at bay.
In the midst of these noble endeavours
he feels discomfort that turns out
to be wings that are sprouting quite clearly,
a cause for concern there's no doubt.
It seems that his kindness has made him
an angel,
the more he does good deeds
the bigger they grow
till they're actually poking right out
of his shirt,
my goodness, they're starting to show!
So he counters with bad deeds
in hopes that they'll shrink,
indiscretions and plain bald-faced lies.
Sure enough they diminish, in fact
they're all gone,
he need not keep himself in disguise.
But this scheme that he's started
gets odder,
there's a growth on his temples, two horns;
he's been so busy negating the good
that he's done
he's turned Devil, good heavens!
he's torn
between Good and Evil, just what
should he do?
He's conflicted like never before.
He sits down to ponder which way
he should turn,
till it's clear, sitting right at his door.
On the horns of a moral dilemma
he simply gives in to pure Good.
He embraces his folk, he just loves them
to death,
till his wings are full-sprouted; he could
take to the air and keep flying
just as far as infinity goes,
so he bids his people a tearful farewell,
next stop the cosmos, who knows?
The earth seems flat and Godot decided to arrive on the scene
Like a boil stuck on a pancake dressed as a trans gender carnival queen
He carries a prophecy written on a tag hung from his shoulder
Suggests Sisyphus had it easy on slippery slopes with his boulder
A Mocking Bird rears its ugly head on ominous spread sheets of doom
One Hundred Years Of Solitude and Paradise Lost for a safe tomb
No divine comedy but rather Robinson Crusoe's forsaken enclave
Bell Jar meets Darkness at Noon in a world neither new nor brave
Is the cute fluffy bear safe or lost on tracks near Paddington Station
Has Peter Rabbit met Alice while loo roles are the prize for the nation
Will the Famous Five dwelling in a cave of adventure survive the storm
Can Pippi darn enough stockings when isolation becomes the latest norm
A decision for the Little Prince is to whether to leave the planet in time
Would Momo kiss Benno the street sweeper or is it declared a felony crime
Tom Sawyer has to heed aunt Polly's advice and avoid Huckleberry Finn
Who puts genie back into the bottle when Aladdin's lamp shines rather dim
Surely there are more important questions to pose during epic disaster
Why do the marginalized suffer more badly than those who master
Has Donald Trump enough money to put more bricks in the partition
Can we blame Russians or Muslims or some other satanic mission
God forbid if the Monarch of Britain was to bite the dust in the crisis
Would it be a vile conspiracy theory to accuse Jihad Al Qaeda or ISIS
But the worst had to be watching a funeral cortege on computer screens
Or that socialists villains take over the country which is not what it seems
10th April 2020
She once said
on a stormy night
before the first drop of rain graced tongues:
"Passion is overrated. It's out of style"
The crack of clouds blew grey into her face at that moment.
Umbrellas turned their skin inside out
The surf tasted it's own salt and spat it out in disgust
The black beyond broke rain capsules and sang in thunderous laughter.
Passion.
Lost?
Misplaced?
Nonessential??
We caught her up in our raincoats and hurried her into the nearest cafe.
Three hot coffees and her chattering lips.
Steam in swirly rings 'round her fingers as she shook.
As she cried.
Passion swarmed out of her words and caught the cafe on fire
It burned while we sat there
Peeling paint and freezing fingers
Raining sky in midnight's palm
We listened as she brought up memories
All ignited, having slept long past deadlines of ardor.
We cried with her in conundrum dreams
and kept the burnt out structure erect by our finger tips to scaffold.
A woman grieving should not be disturbed.
Suddenly, her words made sense.
The sky cleared
Her eyes swallowed their blue and returned the ocean to it's salt
We held hands, stretched across a cherry red booth reflecting every broken capillary in her gaze.
Sisters united in empathy's grasp
a circle of an undivided enclave
We stepped over the ashes of her memories
and walked her home despite her obstinate refusal for one of us to stay over.
Count down to 3am
and the petunias lining her front walk
kissed her ankles with the thanks of rain
She smiled and passionately picked the velvet purple
and placed it in our palms.
We saw the full spectrum of rainbows and heartaches
and growling thunder on the verge of lost adherence to love
all on her face in one evening
That night, she went home alone, to sleep on her side of the bed
with the shivering almost subsiding into the faintest scent of brewing hope.
It was a pleasant, sunny day
when the Sands on the friendship shore
said Hi to me
And I said Heidi to the Sands too
The impressions of her pen footprints
led to an inspirational cove
It was all so feel good and refreshing to the soul
There she speaks with understated grace,
her voice calms the waves of any current heartache
Her loving enclave dissipates the hate
With forever positive thoughts
that contravene all negative contemplates
And as I rested upon the Sands,
the alluring, poetic voice that said Hi to me,
sent forth a warm, compassionate breeze
And in pure comfort, I said: thank you, Heidi
This is a tribute to my beloved friend,
the talented poetess Heidi Sands
Through whispers that furrow the silence, the cursing horn sounds,
Over plains of shadow the dusk of night descends all around.
Hyperion of night glows with embers beneath lids of silver light,
In silence watches over sparse poplars, caressed by the moon's delight.
Dreaming of the scent from deep, dark woods, on the lake's mysterious wave,
Begging for comfort from the stars that weep in the realm of the forgotten, their enclave.
Thirsting to trace hurried steps, to journey beneath the starry sphere,
While the rhythm of seasons softly ticks, like a clock in the night drawing near.
Linden flowers shatter over celestial metaphors that echo in night's thrall,
From the glittering dawn to the borders of dark eternities, overarching all.
Through the centuries, as legatees on Earth, his steps will remain unswayed,
Like a gold coin rimmed by fate's bright light, ever vibrant, always unstayed.
Lord of the stars, a young noble robed in romances of elation,
With night's locks cascading, the forest patrols in hushed revelation.
Like a sage of silence, tethered to solitude with ancient ties,
Treading paths that angels step, in the crickets' twilight symphony, the bird descends and flies.
With eyes that embody the infinite, thoughts nobly uplifted in cosmic sprawl,
He reclines on the forehead of time immortal, a monarch in high-walled hall.
You've poured magic through the gates of ether, unlocking the most treasured enigma, cast,
In the celestial chamber you unwittingly sign your name, on scattered parchment, on a constellation vast.
Apollo of oblivion, from your searing, touch-me-not zodiacal trace,
You spin the stars like a rosary, forever set as their vigilant grace.
Spontaneously taking me to a land of opportunity.
A wonderous realm of possibilities awaits me.
Immersing me in showers of splendor and ecstasy.
I foresee a future so bright its illumination blinds me.
Spectacles of magnificence waft by my eye to my heart.
Let this awe-inspiring significance prepare to start.
No more exuberating sensation could be bought.
Where command performances are daily sought.
An exhilarating ride high on the crest of a mighty wave.
So very exquisite I shall create my very own enclave.
Joining the Elizabethan Trust Theatre Performing Arts.
At such a young age was my dream auditioning my parts.
Acting was all I lived for, being accepted was even more.
Life was wonderful, a good job and study I would adore.
I guess it was perseverance, luck and talent, I had some.
So get ready to roll out the red carpet, here I come.
Water beneath bridges is always made to move
below the penumbra of our blessed moon.
She flows freely through the mouth of its enclave
taking with her every notion of solidity;
I stand here firm as a rock watching her pour herself out
she slows my senses as she extinguishes my
burning thoughts, and makes me think of
Superman !
...adapted from the novel 'Mr Pye' by Mervyn Peake
Balding and sprightly, he's filled with bold dreams
to make us all happy and free.
He selects as his target a small Channel Island,
a sampling of people just like you and me.
All he wants is that folks get along
without all their disputes and fights.
He tries to bring peace to this sheltered enclave,
just by doing good deeds he can sleep nights.
He practises witchcraft to bring them together,
'if it works' are his words for the day.
A sense of humour is paramount these days
to keep those nay-sayers at bay.
In the midst of these noble endeavours
he feels discomfort that turns out
to be wings that are sprouting quite clearly,
a cause for concern there's no doubt.
It seems that his kindness has made him an angel,
the more good deeds, the bigger they grow
'til they're actually poking right out of his shirt,
my goodness, they're starting to show!
So he counters with bad deeds in hopes that they'll shrink,
indiscretions and plain bald-faced lies.
Sure enough they diminish, in fact they're all gone,
he need not prepare a disguise.
But this scheme that he's started gets odder,
there's a growth on his temples, two horns;
he's been so busy negating the good that he's done
he's turned Devil, good heavens! he's torn
between Good and Evil, just what should he do?
he's conflicted, and lies in disgrace;
he sits down to ponder which way he should turn,
it's as clear as the nose on his face!
On the horns of a moral dilemma,
he simply gives in to pure Good;
he embraces his folk, he just loves them to death,
'til his wings are full-sprouted he'll
take to the air and keep flying
as far as infinity goes,
so he bids his people a tearful farewell,
next stop for our Spirit, who knows?