Best Gypsum Poems
WALLPAPER
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Paper Thin
Cut down to any size,
Crumble, crop me wrong
Pull the insulation from my heart.
Never will I be "A Paper Doll!"
Thank you for calling me a "Friend!"
Thank you for wasting my "time!"
Enjoy the WALLPAPER display
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Layers and layers of lifeless brick
KEEPS EVERYTHING OUT!
Emotional poster boards of doubt
Envious fiberglass green never seen
Yuletide Carols warped around my energy
Merry and full of acrylic sh!t-
Hand full of putty maintains the makeup on my face
Arts and crafts display my inner fancy grace
Heavy installed Sheetrock so easily replaced
Tough paint chips away silently through the night
Rigid boards transform into fragile crystal light
The greatest illusion blinding reality
Smooth Tiger Skin, texture of orange simple peel
Beautiful mud swirl, L'Oreal.
Gypsum soft enough you want to touch
Dark walls of a thousand words
A plasterboard of discordant grey notes
Blots and clots of ink, enslave my skin
Colorless drywall, resilient to your charms
Printed designs of cleverly decorated lipstick
Morbid shadows underneath the ceiling veil
A double coat of Pacific Waterproof Blue-
Printing bags from -- YESTERDAY!
Plastered wounds of cement dry and roughens along the edge
A human-made barrier, not even God comes in.
by;PD
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
life,
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
Black-blue paint bleeds from within the cracks of crumbling cement walls,
Crushed skeletons infused within limestone erode,
exposing nameless sorrow hidden behind faceless grains of gypsum,
while a forgotten galaxy's celestial ceiling peers through a decaying thatched roof.
Misguided souls reach out into night's void,
screeching repeated sins into feverish gusts of wind,
tethered to each rusting rebar that's barely holding what was once their haven together,
unable to let go, doomed to relive past grievances.
Weathered spiral staircases lead towards nowhere.
Bleakness suffocates while hope is snuffed out,
like the wick of bitter candles drowning in their own wax.
Spinning surrealistic scenes melt into intangible realities,
each soul writhing in agony, trying to break free of abject cycles,
yet punishment clings like the smell of burnt tobacco,
unable to separate the scent from the fibres of existence.
Disembodied voices find no reprieve,
only more excruciation
at the hands of cruel judgement.
The paint recalls, layered and petulant, groans
mindless in its ground, it decomposes.
Granules of hematite, pale traceries of gypsum,
the crevasses of cave wall are soot soothed.
Layered and petulant the palm of man appears
charcoal dusted, amongst the antelope and bison.
Do you hear the drum’s call, the hollow
wail of bone flute, the slap of bare feet,
the drone of chant?
Red-lead or orange crystalline roars atop
the gummy white in Pharaoh’s tombs.
See the deathly desert and the blood of power
as it paves the way; ochre, gypsum,
copper blue, groan mindless in its ground.
Do you hear the drums call, the hollow
wail of wooden flutes, the rattle of the tambourine
the clink of bell, as bare feet dance entranced?
Decomposed, composed, each grain
calls to mind pale traceries of the ages left behind.
Soot-soothed, charred coal outlines the faces
of God and man upon the walls of time.
First Published by Mused 2013
White Sand and Temporary Oblivion
For an aching moment
I faced dazzling
Gypsum and glass as splinters
Of sunlight pierced the air
Bouncing bright off the landscape at
Alamogordo ---fat Cottonwoods and
not a tree in sight not
Here, the sight of the unholy Trinity
test
Blessed and blast
A fitting slant rhyme for our
slanted
times
askew at
1700 Silica Avenue in a decidedly
different Manhattan where no
Dandy boulevardier would dare strut.
Castle Bravo likewise
No place to dwell as we
Did our best
to incinerate the century
Trolling for a toll in the ashes of the atoll.
No sufficient payment was made.
But all that brightness
those purblind moments flirting
With nothingness all
retreated
Like genie to bottle
Heard whispering,
"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds..."
Certain whispers linger
Portending brighter, more permanent
Non-being; so be it.
Spaceward: genesis, obedience, fathomless: universe.
In Cerulean: lambent, sullen, discernible: Close ignite.
With harmony: hypaethral, skyward, aether: womb hiccups
Whelm time: serenade, stardust, drizzles: diamond dust,
Overall trends: extinguish, slumber, wonder: celestial hymn,
By extolling: Argyle, twinkle, soothing: miraculous rule
Alabaster Gypsum: portholes, peering, ogling: rain glints
Rubicund Jocund: ventral, sheqalim, vivid: lured stars
Exalt air: Blistering, bleeding, molting: Corolla collide
Orotund Moire: Kaleidoscopic, sentient, dusk: carnal life
Grab fistful: Dripping, purple, precipitation: Sunburnt sky
Dodging Venus: Flytrap, ill-wishers, pyramids: Shift astern.
This variation on sonnet XL1 to illustrate what Kuhlmann intended .
kuhlmann is a verse poem of two phrases interspered with three related monosyllabic stem- words(nouns,adjectives )with an integral title.The label and form is derived from the baroque poet Quirinus Kuhlmann's 50 sonnet
form Love-kiss XLI
Poem inspired by the sonnet penned by Brian Stand
I don’t get that much time alone these days but I’m not complaining.
She’s at the gym she says but who can say for sure; you know how they are;
But this isn’t about her it’s about me and I miss my little ditties.
Like the guy from Nantucket and the old man from bras;
While the iron maidens boyfriend picks at the hasp.
The young girls with dresses that they lift from the floor;
Having sex with the bad man and screaming for more.
Jill, she took jack; to a place on the hill;
But he couldn’t have her; because she ran out of pills.
Dylan and Guthrie; looking for jobs;
And the girls with their chap stick; all drunken on grog.
I could go on but what does it matter;
It’s all just some gypsum; apparently splattered.
So I’ll loan you these two packs; if you’ll pay me five;
And tomorrow it’s coffee and listening to jive. .
7/12/17
Fact not fiction
Another rap from scratch, I've written
Flaws in every system
And organism
Constant competition
And schisms
People passionate about religion
Or looking at it with skepticism
Folks with belief in superstition
And others regarding it with suspicion
So much criticism
And contradiction
Lifeforms that have or haven't participated in cannibalism
Whether it was optimal or severe weather and living conditions
It went with or against tradition
Found out or kept hidden
Work in progress, no matter if it's building or demolition
Messages that arrived and didn't
With or without a messenger pigeon
Was it truly an accurate depiction?
Or just someone's opinion?
Near or far from land and where bodies of water glisten
You'd better listen
Pay attention and if you can, use your vision
Only so much time is given
So you better stay driven
Slowly but surely I have risen
With more ambition
I'm trying to keep the rhythm
Using better lyricism
While remaining winsome
As I pursue the expedition
Speaking the truth and seeking wisdom
I worked with many different items, including gypsum
Underneath skies that were blue, grey or crimson
Between grains of ancient fine sand
desert roses hidden from sight—
Colourful, exquisitely fanned.
They formed in darkness; pressure shaped.
Each perfect corolla agape
in floral whorl of sharp crescents;
fluorescent and phosphorescent.
Against injustices they railed—
within shed tears, I saw their plight.
In our moral duty we’ve failed.
Their troubled spirits to immerse
in laughter which abounds in verse.
Pococurante obedience.
Parting: an Aubade in a sense.
POET'S NOTE
Updated 25th Aug with the mosaic rhyme in the final two lines:
obedience & Aubade in a sense.
Recommended reading: Desert rose selenite/gypsum.
POETIC FORM: Saraband sonnet (I used the BASIC French rhyme scheme, extended).
The Saraband(e) derives its name from a fast erotic dance of the 1500s of Mexico and Spain which originated in the East. It is a stanzaic form imitating the dance steps and written in any number of septets. The various forms consist of tercets (axa—‘x’ being unrhymed) or triplets (aaa); the chief difference being in the rhyme schemes of the quatrains: English (axa bcbc), Spanish (aaa bcbc), Italian (axa bccb OR aaa bccb), and French (only axa bbcc). Each subsequent stanza repeats the rhyme scheme set in the first stanza, but in the longer Saraband poems it is not unusual to mix Spanish, Italian and/or French septets. Any metrical foot; any metrical line—some authorities insist on octal syllabic lines rendering it minor art (= 8 syllables per line) but this is not cut and dry.
Saraband Sonnet: It comprises 2 septets. Rhyme scheme: It depends on the form chosen. In the sonnet form, the rhyme schemes have been extended for the French variant (aZa in the tercets where 'z' rhymes), and Italian variant (aba cddc—thus, an addition ‘b’ in the tercets). Some examples can be found where the rhyme scheme for the second septet is progressive. It may be octasyllabic, iambic or trochaic tetrameter, or an extra foot (iambic pentameter) may be added to conform to the basic sonnet. The volta is at L8. I have experimented with the rhyme scheme: aza bbcc, dzd eeff.
Here's a story about a men few heard
his name Zipp Wyat.
Indiana born and raised
with the run they came and squat.
Married a gal in a close town
but soon his life slid to bad
where he ran north to leave town.
Escaping jail in Oklahoma he hid.
Soon this man met another outlaw
and they run to and fro across this state
causing harm to all the law
who per sued them around the state.
Theirs wife's would dress as men
to avoid the law on the hunt.
Gypsum hills is where the hid from men
and the wives were sent.
Many raids had been done by the duo
till Ike was was killed by the law.
Run on foot he did to find a ride
then hide in a field of corn till the law.
That day he was shot and caught
and sit to die with rot from the shot
This desertscape dotted with feathers.
What need? I haven’t a need
for umbilical utensils utterly useless
on a Sanskrit road
long as the maiden’s Genghis apron
white as white gypsum in Alamogordo,
New Mexico.
Here you find blossoming curry spattered across
an ancient horizon
lulled by the dunes rattling the baritone basin,
and in America, in this most united of
Apache - Comanche - Navajo
estates, we gather nations through nuclear
hinges obtusely obliterated at White Sands National.
Her eyes were crystals, with repetitive inner structures and outer sheet faces. They were made of quartz, of almost pure silica.
Her smile was a star in the farthest galaxy. It was made of combustions of crimson and wild blue yonder. A star that shines from afar yet already dead a hundred of years ago.
Her hands were soft, like they were made of silky fibers with furrows of anhedonia and benumbed stimuli.
Her heart wasn't of plain, with etchings nonetheless. Covered with stratums of plasters of a mixture of gypsum with water and sand, thence the width made her blunt.
The bricks on the bricks
The stones on the stones
Joined with hard iron
And soft gypsum
Handle the strong hands
To build the buildings
The towers, the palaces
The mills and the factories,
The great contributions
Of those maker hands
To the constructions
To the civilizations,
But those golden hands
Fallen under exploitations
To survive are in fights
Deprived of proper rights.
Passion fell by the wayside
Cold Phoenix doubt rose from the ashes
smouldering on the inside
Broken candlelight date invitations
rue glow leaves grey matter with dark, unsettling thoughts
Giving restless peace of mind,
plenty wary settle down reservations
Apache war paint tone
crack the dead zone silence
Smoke signals sent
on a cellular fossilized moan
Twitchy nerve forward move hesitation;
don’t know whether to try to stem the scarlet cries,
or just roll with the crimson tide
Sky high pleasure reverie ... stratosphere ecstasy
got sent earthbound,
by a suspicious cloud of tepid anger
Whirlwind cardiac breaker of fractured intensity
It feels like the heat of anticipated intimacy,
ain’t as warm as it use to be
Broken flower vase steam has gotten stint frosty
Petrified tears can so easily break a fragile heart,
calcified fears make it hard to do a makeover start
When easy loving falls on the rocky roadside,
a broken spirit is often difficult to mend
in a shattered trust situation
Heartfelt embraces ain’t as close
like they use to be
Empty kinetic feeling of diffused heat
seeps of fractured pulse intensity
Dampened emotions gotta levee flow free;
can’t fake the sweat,
if the effort don’t staunch the tear bleed
Place a plaster cast on a broken heart,
then daub the pain
with gypsum dreams
of beautiful, mosaic memories —
Tessellated tears of tessera fears,
checkered scars
healing in place piece-by-piece
Broken mirror reflects another face:
Fractured intensity
slumber sutures reveal
a new, pillow stitched identity
dark and dangerous like a secret,
how deep, how far does the cave go?
the melody of running water,
shimmering, our helmet light reveals
a dangerous cascade, flowing inwards,
down a steep rocky chasm, on we go.
hidden wonders, they were all secrets.
giant selenite crystals, gypsum
the worlds biggest, lacelike, translucent.
bacteria slime drips then turn upward
to join a buddy in pitch blackness, why?
where? if you are into earth's deepest
dark cave secrets, for their safety,
keep them secret unto yourselves.
I hold a secret from a dark dangerous place.
where, well I can not tell you, its a secret
I can show you a picture I took.
look, did you see, a gypsum crystal,
this tale not fiction, a secret, oh yes!
Free Verse Only- Pick a Theme Poetry Contest - Sponsored by Laura Loo
05/29/18