Best Phantasmagorical Poems
To appreciate our planet,
begin with its snowcapped mountains:
where sunbeams morph crystals of ice
into gems of glistening light.
See pink clouds hover in the skies,
afloat on a vista of blue:
and a setting sun smear scarlet,
onto puffs of marshmallow white.
And jungles, at its equator:
create a sash of vibrant greens;
while burnt sands ripple Earth's deserts,
with shifting dunes of tans and creams.
Watch Earth's leafy forests change from
deciduous to evergreen:
and tundra, pitted with blue lakes,
fade to stretches of virgin snow.
And volcanoes erupt in flames
spewing plumes of ebony smoke:
as lava bleeds from gaping wounds,
while giving birth to molten Earth.
See cobalt and aquamarine
waves, crested with white foamy froth:
and two tilted poles, capped in ice,
sparkle, like crystalline jewels.
View it from afar, as it twirls
within the vacuum of space:
like a phantasmagorical
cerulean marble: called Earth.
Behold, oh my beloved!
Is there a hidden care
you would like to share,
with your not so gentle gaze?
Repudiating caducity,
your eyes portray
sustained excitement ~
still and restrained
whilst behind you
an arabesque of phantasmagorical
make-believe.
Behold, oh my beloved
the vortex of colours
surrounding you
entwine a paradigm
of that starry night~
and as i look into its cosmic glow
I fall in love with you.
22 May 2022
A Briand Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
6th Place
Notes:
Like Rembrandt and Goya, Vincent van Gogh often used himself as a model; he produced over forty-three self-portraits, paintings or drawings in ten years. Like the old masters, he observed himself critically in a mirror. Painting oneself is not an innocuous act: it is a questioning which often leads to an identity crisis.
( Credits: Google Arts and Culture)
Stretching beyond infinity, into the realm of the impossible
space harbors the entirety of an ever-expanding universe
an empty ebony expanse, a lifeless, inky vacuum
an inexplicable yet omnipresent phenomenon
a scientific enigma, the stuff of miracles
ethereal, encompassing, supernatural
space defies our ability to define it
or to appreciate its complexity
a non-corporeal living being
or phantasmagorical force
its origins a conundrum
its expansion a puzzle
its vastness eternal
its secrets secure
yet it existed
before God
spoke a
word.
Lava thoughts stream from my internal computer.
Some days she rests with no gumption;
today a seething volcanic monstrosity.
Muse has kicked into overdrive; she will have her feast.
Over worked, I am drained like a marathon runner.
Quivering and shaking; muse belches dream schemes.
Too many to count the numbers; on and on she plunders.
Mind can’t stop the flashing phantasmagorical imagery.
Why does she deny my needs?
The brutal taskmaster blows her top.
Again and again I plead; she just will not cease.
Dreams rise and fall; I can only save one.
Oh how I long for sleep, when her rant is finally done.
October is a pageant of color,
that celebrates the bounty of Summer.
Yet, Jack Frost, Autumn's gentleman caller,
opts to dance to a different drummer:
welcoming Winter as the newcomer.
Fall's a phantasmagorical season:
boasting a color extravaganza.
And Autumn's changing leaves are the reason
poets tout Nature's golden bonanza
of beauty: as a poetic stanza.
Scarlet and cerise ignite overnight:
as fairies set green canopies afire.
And although most songbirds have taken flight,
Fall offers so much beauty to admire:
Autumn colors never cease to inspire.
The air gets chilly; each breath crisp and clean:
underfoot, dry leaves make a crackling sound.
Crimson and orange leaves, shred Summer's green
into confetti that gets blown around
by brisk breezes, and scattered on the ground.
ever faithfully on time for our midnight rendezvous
you'll find me at my window looking out at the sky
avidly gazing up while stars blink in their morse code
under the year-round whimsy spell of moonlight's magic
and to my muse the nightly escapade begins
somehow connecting as she grabs and whirls
the tail of passing comets to take me for a spin
phantasmagorical images and feelings swirling
through the expanse of my inner universe
at the speed of light till i'm ready to explode
with an impassioned desire to put art to paper
and so forever immortalize this lust for life that burns within
as every poet's mission to share with whoever will listen
Read on air by invitation ~ May 15, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted on May 19, 2022 for contest YOUR PASSION sponsored by REGINA McINTOSH - RANKED 6TH
Her angelic face projects a bright aura
framed by long curly locks of ebony hair.
And she has liquid blue eyes you could swim in,
with skin so soft that it is beyond compare.
The epitome of femininity,
suddenly, she is all that matters to me.
For she's that phantasmagorical girl
I've oft dreamt of but never thought that I'd see.
Her personality's openly friendly,
and it makes me want to meet her even more.
For she's vibrant and incredibly alive,
I've never seen a beauty like hers before.
She smiles at me, and my heart nearly explodes,
for fate may be giving me my only chance.
And in a trance, I approach on timid feet,
to meekly ask her if she would like to dance.
As we dance, I can't resist and steal a kiss
making me happier than I've ever been.
And before long, she agrees to marry me,
be the love of my heart, and reign as my queen.
(Quatrain)
1/2/2018
My friend tends to live in a fantasy,
whereas everything revolves around him.
And I never really know what's true,
'cause in his world, pigs can fly, and hippos swim.
He gilds truth with lies and hyperbole,
upon life's phantasmagorical trip.
And journeys beyond the impossible,
losing reality's tentative grip.
He's "the cup's half-full" type of optimist;
God imbued with an indelible smile.
And though he tends to embellish his deeds
I can trust him to go that extra mile.
He's tethered to his imagination:
thus, prone to bouts of exaggeration.
Humanity is transient and fleeting -- save
For what memories and dreams may linger....
Too much violence, again.
How flawless a wolf does feign.
Down in the humming cellar,
The guise of a gentle fella.
You have made the beast laugh,
Always expecting a puppy half,
Through centuries of fantasy,
With phantasmagorical empathy.
And the Moon -- what a joke --
I turn in anger and smoke,
It, mostly, soothes and calms,
Devoid of talismans and balms.
Begging for peace and salvation
In fleeting moments of meditation,
Between the madness of transformation,
I ponder my sorted, wolfen fixations.
Hickory dickory,
Beauteous Rosamond,
Sleeping so silently
One hundred years…
Come your awakening,
Phantasmagorical,
When a Prince Charming can
Conquer your fears.
~ Harley White
I have fallen in love with a winged dragon alebrijes,
Have to buy it of course, is it signed?
What artisian created this piece of bright gorgeousness?
I look for a signature.
This phantasmagorical creature has none.
No matter.
She is from Oaxaca, the ultimate home of the alebrijes.
Pedro Linares had a fever in the 1940’s.
His fever dreams turned into fantastical creatures.
Made first of papier-mache, painted in Zapotec patterns
Circles, dots and stripes.
Did he know he was starting something big
when he made up the word alebrijes?
Colorful folk art made more famous by
artisians like Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera and Arturo Cabellero
Alebrijes are hybrid creatures carved in wood, painted in
bright colors.
Representing animal totems or familiars,
they are part of the pop culture of Day-of-the-dead parades.
Horns representing earth, wings representing air,
fins representing water and dragons representing fire.
It makes sense I am completely drawn to the winged dragon.
I was trapped
and bemused
feeling sad
and confused
a subatomic particle
lost into a deep black hole
and suddenly
you stuck in your magic telescope
and I opened up
like a flower
I shot out like a periscope
a mystical kaleidoscope
like a solar flare
without a care
my heart exploded into a supernova
and then,
I woke up in your constellation
a phantasmagorical revelation
so ecstatic
and divine
orgasmic
and sublime
I'm staying here forever,
until the end of time.
Night dons a spectacular sequenced shawl,
sparkling with trillions of stars, like cosmic candles
twinkling within the blackness of space.
And a golden moon hangs high;
a gilded bobble mirrored on a placid lake,
where moonbeams dance to the sound of applauding waves.
Vampire shadows, clinging to shifting silhouettes
gorge on the remnants of colors bled from Day;
while liquid ebony inks every crag and crevice.
Darkness descends like a curtain;
creatures of the night frolicking within its folds.
While fizzling shooting stars unzip the seams of space;
martyrs to beauty, plunging to their deaths.
And as a scarlet sun slowly sinks,
crimson, encapsulates lovers entangled in the night.
And passion sets the air afire;
as electrifying sparks of euphoric bliss,
summon spontaneous fantasy wishes.
An emotional trance, out of phase with time,
invites innocence to dine at the table of love.
And intimate feelings are shared and explored;
afloat in sensual waters.
A phantasmagorical bonding of flesh and spirit
is forged by the heat of desire,
fueling two hearts, beating as one.
And as a blushing Mars rises to the occasion,
Venus peeks down with envious eyes.
IF ever I had a country : LVIII - LIX
LVIII
IF ever I had a fantasy country
And if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality
I'd certainly opt for a country not run by one who studied philosophy
For the simple reason you can blame any other kind of dope for sheer hypocrisy
For not having studied philosophy and pretending to be very democracy savvy
Especially when the victims* of the country's secret services can hit back at the ruling party
That is, if ever I were left to choose a non-hypocritical country existing in reality
And even if I never ever had no country (not) up to my fancy
Note : * It's a published fact that a French writer and literary anchor on French TV (whom I once met, in 1974, selling his self-published book in the streets of the Latin Quarter) never slept in the same bed for fourteen months for the late President François Mitterrand had ordered the secret services to snuff this son of an Admiral out. His " crime d'Etat " happened to be a manuscript he authored on the President's daughter whose mother was his mistress while in office. The " crime " however was expunged when the author in the presence of TV cameras burnt the manuscript at the portals of the Elysée Presidential Palace.
LIX
IF ever I had a phantasmagorical country
And if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality
I'd certainly not opt for a country where the S.S. and the Police drug gang-rape and press-gang the mother of your infant son with impugnity
Nor opt for a so-called champion human rights country which hinders your every step and plunges you into solipsistic ignominy
Keeps you embroiled in litigation instituted managed and obstructed by near-sighted authority
While it siphons and floods your tiny ground-floor apartment with the precious toilet refuse of fourteen storeys of family
That is, if ever I were left to choose a country existing in reality
And even if I never ever had no country to fancy
© T. Wignesan - Paris, August 17, 2018
A hoarfrost weave of glistening alabaster crystals,
forms a brittle web of tenuous tentacles
that crept across the frozen ground
and up the trunks of the naked trees;
encapsulating barren branches in an icy sheath,
attesting to Nature's immutable beauty.
Dawn, pencils in light and shadow
creating a surreal sketch bereft of color;
awaiting Autumn's phantasmagorical brush.
In the interlude between Dawn and sunrise,
a formidable six-point buck prances into view;
demurely projecting the illusion of a hallmark postcard.
But the sound of crunching leaves underfoot
breaks the spell, shattering the imposed silence:
as time unpauses the moment, and Nature carries on.