Best Reckonings Poems
And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!
When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger
Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact
They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood
Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”
Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings
Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited
They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads
Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies
…
And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?
When will the flinty sheep
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began
Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands
©Drake J. Eszes
The evening is set out before me
on the threshold of night,
the hazy lights teeming
and glazed, webby-cold ----
bright with a white-haired curiosity;
What good honesty can bring,
observing reckonings and episodes
of spring stretching into the sky,
and many a mile on they who walk by,
Of faces rosy-red with frosty wiles;
wild eyes of winter,
(who stop for awhile)
They are gone, these frozen months,
the long cold sleep....
the chilled sheets,
heat with rebirth, melted snow neath
grins with spring;
glazed pines, tinkling water drains....
the sun soothes nearer its smile
The forests are roaring with song on the wind,
of spring,
And all things warm with renewal,
spring,
stretching into the sheet of the sky....
A grey frame house and backyard swing
call out to me
from somewhere buried deep in time -
a memory.
A river front and 60’s band
are beckoning -
symbols of beginnings of
my reckonings.
Ostensibly,
I cannot travel back in time,
or I would be
there dancing, not making rhyme.
Oh, can it be
the parks and wooded spots I knew
now withering -
will cease to be when I am through?
Except in dreams!
Were folks and my old haunts the same
revisited,
then on no stone would live my name.
"Fata Morgana"
feet hardly touch the ocean
when silent stars of no voice
transmit words to pay the ferryman
on the water no reflection
gently the sun waves smiling as if to say
feel that, the warmth of waking sleep
no fear of what remains hidden
it will unravel from inside that which is all too deep
walking towards you across the briny mist
from ancient stories forgotten
a halo of St Elmo’s Fire surrounds
it stands still for a short while before you
watching
you,
walking water with your bare feet
faith in dreams consistent in their constancy
that visit you when you are complete yet incomplete
holds out its hand to lead the way across
sharp burning rocks, now a desert, climbing mountains that are steep
a small life crumbles to powdered sand
more than 40 days silent gone astray
years the turning of untimed tides pretence
meets a haunting vision beckoning, new horizon, odd unclear
safe harbour left long ago,
lost in that ornery time, cursed by flying monkeys' bellows
of bloodletting and betrayal, stock still, standing amidst the shallows
somewhere along the way dark narcissus followed
what breaks over the bow
washes all stern fear away
sacred wings of albatross
ne’er to be sacrificed, no more night nor day
souls of ancient mariners
forever follow me, even when I stray
the rich baritone of bedtime stories
messages in code conveyed, I hear them still today
now swallows spooning spinnakers
running directly before wind and sea
the water turns to wine, much stranger the belief,
all manna of trust it feeds
bells tolling
no man’s an island entire of itself
in unusual reckonings
observing swimming hearts, that hear and see
the eyes that melt, this more curiously
in truth, the dream defends
messages eternal
life it never ends
tides move in and out
never alone when we begin
fata morgana
softly the moon ascends
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
VCB
Lux Vitae
5.5.10
"Under a splintered mast,
torn from ship and cast
near her hull,
a stumbling shepherd found
embedded in the ground,
a sea-gull
of lapis lazuli,
a scarab of the sea,
with wings spread—
curling its coral feet,
parting its beak to greet
men long dead."
("Talisman", Marianne Moore)
This system has caused me irreparable harm—
Yet still I speak your name in prayer;
I would have been anything you wished of me,
Soft clay beneath your careful feet.
I wandered once in erring youth,
In foolish shadows, small and blind;
Petty trespass against the world—
But not the darkness in their minds.
You gave me life—I gave it on
To one bright child of fragile grace;
She walks the earth because of love
That time and trial cannot erase.
Compassion.
This sorrow stretches long as years
Beyond the span that he himself dared tread,
Long as the ancient pilgrim host
Whom Moses through the desert led—
Toward a land he saw, yet never knew,
A promise burning overhead.
Grace.
As planets turn about the sun
With faithful, uncomplaining art,
So do you turn and look again
Upon the number 90-14869 and my heart—
Strange reckonings of guilt and blame,
Cold figures set apart.
Empathy not he the beast.
I did what youth in terror does,
When bruised by hands that were not kind,
Trying to cry without a voice,
To force the cruel world to mind
The brutality of a single man
Who should have sheltered humankind.
in Love.
Then is not now—yet children live
Because some souls refuse to sleep;
They guard the small, they tend the frail,
They sow where broken fields lie deep.
Without safe children, none grow whole,
And none return the lost to keep.
Change.
O good Woman, bright with light,
You who outshine the grievous day,
You lift the fallen into dawn
And show the trembling where to stay.
I am your servant in this hope—
Your friend, if I may say.
And if the world be hard and stern,
Still mercy moves in Magdalene—
A tenderness that walks through dark nights
And washes what has been.
Does it not shimmer to the shine, the steel blade
Of dead reckonings ultimate design, cold is
Its fine edged point, a slicing masterpiece,
Of revolutionary engineering, behold deaths
Chopping silver anvil, the guillotine!
Polished by rags dipped crimson blood,
Washed by virgin waters of the fallen innocent,
From the martyr to the beggar thief,
It mattered not, to this abomination of
Humanities creation.
It wished nothing more except to be fed,
The head stones of the living, reveling in their
Screams of pain, and savoring the victims liquid
River of bodily fluids of terrors anguish.
A flashing chopping block, held and fastened,
By two wooden beams, apparatuses executioner,
Welding a suspended sword of destiny, at a
Ropes pivot center of weights mass,
Of crime or injustice!
The hooded condemned kneel underneath this,
Metal toothed demonic demon, praying
Their deaths to be swift, begging God
For salvation's intervention, but the beast
Awaits hungrily, demanding his tributes prize,
A bloody sacrifice of flesh and bone!
It almost seems to be a living entity,
Waiting, anticipating the carnage that is
To come, as the celebrating crowds gather.
Death’s grim reaper, kicks over the bags
Of weighted sand, just then the biting
Giant hammer clamps down, the final cut is done,
And the head basket of doom, is full at last!
The kindred brethren of the now deceased,
Yell hurray at this gruesome grandiose display,
Of carnages dismemberment and bloody
Theatrics, applauding for more!
Does it not shimmer to the shine, the steel blade
Of dead reckonings ultimate design, cold is
Its fine edged point, a slicing masterpiece,
Of revolutionary engineering, behold deaths
Chopping silver anvil, the guillotine!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I’ve been adrift on the sea, a lost soul of ideal inspiration
Tossed asunder amongst realities harsh waves of the incomplete,
A disembarked being, caught at the mercy of a thundering riptide
Of indecision, floundering, drowning alone, with no life preserver
To cling upon!
Rolling waves crashing against my bare exposed mental flesh,
I’ve know the deeply threshing under currents of the starving mind,
Of the uninspired, the de-mused, without imaginations glory,
An orphaned child without thoughts infusion!
Once I disembarked on a sinking craft, a vessel without sail or wind,
Ideally wondering having no true course, or no dead reckonings landing
Point of reference!
A voiceless refuge unable to scream for help, to and fro so did
I just rock upon the waves of homeless, and helpless,
In this self- inflicted imprisonment so did this castaway dwell,
In this empty ocean, alone mariner aboard a sinking ship!
But than a far off light shown, it burned at my blind eyes,
With such brilliance did it so shine, as if by a magic I
Couldn’t understand or comprehended, my tiny boat
Find its way into a safe sheltering port, many open
Hands reached out to this lost soul and pulled me
Upwards towards inspirations dry land!
Voices spoke gently unto me in the whispering winds
Of imagination, your free here, you’ve come home
At last, soar, fly be at peace now drifter, you are welcome
Here amongst thy kindred!
Standing at the dock of acceptance, I turned and watched
My tiny ship torn apart by the hurling waves of change,
Then I realized that many others were still left on this
Ocean of aloneness, and how lucky I was to find my
Way home at last!
I’ve found my place in this big old world at last,
Here where I can express myself,
Amongst others whom have excepted me for myself,
On this island called the internet,
In a cyber-family, amongst my friends and kindred,
I’ve finally come home at last, in a place
Mixed with diversities beauty,
In this poetry soup of humanity!
Here I’ve tried my anchor, no more a wander,
Just a voyager remembering, looking upwards
At an inspirational sky and finally able to bath
In the guiding wake of my own imagination,
And sharing it with others of my own poetic
Experience, thank you for the welcoming,
I’m home at last!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
'Twas like imagery or perhaps deja'vu
air quotations or a hallucination,
naught tangible to the naked eye
but an echoing of whirlwinds,
mere beginning of an expansion
tucked aside noncommittal whispers
reverberating discorporate shadows
on dividers of processing graphics,
rough drafts' emphatic intimation
of intrusively summoned reckonings
referencing old featured impressions,
mid-escape concentrated faculties'
unfocused low-density frequencies,
betwixt susceptibility’s magnifiers
orbiting bout night-crawlers' psyche,
whilst darkly territorial distractions
evolve beyond unforeseen influences,
farthermost assertion's revisionary
assemblages divulging conceals,
structured within framework
unrelentingly penetrative,
drawn-out, long agone
an unreceptive peccadillo
We are the unbegotten
We are the unassigned
Redeemed from oblivion
Kept out of mind
We are the great rotation
Unfolding the sublime
An echo of obliteration
Returning with the tides
Unmarked by boundaries
Before the birth of lines
Inhabiting voided forms
Unrevealed by signs
Dissolving like a vision
Or a phantom of the blind
We are the soon forgotten
In the reckonings of time
Written by © Raven Drake
BY THE BAY
A beach vagabond am I,
Lost amongst the foam and spray,
Enchantments careless cast away,
Set drifting alone, a lunar moon child,
Of the free spirited, enlightened ones.
Dreamers, whom sought the seasonal warmth,
Beyond the reach of the winters chilling
Embrace.
Here my lullaby, the oceans tides braking,
Against the shores rocky harbor.
Imagination's thoughtless wanderer, making castles
Build of sand, than watching them being swallowed
Whole beneath the waves.
Peacefully, I do listen to the stilled silence,
Natures harmony in balance, a musical symphony,
Of sight and sound intensified, by beauty's
Overwhelming, raw exposure, beguiling the
Eyes of youthful promise, to inspirations
Poetic heart.
Hear the wind, how it whispers thy name,
Ever so softly, it echoes within the seashells
Hollow chambers, come rest beside thee.
Once more, so do I recline at eases pace,
Beside mine oldest friend the sea,
As the gentle tides rush onto the shore.
The heightened senses recalling yesteryear's
Wonderment, of spiritual liberation.
Behold I've returned unto thee,
This the restless voyager, home at last,
Tasting the salty air, feeling your welcoming
Breeze, brushing against my bare skin.
Never to roam again, I do solemnly promise,
For know sheltering harbor has appeased me,
Except thine.
The lamp light still shines, in the old weathered,
Window panes of home, so did it lead me back to thee.
As a lighthouse guiding a lost ship to a safe harbors,
Port of call, here I shall linger, until times ending,
And dead reckonings final journey begins.
To a farther distant shore beyond.
I'll thus step onto my holy father's sacred
Land, regretfully leaving thee behind,
For thou art my haven, my heaven,
My solos, by the bay.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Allow me, this day,
to become the catalyst
of my own awakenings…
For I hold within myself
the light of dawns reckonings
Bare floor’s creaking
with the splinters of the past
Some things never change
Some things never last
Allow me, this day,
to find enlightenment
within worded phrase…
For I hold within myself
knowledge in living sage
Bare floor stripping
layers of varnished truth
Refinishing with prayer
His Mercies are acute
Allow me, this day,
to become the catalyst
of rejoicing praise…
For His Words, hid not,
are my renewing gage
©Debra Squyres
Endings starting
Leaves are turning
Grass starts browning with
Furnaces burning.
Colder weather
As to focus,
Deeper feelings in
Shallow harvest.
Briskly, daunting
Haunting Spirits
Barren-halled reckonings as
Frost encroaches.
Verdure withered but
Perhaps a good Word;
forgotten pasts buried
In the stillness of the earth.
In the workshop of my waking hours,
I am the maker of my own day,
Crafting moments with a DIY attitude,
Twisting fate's threads with hands unbound.
At 6 AM, I pick up my tools,
Coffee grounds and ambition,
Mixing the elixir of caffeinated dreams,
Stirring in the alchemy of determination.
The clock ticks, a relentless metronome,
11:11 winks, an angelic muse,
As if the universe has a sense of humor,
A cosmic jest in numerical ruse.
"Make a wish," they say with a smirk,
As if dreams were granted in seconds,
But I'll forge my own destiny, thank you,
With sweat and grit, not ethereal reckonings.
No celestial arithmetic can guide these hands,
Turning the wrench of daily toil,
In the cacophony of self-made symphonies,
I dance with chaos, a rebel in the coil.
Lunchtime, a respite from the assembly line,
Sandwiches wrapped in brown paper,
I nibble on the crumbs of inspiration,
Savoring the taste of self-made capers.
The afternoon sun spills its golden ink,
I dip my pen into the daylight,
Scrawling plans on the parchment of possibility,
Mapping out a future, bold and bright.
5 PM, the whistle blows, a release,
Yet the DIY Day is far from done,
For in the studio of the evening,
I sculpt my leisure, a masterpiece begun.
Dinner is a feast of flavors and reflection,
A banquet of self-appreciation,
11:11 appears again, a cosmic wink,
Mocking the notion of divine intervention.
"Make a wish," it whispers with a smirk,
But I've outgrown such whimsical fancy,
For in the sweat of creation and the grind of will,
I find my muse, not in numbers but in the dance of circumstance.
So, here's to the makers of their own destiny,
The dreamers who wrested the real from fantasy,
In the DIY symphony of moments and minutes,
We find our purpose, our own sweet serendipity.
Paradigms Temporality
David J Walker
There is no question
That the evening
seemed to come
to an end
too soon
The temporality of
your days
The glow of
a full moon
On the rise
bright are the stars
beaconing’s
as if distant skies
were attainable reckonings
wearing nothing
but our own
flesh & bone
the paradigms new
Grew
From the old
Been through lots of places,
Seen alot of smiles on faces,
Interacted with people in dances,
But no one has healed my bruises,
They only give me fake promises.
Been searching for happiness,
Tried getting rid of my sadness,
By offering people forgiveness,
And believing life is just a process,
But I don't see any signs of success.
Been putting my life into writings,
Trying every kind of mind settings,
By being in dramas and stage actings,
And after YouTube did it's reckonings,
None of them increased my earnings.
© Kelmwa