Best Somersaulting Poems
written on time’s page
with finite syllables of dust
he spelled my heritage
from earth to sky
along an umbilical line of faith
we fluttered from the lips of fingers
fully form for purpose
written on an invisible calculus
that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa mind
I have an argument
against the beginning begotten from a bang
before atom or element
I have an argument against force and natural laws
at work without mass or embodiment
for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
I have an argument
that the singularity could not become more than fragment
of energy again if a single atom explode
its forces flocking away from fusion
for energy fission to explode
a theory
flimsy as spiders web
dethroning my majesty gulped
in primeval slime unlinked history from love
minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering
in vain
the whip cracks louder than pain -
and on our black blistered backs … crumbling
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain
they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
for all our labors, lost, and grievance
what bang can buck the strain
and bring us broken souls to glory again?
our
time
cashed out
way before
the meter expired
sending our dreams somersaulting
helter skelter to the whims of what never was planned
leaving fairy tales breathless, our favorite song, weeping still, in the landfill of love
The dank petrichor of grainy night,
meters stand like gravestones,
the obsidian avenue slick as a sapphire,
windowed granite rising in sharp cut shadows,
wind gusting, tumbleweed clouds somersaulting
in a moonless ghost town.
I jingle keys with atonal sky
and listen to my footsteps on concrete
ticking like a clock.
There are places to be.
I hasten my step as rain drops resume,
one by one mounting into a riotous crowd.
Umbrella-less, I am soon sopping,
hair a wet carpet, suit a gray saturated tarp,
the briefcase and tote onyx boulders.
My car is still a block away,
but eventually I reach it
like a leaf washing down stream.
The tote slips off my shoulder
as I stoop to retrieve fallen keys
lying in a shallow puddle like a shattered talisman.
Suddenly I begin laughing,
dropping everything in the street,
my face skyward, arms splayed like a crucifix.
Now there is no tomorrow,
only the farce of my predicament,
standing like a drowned coyote howling
at the moon as though it would be there forever.
One day, not long ago, I was careening
like a kite on the winds of happiness
twirling through spaces of days that shone through all dark clouds.
Muddy puddles were beneath me, but they were far beneath.
My Sunshiny days evaporated the puddles,
yet always mud remains,
and from the mud a shadow form took shape.
It never seems to fail. . .
I’ll have almost reached the summit of my bliss,
a loopy kite somersaulting through blue sky
when by and by. .. the shadow form I’ve managed to pretend
I do not see has risen from the mud, awaiting me.
Bad luck, like a thunder clap, attacked my happy sky.
Joy’s buoyancy lost its grip on me. I slipped
plunging to the frigid ground -
again to be in disappointment’s shadow.
Written 10/6/2015 By Andrea Dietrich
For the Dancing with Description Poetry Contest of Casarah Nance
Zany and free spirited, Mr. Bungo is a one man show
Yodeling any song you like, doing the "old soft shoe"
Xenial to one and all, he can always charm the crowd
Wild and crazy is he, in a world of his own fantasy
Verily, a man of many talents, with his skits and tricks
Under a bright red canopy, he performs amazing feats
Tickling our fancy with imaginative tales of wonder
Somersaulting through hoops, landing on heaps of feathers
Rides around the ring on a wild, high strung ostrich
Quickly, Mr. Bungo jumps up onto tall stilts and
Parades through the crowd, while playing a kazoo
Odd and quirky, his clothes are colorful, bright and loud
No telling what Mr. Bungo might say or do next, he can
Mimic voices, impersonating a host of sounds and noises
Laughing, he loves to hear the audience roar and cheer
Kind, he tries to hide it, but has a soft spot for little kids
Just watch his face beam as he gives them animal balloons
I can spot tears forming behind his sad, blue eyes
He has a soft heart, but doesn't want to show it, so he
Grabs his tall, silly hat, and springs back into action
Flinging himself into a rocket contraption, we watch
Eager to see what Mr. Bungo will do next, now sparks blast
Daring and brave, he rockets up into the air so high
Careful, Mr. Bungo, we don't want you to crash and die!
Barely, he escapes a tragic collision, he finally lands
And then Mr. Bungo bows, leaps up and does a hand stand.
The old man gazed at the sun about to set
And its molten core soon to dissolve in the sea
Scratching his head with tremulous hands
And running his fingers on the stubble of his unshaven face
He held once more tight to his wheel chair
Casually he had a glance at his hands
Those dry, weak and shriveled hands
Gone wrinkled with passing years!
His hands once so busy are now limp
His days once brisk are now long and dull
He noticed the discolored patches on his skin
Under them the lattice of tortuous veins on the dorsum
They run down to join with the bigger ones
Like small rivulets flowing towards larger rivers
He remembered how the streams from summits
So vigorously come down with a gush
Also the noisy cataracts somersaulting down,
Leaving reverberating echoes all around
But they produce only a soft musical sound
As they join with the rivers and pass through plains
And finally end in a kind of hushed stillness
Just before merging with the sea!
The old man philosophized;
Life too is like a river:
Fierce and ferocious when one is young
Gentler and sedate after middle age
And slow and sloppy in old age
With this calm acceptance of the need to de-accelerate
Wrapping himself in the shawl against the growing cold
He turned away from the window.
Pushing his wheel chair,
He moved forward,
Knowing no haste…..
Towards his bed for another night’s tired sleep!
Is it a reverie or a true slice of life?
Have I landed in Arcadia or an earthly paradise?
All seems so magical, eyes refusing to believe.
Am I dreaming or do I simply fantasize?
I see everything clothed in glistening sheen.
Around me, all I see is beauty and grandeur.
Heaven seems to have come down to earth.
The sky and the Earth, draped in great splendour.
Covered in a cloak of sparkling dewdrops,
The verdant leaves seem studded with emerald gems.
Glittering in warm sunshine, they look so gorgeous,
Amid them, flowers dance on delicate stems.
Bees fly humming in subdued tone,
Teasing even the weeds that wear a flower.
The bunnies feeling the breath of May,
Nibble at tender grass, so eager it to devour.
All about me is liquid silver’s dazzling glow,
With eddy swirls and falling beams.
Above me is the vast panorama of the sky,
With chiffon clouds straying far into the seams.
The boughs of trees droop with blossom’s weight
Leaves tremble in the might of passing gales.
Tickling rills and somersaulting cataracts
Give a heavenly dimension to half lit vales.
The meadows are dotted with violets and bluebells.
Also, clusters of flowers that never seem to fade.
Lovely birds are heard singing from every bush and tree.
Golden sunbeams play, filtering through the shade.
No doubt, this place is closer to Coleridge’s Xanadu
Far off from world’s sick hurry, this seems a heavenly sphere.
Anyone who lands in this ‘Elysian Field' will loudly exclaim,
‘If there is a Paradise on Earth. it’s here, it’s here’!
The dew indiscriminately
wept for all things living and dead
on this early autumn morning.
Its cold droplets caressed the leaves
while lingering sap-starved leaf stems
clung precariously above
and each dying leaf shed teardrops
for and onto their fallen kind.
One by one they released their hold
falling silently, gracefully
in their final unique fashion:
Some swayed. Others pirouetted;
and many more, somersaulting
into their final resting place.
Sunbeams from an October star
spilt rippling puddles of warm light
on their multicolored remains
amid the vibrant wildflowers.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Albert Camus
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
Mushrooms
and
meadows
Sunshine
and
shadows
Gentle
ripples on
the calm
river
Foaming
rapids in
white
water
The jungle
echoes in
the semi-
darkness
while
daylight
creepy
crawlies
clear the
mess.
Peasants
seen
toiling and
pheasants
go
scratching
as I spy a cricket kinda'
somersaulting
The cactus in
imagination, the
desert's prickly
femmefatale
Elsewhere a lone fallen
leaf
floats in the canal
Prairie dogs go popping
while hares go hopping
But in town, ladies go
shopping
Swans have formed a V-
line
The flora is ooh yes
divine
and bees they form a
bee-line!
Seista seizes birdlovers
too
They miss out on the
hoopoe's
song
for the hoopoe it does
not sing
on cue
since a bird may sing
anytime
to woo
Gosh what a contrasted
medley became of the
scenery
Town and jungle, the
eve's
murk or dawn's greenery.
Ah wherever you go
nature's
so panoramic
Painters paint pictures
but God
actually created what's
picturesque!
Two hundred mile an hour they say
a Fireblade screams along its way
but when alas, the rider’s Ray
the Fireblade went a different way.
It sped down Chester bypass quick
for Raymond gave it quite some stick
but at a hundred, fifty plus
just one mistake will make you cuss.
So when he braked to miss a bend
the bike no longer man’s best friend,
deciding it was time to fly
took bike and rider to the sky.
But birds, not men, are born with wings
our spines can crack in high speed spins
while somersaulting through the air
his back was broke beyond repair.
Now Ray must face his life anew
not walking now like me or you
but finding ways to keep his flair
whilst tethered to a bloody chair!
Ivor G Davies
"The Stages of Madness"
Blue bleeds
into each day
cloudy I wait
for some sign
from You
a ghost waving
who
could blame me
an Ocean inside
I am
Cumulonimbus
bursting
the clouds
gather the tears
in their reigning
signs
are forever
morphing, rearranging
the meaningful
somersaulting
backwards, exchanging
messages, forever
changing, and changing, yet
clearly understood
soul swimming
lux vitae
in the
never never
ending
stages of madness
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Let There Be …” / Max Cooper
https://youtu.be/TVviQFKLMoU
“There was a star
riding through clouds one night,
and I said to the star,
'Consume me.'”
(Virginia Woolf, "The Waves")
Out on the wastes of the Never Never -
That's where the dead men lie!
There where the heat-waves dance forever -
That's where the dead men lie!
(Barcroft Boakes, "Where the Deadmen Lie")
"“A cloud does not know why
it moves in just such a direction
and at such a speed,
it feels an impulsion...
this is the place to go now.
But the sky knows the reason
and the patterns behind all clouds,
and you will know, too,
when you lift yourself high enough
to see beyond horizons.”
Richard Bach
‘Illusions: The Adventures Of A Reluctant Messiah’.
never never/the Never-Never
The unpopulated desert country of the interior of Australia; the remote outback.
"Mid 19th century so named from the notion that one might never return from such remote country."
When words quiet my mind and awaken
my spirit, I feel the seasons of life
harmonize. But tedious thoughts and busy
days return too fast, so I pocket the retrievable
words, the simple notes of poetic music; my unsung
lyrics and the rhythms make sense of chaos.
I write in an explosion of feverish passion;
I attempt to grip the hands of time. Words come
out to dance in fiery night. I feel more alive,
I feel in control of what shatters my solace,
all that cracks my narrow path - the internal thunder
from my own crashing cymbals. Regimented steps
will never heal my wounds, my woes, so I write.
Wishes made on lashes, copper pennies, or remains
of half-lit candles may never come true, so I pray
for my peace. A song escapes to heal a broken
heart and pounding head, a song more hypnotic
than a whirring wind of carefree souls in a weightless
flight. I want to rise, enraptured within a bold sky
of somersaulting clouds. In my eyes, sleepy horizons
rest upon earth’s warm surface. Heaven gives birth
to miracles and this day blushes in sunlight upon
rosy cheeks. It seems my poem, with a life of its own,
needs to rock gently, breathe in, maybe pass the time
in meaningful contemplation. Only then will it climb,
dangle above me, cling to my memory and glide on
(separate from me) full, bare, uninhibited in a new,
white-cotton sky. Intangible impressions shrink
to fit on a tangible page until words are free.
Then and only then does my poem fly over
a weary day's setting sun and a cooling horizon.
Somersaulting down.
squirrel barely missed branch
back up, try again
On the woolly folds of sleep, I sailed to a place
Where thoughts and fancy made an alliance
A place that never existed anywhere on the Earth
And never seen or glimpsed by any human eyes
Before me, I could see in glistening sheen
A rare beauty and a rare grandeur
That heaven seemed to have come down to earth
And the sky and the Earth draped in great splendor
All about me was liquid silver’s dazzling glow
With eddy swirls and falling beams
Above me was the vast panorama of the sky
With chiffon clouds straying far into the seams
Soon I found myself in the cool seclusion of trees
With several rows of flowers bordering the fringe
It looked the angels’ most frequented haunt
From where they gathered blooms of varied tinge
The boughs of trees drooped with blossom’s weight
Leaves trembled in the might of passing gales
Tickling rills and somersaulting cataracts
Gave a heavenly dimension to half lit vales
The meadows were dotted with violets and bluebells
Also clusters of flowers that never seemed to fade
Sweet birds were heard singing on every bush and tree
Below, golden sunbeams played, filtering through the shade
In full mirth I coursed through the planes
Wherever I looked, I found all so fair to view
Gorgeous visions flashed and dimmed
And everything in a magical spell cast in heavenly hue
Though freed from slumber’s entangling mesh
I refused to open my eyes to detain my dream
How I wished I could still be under the magical spell
Of that celestial plane, my fancy’s chimeric realm!
Placed Sixth
March.12.2022
Magical Spell Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Robert James Liguori