Best Stencilled Poems
A sign, slanted rays in mid-morning hour.
Opening of tomb
with power.
Before it spoke, was hidden in tree’s womb -
scar of wood,
in tandem two parts.
Much like the sign on Calvary - I AM
stained on splintered wood…
twining hearts.
Man’s substitute - in the thicket a ram.
Matthew 28:6, He Has Risen -
a sign that believes.
A prison
of florals, eggs, butterflies and green leaves.
A feast to
the soul of my eyes.
The circular pattern - the ring of life.
Tulips royal hue.
Wings arise.
What all long for - sign speaks of afterlife.
Most poignant the sign above bleeding lamb;
mine is uplifting.
Pounding bam -
character etched in wood, in this gifting.
A debate
of stencilled brush-light -
daffodils - orange and yellow, curved leaves -
blue-green shades, a fete.
Future bright.
Open eyes to the sign - this one believes.
2/28/2023
Write an Ode
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
I embrace the nocturnal shade
coiled beneath tangerine lamplight
on the corner of the street
in case a certain little lady walks by.
I am ever watchful
in the telephone kiosk bathed in smells of damp
directories, of urine and pubescent vandalism;
silhouetted at the mouth of the
tubeway entrance;
sat in the rusting Lada across the road;
ever watchful,
gaze unwavering, unflinching.
I have perfected the dead-eye stare.
I am the vigilant sentinel.
I am watching you.
Wherever you choose to go I am
mere footsteps away,
dogging your trail.
At the salon I watch your pale tresses
cut and blown dry
through stencilled window glass.
That time I got a lock of your hair.
I like to collect souvenirs.
They bring us closer.
I know you know I am here,
I make certain of that;
dead certain.
I want you to know I am here,
always present
on the periphery of your vision;
live ghost haunting your existence.
The police have made empty threats,
charges of loitering with intent.
Intent to do what, though?
That is the question.
Intent to do what?
It is for me to know and you to discover.
This is the game, my sweet,
the game we play.
I feel your fear when you pick up the 'phone
and no one answers,
only the romance of dead silence;
I can smell your sweat leaking down the line,
taste your breath, sharp and spicy with fear,
burning down the line.
I sense your arousal,
the wetness of your loins, slick
with the lubricant of anticipation,
of desire,
of surrender.
But we do not speak, no,
not yet,
but soon.
Be patient, beloved, be patient as I am patient,
stoic and timeless and patient.
I hear you sobbing, crying down the line,
hear the crystal crash of vodka glass shattered
against the wall. Be patient, calm yourself,
for soon, very soon, we will meet...and
then my intent will become clear... as
clear as those shards of shattered crystal,
my sweet...
Behind the barricade of books and papers,
In the earthy rise of espresso grinding,
Misty jets and the steaming milk,
Lavish scents and aromas black and silk;
Until the senses swim in their filters,
Percolated with velveteen sound and vision,
The caffeine palpitates from sip to vein,
Condensation accrues on the stencilled pane.
Across the babble and bubble of prose
Quoted and blown like froth from the cups,
Tinkling silverware, china rapping,
Rose red nails upon cedar-wood, tapping.
When the smile breaks from a private jest,
Or something her cellphone lover said,
Like the sun coming out in a rain-forest mist
Lips of a goddess that beg to be kissed;
I feel like a trespasser, a casual voyeur,
Yet my gaze cannot leave her Brazillian eyes,
Americano heat flares in my heart suddenly,
And I wish, how I wish, she were smiling for me.
Yesterday I followed a trail
of coffee beans stencilled into
the contours of Anouk’s dress:
tapioca coloured lips serenaded
coral and mustard tweed, near
the surface of the Java Sea.
A boat was anchored:
a silhouette of Noah’s Ark swayed
to the tempo of her undulating tapestry.
The silver vessel glistened as my
reflection met its gaze; she bore
the weight of this loyal talisman
above the space where her
heart should have lived: she was
clothed in an aura of allegory.
A Forgery of such style
In a touch shall call,
again, to sigh and fall.
To the Ageless Jazz leap,
'round midnight
A Generique Portrait
Consumed out of Love
Never wasting their pretentious time,
Claim to reveal your elite taste
True colours with bile chased
Poloroid of Authentic appearance
Easy to Fake
They talk all TS, Magic lanterns and
Michaelangelo
By public confession in Adoration of Dr Kaligari, The Somnambulist and stencilled spirals
That early editing, Knocking cells on continuity or giving the audience creative control in
image's connections. Montage from Intellectual graphic matching of Codename Saboteurs,
Features fading to their namesake. Emotional etched through out Vertov's Working
Documentary (“The Kinetic eye”? Following Moscow's Day by the people , early stop
motion as he explored Moving Image , Back when Trains sped at the audience .
Between these lines Hopefully a syllable address
of modest articulation.
For the Outsider , Crafting World by his Blend of Diction..
{August is Woman’s Month in South Africa. August 9th is Woman’s Day. August 8th is an opening of the Lion’s Portal to Cosmic Strength. This poem is for all the Lion Hearted women who have crossed my path on all timelines across all dimensions ! }
I SOUTH AFRICA WOMAN AM I
I stand before you on rolling hills
Warts, wrinkles, crevices, oceans
Deserts, floods, strikes, loud laughs
In suffering and sub-atomic joy
Failures and victories
Stencilled on my skin
Wringing luminous blood
from my heaving soils
I stand before you glorious in
Guilt and innocence
falling apart and rebirthing
Peacock feathers on my crown
Lion claws at my ankles
Passionate with Africa’s ebony longings
Sunflower seeds dissolving in the
molten love of my land
I, South Africa, Woman of raw intention
Ever-evolving, all encompassing
Heart of enigmatic glimpses !
Cape Point to Onderstepoort to Limpopo
Karoo, Table Mountain, Magaliesberg flash
scattering pollened proteas
along my footprints
Drawing down from my own bright Sun
forgiveness as a woman’s mercurial power
let loose like marula leaves to swim with
silver trout in muddy Orange River
I embrace those who raped me
Taste their cringing hyenaed violence
as their shivering delusions touch mine
Daisy petals softly
Blowing in the wind
Away, away …
My bones grow strong, my fibres stretch
Cabbage leaves open
when I play with power
See its pitfalls and translucent pearls
Heartbeat of the South !
Moulting … Exposing !
Your tortured history
From shack to pine forest
As the Wheel pirouettes
Its feminine artery
Steadfast I stand, no stumble…
Moving from crawl to toddle
Gawky teen to Gaia-Goddess
Nurturing Mother drum-beating
Ambrosial ova
Implanting a deeper, different Way
Where Rose and Thorn
garlands itself in
Ecstatic Oneness
©ghairodanielspoetry2020
Cruelty danced 'cross his stencilled mustache
Sparks of Evil flashed from his roving eye
A wicked Sneer curled 'round his too-thin lips
His fingers like claws bespoke a master spy
Trench-coat pulled tight 'gainst the pounding rain
Stealthy his gait down the dark narrow lane
Alas! Two bullets lodged in his fiendish heart
Real life's not Hollywood, Mr. Humphrey Bogart
Moon's midriff chequered with light blue letterboxes and legos
Carbon-dating the museums of our miniature hands riding the nightingale jukeboxes,
Contoured in concertos of glacier nightgowns and batmobiles...
A topcoat of my father's snickerdoodle smiles sowed and watered beneath the morning's stale smile
With a pretty loud "HEY KIDS ! Time for breakfast ! WAKE UP !", with mumbles meandering with magpies in and out.
He laces lifetimes out of the first the letter of his name, in macrames of my mother's myrrh murmurs,
Secretly setting up the kitchen table, for the upcoming date night to be stencilled forehead to forehead.
He laces lifetimes from roasting the ristretto beans in an open fire,
From sketching the summer sunbursts and the sunglasses in permafrost pitter patters,
From crocheting dad jokes in matchbox-built bus rides emptying the crimson clouds of January.
Plucking promenades outlined in scarlet raindrops playing leapfrog under saccharine sunbeams,
Watching over me as I give climbing the bonsai trees higher than the neighborhood kids a first try.
Untwining anadems of one semicolon, instead of drawing a line of full stops stomping at the soles of our shoes,
Remodelling the lifeless bits of "Life On Mars".
I guess he would love to know what life on Mars would taste like...
He would kill to be in those batmobile treks and those glacier concertos wearing nightgowns,
And most definitely he would give defying gravity another try beneath those bonsai trees alongside with me.
I would kill to look almost like him, to sound like him and to be like him.
I would kill to try saying his favorite catchphrase over and over again "HEY KIDS ! Time for breakfast ! WAKE UP !"
I would kill to try his beret on, look at the skies and wonder "Hey there Dad would you stay forever young ?"
the topped her desire with a cherry on the cake
icing sugar crux of the biscuit cusp of pure delight
candles had outgrown the sweet surface of pastry
but she cherished her life just the same evermore
tasted age and radiant light with no shadow of doubt
the older she got she esteemed pleasure and freedom
revered memories and sheltered her many vagaries
as mere kaleidoscopic reflections and mosaic change
tapestry and canvas had altered but not the tenderness
with which she dreamt fantasized and painted the path
she felt at ease with the easel mixed pastels on pallet
tasted whatever tickled her fancy narrated her story
smacked her lips and decoupaged poetry in images
adorned colours patterns and texture with meaning
beyond words and calligraphy stencilled on life
one might wonder what gave her unwavering strength
to find inner voice and dialogue to express emotions
to blend them with reason and the magic of her mind
why was she so blessed and cosseted despite her fears
a glance into her lover’s eyes responded unquestioned
31st March 2021
Writing Prompt - Cherish - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France