If I was a poem
Would you red read me
Would I be brown formed
in your mind of mahogany
Would I be about peace
Would you read me often
Your voice free green softened
Or cold as old coffin
Like ice black lung coughing
Words within breast milk tossing
Would you feed me dreams
Calm cranberry blue black screams
That I may achieve esteem
Lavender life story fuchsia fantasy
At midnight, a silent ocean of ebony rises,
a black lung stretching over my fragile ribs,
and the bed becomes a cold altar where the body rehearses its disappearance,
a sanctuary of shadows dancing on the edges of unknown dreams.
The footsteps vanish, leaving room only for insects quietly gnawing the lampshade,
small mouths reminding me how delicately the light fades,
and how the story unravels in the darkness that flows gently,
fragments of time and memories falling like the leaves of an eternal autumn.
But in this abyss of silence, a memory shines defiantly,
a spark defying the deep silence of the night,
wishing to preserve the light even when darkness sings its final note,
and hidden voices whisper of the rebirth waiting on the horizon.
I rise from my stone altar, seeking to rewrite the lost words,
in a world awakening with each sunrise,
a universe where even shadows embrace their beauty,
an eternal journey toward the light, beyond the boundaries of night.
Nimble fingers playing along
This black lung rending mining song
It touches your soul and lingers
Playing along nimble fingers
Heartache breaking common miner
Could ne'er be sung any finer
A strong tune that's overtaking
Common miner, heartache breaking
Match the tempo of mountain man
As long and as fast as you can
Guitar with blues, a great combo
Of mountain man, match the tempo
This tune that flows from within him
Will never let the lights go dim
Tap tap your feet and match the throes
From within him, this tune that flows
16th May 2023
(about "Black Lung Heartache" by Joe Bonamassa)
Contest: Joe Bonamassa Inspiration 4
Sponsor: Robert James Liguori
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
Background of the word: This 45-letter word was coined in 1935, by
the president of the National Puzzlers' League of the United States, Everett E. Smith, in a presentation about the ever-growing length of medical terms.
He coined it to show how ridiculously long medical terms had gained acceptance.
It was created by stringing together a series of Latin stems that,
taken together, could conceivably describe an inflammatory lung disease caused by the inhalation of fine silica dust, a real disease already known popularly as black lung and technically called pneumoconiosis or silicosis.
Source:: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Untitled
Artificial long word said
to mean a lung disease caused
by inhaling very fine
ash, sand and quartz dust.
~x~
I Pray
I harvest black gold
And buried sunshine
In an underground tunnel
With hammers , picks and shovels
I ride a rail cart to get around
I wear a hard , black hat
And carry a flashlight
I’m coated in powdery charr
Whose substance is used to
make fuel and electricity
I crawl on all fours
Lost one too many fellow to this work
Digging too deep or too wide can lead to a roof collapse and wipe us all out
Some were buried alive in this mine
Others suffer and die outside to
black lung:
Coal and black dust
Slowly clogging the lung
Causing suffocation
Thick air and oxygen deficiency
Causes suffocation , too
Some coal mines have ventilation
To control and minimize the mixing of methane gas , coal dust and outside air
To prevent explosions
Ours doesn’t
We’re always on the lookout
Just wanna get in and get out
My family prays everyday I head out
And I do, too
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
06/09/19
The mining villages of Wales
are steeped in history and tales
of sons and fathers, duty-bound
who earned a pittance underground.
For generations miners toiled
with picks and shovels, faces soiled.
Their throats parched dry and fingers raw,
black gold the aim, etched scars the score.
And mountains whisper tales of men
who failed to re-emerge again.
Or nevermore could breathe with ease;
Sad victims of black lung disease.
In valleys shaped by pride and grit
within the black and hostile pit,
black powder prowled and took its prey
but brotherhood did not give way.
11/11/18
'Black powder poetry contest' : Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Your Choice (3), sponsored by Brian Strand
Spring hasn't sprung: No bees have stung;
No painter's fallen off a ladder's rung.
No miner's contracted black lung.
Spring hasn't sprung: No batter has swung
At a strike three pitch that no hurler has flung
In a ballpark where Opening Day Game banners
have yet to be hung.
Spring hasn't sprung: No dry parched tongue
Has yet been clinged or been clung
To lips burnt by the rays of the sun.
Spring hasn't sprung: No song has been sung
Off-tune and off-key in an obscure mother tongue
By a lone crooner bereft of a love unstrung.
Yes: It's ok that Spring hasn't sprung:
--If certain particular news is not brung.
March 30, 2018
Contest entry in "Spring Fling Zing Thing King (or Queen)"
Sponsor - Michael Vacek
Once, I was trapped behind a dump truck.
It moved like a slug with black lung.
Belched an awful noise.
Tossing gravel like a widower tosses tears...
Every time a piece struck my grill.
I'd wince and duck like a stray dog cowering.
Before a steel toed world.
I said a little pray for my 10-year-old car.
It was a long road but it was finally over.
The belching ceased.
The devil truck going one way I the other.
A pretty sunset was underway...
The next morning, I checked for damage.
A few chips and some small scrapes.
I slowly straightened up.
The moment felt quite blessed.
and I smiled.
All of the Gnomes from around the globe
Just sneezed their very last sneeze
They've had enough of this allergy stuff
And from the garden they're taking their leave
They packed up their bags, donned their bonnet's and caps
Left in the cover of night
Said goodbye to the trees along with the birds and the bees
And headed out for the big city life
No one had a clue from which wind the Gnomes blew
It was Wa-La they were suddenly there
From Bankers to Lawyers to Tele-marketer callers
They infiltrated every career
Soon they were drinking like fountains as the bills started mounting
With the pressures of the ride to the top
Pills became an everyday need to stay awake and fall asleep
Not sure when this madness will stop
On top of it all they started to cough from the smog
And wondered which one was the worst
The garden allergies or this black lung disease
Either way the Gnomes felt mankind's curse
So they turned in their suits and their ill gotten loot
And took a trip back to the suberbs
Now in the garden they smile cause they know all the while
Yes...it could be a lot worse
Little to show for a hard days work
Maybe black lung, inhaling all that dust
Flip a coin, go right home or stop for a beer
Heads came up, In God We Trust.
Kids playing baseball in the street
Need to put a kitchen window in
Kids didn’t mean it mom, don’t get mad
They were just having fun, ain’t no big sin.
It’s just a little cut, no big deal
Timber came down inside the mine today
No bandage now, the air will help it heal
Gotta go back down tomorrow anyway
I get scared when I hear those timbers crack
Sometimes my blood runs cold as ice
Look above and hope I make it back
Then look down and keep an eye on the mice
Out of sugar, we’ll have to make do
I’ll pick some up when I get paid
Got a nickel raise coming next month
Two bucks a week, we’ll have it made
Yes I still hurt some but it’s time for church
Make some coffee while I get dressed
Sure glad we never had hard times
Living in this country, we’ve been so blessed.
Different perception of life in America
from a different type of immigrant.
Distain, dripping now, from lying forked tongue
Transcending eyes upon shattered back door
Your poisonous breath has filled your black lung
My skin, silky beneath rough hands, has tore
I beg, freedom from bleak endless suffering
How your hands fit perfectly ‘round my neck
My mere flesh no longer is buffering
Your dark, hysterical, heated mad trek
My soul never was yours for the taking
A thought that has never crossed your small mind
I soon shall be dead, my heart now aching
Exposed, now I see that true love was blind
In my passion I had learned to forgive
In my folly he took my choice to live