A howling rain that blotch upon my skin,
autumn rambler through that tangled leaf maze,
I am the deathly veined nightmare tomb,
whose dance macabre ghost ridden blight,
a morose bell toll clatter eardrum jinx,
blank ink bead choker voodoo last curtain,
light fusing blind host to nonexistence,
undertaker’s tool in morbid trade
Getting Older part three (wee)
Alright up twice or thrice a night for a wee tinkle
Glad no mad kinks like Dad of having a pee in sinks
Stage fright though at the sad sight which stinks
Not rad.. as to the touch your winkle well shrinks
To not too much.. the fad of a tad weeny crinkle
Crutch of a crotch with just a notch or bad blotch
You watch as your itsy bitsy teeny wrinkle does sprinkle
A pink blotch on her forehead
It was left by angels dear
Kisses from her benefactors
Insuring she’d arrive safely hear
Is that a birthmark? Many said
Kiss from angels on high, said Fred
He was her older brother
Shared a dad, but not a mother
Still. he knew his sister immediately
He was her caretaker and protector with expediency
Inspired by Christian Schaffer’s YouTube travel videos
Rolling fogs and crashing waves
Add to memories one saves
Kissy breeze upon your face
Rumbling vibes, no home base
Raindrops on the pane’s glass
Colored clouds moving mass
Mesh of moss imperfect blotch
Tallest trees eternal watch
Morning coffee, sunrise rays
Distant mountains in haze
Wide blue sky is van’s marquee
Things unspoken, set them free
Introspection, open eyes
Thoughts exposed mighty wise
World’s unspoiled rare scenes
Walk that beach in torn blue jeans
Ashen peaks in silent chants
Winter wind incessant rants
Lakes of green reflecting light
Forest creaking through the night
Swaying grass, the rustling sound
Fair maidens' heart unbound
Places shown, not betrayed
Road, alone, unafraid
Charming smile reflecting lens
At the end it all makes sense
Watch, imbibe, accept and jaunt
Wanderlust is what you want
April 6, 2024
Living in the sunless cold hutch of till death do us apart, sits a chipping soul.
Never had he thought she did be a blotch of many shades.
Spitting and pouring scorn on his dreams of a happy home.
“What? Are you even a man? Your mates are out there...”
Blotted blue and green
Flying ‘round sunflower’s pot
Looking place to blotch
UNCONSCIOUS ART
blot splotch
chance blotch
A jubilant smile had she.
Publicly sunny,
Affable her presence.
Pure her uncanny eyes were.
Flawless was her name among folks.
In murky light a honed skill
had she adorned.
A shell variegated her body
enhancing her crimson forsaken soul.
She would not stem it.
she would keep it as a proof of her
Corporality.
To mourn was not proper.
she had to be perfect
for them.
Suppressed her art must be.
No one was meant to know her blotch.
Torn mind as a book sits unfound once more.
Overcast sky blotch caring Sun's warmness,
diffuse confidences a dawn's full bliss,
consolidates a desolate soul's lore,
their brief days of an annular old rune,
the fading of yesteryears contemplates,
the life of a destitute heart pulsates,
the same as a wayward blizzard in June,
sensed separation dwarfs active favor,
downcast eyes eclipse the mood as fear grows,
lost souls dragged into mounds of drifting snows,
spoils the realm of an endless December,
masterpiece frozen framed pictures hell,
be of Dante's Inferno where Satan dwell.
The memories seem to gradually slip away,
His footprints seem to slowly erase,
My journey through life's maze,
It seems to have clouded my memories of him.
Indeed time could rewrite one’s story,
Indeed time could blotch one’s portrait,
Bringing in its constraint,
Wiping off treasured memories.
My night has pervaded my chamber,
My struggles have enclosed me,
I'm beaten vehemently by life's crashing sea,
Eroding his memories like a weathered rock.
I carry only a vague picture of him,
Oh! Elements of nature buoy me across this tempestuous sea,
His footprints are still at the shore,
I saw them through the night's window.
Oh! Father, you eased slowly into the night,
I'm left alone in this fight,
Anticipating heaven's light,
This day I call your words to remembrance.
Why do I create?
The simple answer involves
the complex mystery of
creation~ the more knowable answer
is, I am lonely...needing something,
someone outside of myself
to bring back in, to hold close for to cherish
and love.
I would not write a word,
dabble a blotch, were my hunger entirely satisfied
by the works of others; were all my questions
answered and my dreams already portrayed into infinity –
I create because I have a sense of loss, of being
incomplete – I create because
I am dissatisfied with the status quo.
I create not to feel a sheep-driven-reactionary,
and more a green in God's garden of unlimited potential,
salivating for moments of sensed eternal blossoming...
The novice writes a poem,
while the poet writes poetry. The painter only
paints, while the artist creates an image, that lives
immortal in the realms of observation. And I create
for all these reasons – and, most of all~ those
shared joys I have not found outside the process.
I do not like the skin I’m in -
It’s dotted, dry and wrinkled,
Like paper with a reject poem -
Once smooth, now sadly crinkled.
Each little tap becomes a bruise,
A purple blotch, attesting
To all the years I’ve spent on earth,
A dermal-type divesting.
Some freckles, not here yesterday,
Have multiplied and scattered.
They would have bothered me much more
When my appearance mattered.
What troubles me some others might
Find trite and almost risible.
I should let go, for at my age,
To others I’m invisible.
With her bright red eyes; yellowish tiny tail-tip,
Pale green wings; greenish yellow-glowing mantle strip;
This golden Oriole has great tales to tell,
Her enchanting feature has great magical spell...
Yellow-orange chest; gray head; silvery slate back,
Bold white pinion poles; pretty eye-strips brownish black;
Large tarsal blotch; scarce and endangered species yet,
If I afford to up-bring, she should be my pet...
Fruits and seeds she eats; sweet nectar and pollen too,
Whether eats flesh or simple herbs - her charm shines through;
Sign of wealth and acceptance; courage and life-skills,
Her advent on courtyards chases away all ills...
Weightless and light, her bewitchment, yet, is grandeur,
The cup-shaped nest she makes is magical wonder;
Her harmoniously mystic songs pull my heart,
Her feature, in itself, is finest of fine art...
11 March 2022
Magical Spell Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Charm the waves,
Entail algorithms of templates,
Subclass the seasonal stripes,
Smash this tasteless flame stitch.
A chevron turning into an imperial damask.
Intarsia the charming argyle in this rotunda.
Rub the blotch off the bull's eye,
Collage the camouflage in this calico assemblage.
Chintz in the heart, chequer in the mind,
Charming Patterns.
The sun slipped back his bag and yawned
A day for today was gone
And into the sea he took a plunge
Splashing the sky in colours
The stars arrived seconds later
They were scattered all across
They gossiped, talked and took a swirl
Sparkled in the speck of the giant blue wall
And slowly the blue seeped in its arms the grey
Until black spread like the roots of the sprouting weeds
Unstoppable, flying around setting a blotch,
Wherever it set it's crawly feet.
The stars worried, little foot soldiers
And trembled and trembled to twinkle brighter
And wherever they sparkled they tore the dark
In pieces, specks and sparks
Until she walked in around the haze of her cloud
A sweet pearly lustre trailed loud
She walked and embraced the dark
And wherever she touched the bright lurked
A round full face smiling bright
Like a mother cradling her child
A little pale at the edges but oh her beautiful eyes
To some she reminded the lover in dream
To the nocturnal world she is the sublime queen
And to her exhausted yellow brother, the caring twin.
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