Music hangs fine lyrical paint,
paint that will never be unseen.
Unseen after it fills your heart,
heart exploding in fast music.
Music catapults a mood swing,
swing until you can’t anymore.
Anymore cannot sway a beat,
beat delivered by loud music.
The bastioned confidence of quarried pride
Conceived no ingress save by iron decree;
Yet vesper-dew, where noiseless graces bide,
Tutored the adamant to clemency,
Till lichened liturgies, by increments unseen,
Unthroned the obdurate from its sovereign mien.
The littoral catechised the granite's bone,
Not with assault, but sacramental wear;
Each undeciphered ripple, one by one,
Absolved the precipice of all its air,
As though the meekest ordinance of tide
Could loose what catapults had never tried.
Thereafter—vision trespassed into sense:
A child, ungarlanded by name or throne,
Inclined his silence with such innocence
That altitudes remembered they were sown;
The mountain, recollecting elder birth,
Relinquished all pre-eminence to earth.
Then every fortress, founded upon weight,
Began to expatriate its ancient claim;
The stars themselves postponed their sovereign state,
As though eternity had altered name;
And what no conflagration could dissever,
One feather of the Infinite undid for ever.
The moon gazes with romantic pleasure
Upon a stimulating obsidian hue.
Whilst burning, a shooting star catapults
Through a boundless sky.
It's beautiful, picturesque,
Softly glowing against darkness.
It spins gracefully in luminous,
Resonant movement of life's dust.
Lost to an ebbing wave of silent cries,
Left breathless like a fluttering glint of pearls.
Savoring budding moments like there's no tomorrow;
Birds' hymns lull mine into weightless sleep.
As silence slowly drifts away
In a gentle cascade of release.
Like a raging river barreling toward an arid basin,
sediment collects inside a hardening heart.
Weighing heavy, eyelids flutter over drowning maculas;
all that can be seen are murky riptides.
Vision cuts out.
Frantically flaring arms desperately try to skim the surface,
dragged deeper into an unknown chasm.
Sub-zero temperatures shroud panicking flesh.
Prying eyes open, undiluted pitch darkness surrounds.
Gasping for oxygen, lungs inflame.
Excruciating pain catapults through weakening legs.
Safety is nowhere to be found.
Reaching into an intolerably tight pocket,
I feel for your disintegrating picture.
My savior became my impending doom.
Only evanescent memories remain
at the bottom of this watery grave.
Pulp wrung out of sunset squeeze
Chinese dragon clouds
make mandarin marquees
Purple curtain shrouds
Folks without homes nobody sees
Electrified skies spark dust to flare
inside a vacant apartment
Twilight society’s fabric tears
Cringe crimson impairment
Wealth shields from irradiated glare
Wishing star stuck in limbo, catapults
daydream sun, distant flung
Pigeon sprauchle sudden vanish jolts
Mortified moon, hopes hung
Crusted blankets magic carpet vaults
8th November 2024
Written for Contest:
Jolted by Twilight
Sponsor: Di11y Da11y
From cult leader wafts a weird smell
What adult can conjure a spell
With words from occult
Which bring the result
That catapults Trump back to hell?
Every day is a new adventure -
A new iota, a new gnosis -
Search not by the easy standard
But see through the eyes of genesis.
The more I learn, the more I love
What man before me has done.
It catapults my soul aloft;
I yearn for that higher plane.
Push back those old perimeters;
Notch in my brain a new wrinkle.
I forge pathways never traversed
And find my world bigger still.
A long stare at one is plain insult:
I’ve never done that to an adult,
Even one in his dying Renault,
Badly harassing him with some fault,
Wanting to end up in their own vault
Or owner dispatch to his own vault…
But should one adult spare insults,
Who has been offering open assaults
And could on a youth use catapults
With all their devastating results?
Indeed, respect is reciprocal:
On this never stop being the vocal,
Your stand points incisively focal,
Whether in town or a place local…
This for the consumption of the child
Beginning to sprout wings a bit wild…
Smiling faces all around. Back-pats and words of appreciation come my way. It feels so good to be acknowledged and not taken for granted. The positivity and feel-good factor does wonders to our well-being. To live for my own self, and not to satisfy any one else's needs - that's what gives peace to my soul. Such independence gives the impetus to better myself, which further catapults me to realise my purpose in life and slowly endeavour to fulfill that. It is wonderful to be surrounded by loving family and friends, who do not judge you for what you do and rather stand by you in times of need.
I wish this dream lasts...
Wish I didn't have to wake up
and see my real life...
12.02.2023
Submitted for ;It Means A Lot To Me Poetry Contest'
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Strong waves cycle round and round
Soft waves circle mound and mound.
Azure breeze catapults waves
Sunlight falls, excites lightwaves.
Nights may lay all hopes to rest
But mornings shall grow up grace at its best.
Meanwhile, no one see to the fright of midnight
And vow not to sleep for its feeble fright.
Working may earn your survival;
Know this, strategy catapults life's revival.
Future's stillness may bury your thought,
Just remember to keep pushing for all you had fought.
We live here
To keep away tears...
If you are thinking of future in MAY,
Know this, your today owns favor to trade right your way.
She knelt on the floor
moving fingers
over the paper grid
speaking.
Invisible catapults
more crystals fell
running, shimmering
dissolving
chains melting
streaming away,
shining in the sunlight
like dew running down
a spider’s web
til blown away gently
a freshness prevails
replacing the broken strands
a sense of wholeness.
And I look at her
still
intent apon her magic
And I cannot say what
she has done
neither is there any need
to speak
Words are inadequate
Silent wonder, calming, astonishing,
freeing
She looks up
to see what has happened
And where to go next
SOUL TO SOUL
(Written for Mother Sandy Stone, whom I met in 1992.)
SOUL TO SOUL ***
The early morning call.
A sand dollar skitters in before its rushing wave.
A message bringing within a mosaic of tears,
long to explore.
The sand dollar rolling ahead
of a white-foaming wave.
Memory catapults her presence
again beside me.
The sand dolllar pauses on some wet sand
and slowly gives the sky a twirl.
Hers was an enfolding heart that Gave and Knew.
The sand dollar, yet to tip, receives
the brightness of the sun.
Hers was the company of light, soul to soul.
The sand dollar at last rests,
beyond any waves pulling it back.
The everywhere she went, already misses her.
The sand dollar, not thrilled by blank, blue sky,
Is joyous to see tiny fingers taking hold of its
circling side,
blocking the sun with such
a blessed giggling heart.
——————————————————————————
(c) sally young Eslinger 2/5/22
Glory to God
In the light of the dark so shines good night;
Anguished inflamed so and in fright;
So close the grass is green in the park;
Frantically birds in flight;
Clouds systematically eating skies hues;
Spitting up the blues;
Genocide runs and hides;
Environmental circus collides;
Still as dark hides in the light;
Catapults heights;
Dim the lights;
Darkness
6/6/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Tripping Point: An Opioid Odyssey
There are lines we cannot see, hardly know exist
Until we cross them. Then, as if by trip wire,
The temptress snare catapults us into a world
Of primeval darkness with no guide star.
“Hear my song and have a life of feel good”, she promises;
Her dissembled melody the dirge we can’t stop hearing.
Like a virus embedded in DNA she corrupts the message
Using us to propagate her death traps for more unwitting.
Lust for this mistress, Sans Merci, becomes insatiable,
Devouring all we love or live for - even hope itself!
Oh had I Circe’s warning:
Bind me to the mast, fill my sailors’ ears
With wax and sail alee of the siren’s song.
Copyright © 2018 Paul M Thomson
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