Staring at the sun,
Charging my engine,
My intention is letting it in,
I'm getting another insight,
The light is where I sit,
My candle is lit,
I fit perfectly in space,
Observing this place,
Embracing my energy,
Everything I see,
A reflection of eternity,
A projection from within me,
My entity run by electricity,
The sun connects to my gland,
Standing at attention,
This dimension is imagined,
Images from within,
Begin to render,
Surrendering to your beliefs,
The chief of a tribe,
Depending on vibrations,
Sensations arise to be felt,
You dealt this hand,
In command of the direction,
Correction is only progression,
Life is full of lessons,
Sit in a session with the sun,
Become one with its light,
If it hits just right,
It will ignite your gland,
Insights come on demand,
Because your staring at the gland,
The grand reflection,
Revealing a land,
That needs protection.
The projection you see,
Is the body of your energy,
Never being able to peer past,
Where your two eyes cast.
I’m in my pajamas.
With stars on my pajama pants.
My pen is on the nightstand.
And paper never lasts.
Everyone is cooking breakfast.
Too many slices of toast.
Bacon is good, but it makes too much noise.
My laptop died.
And then the sun came out.
And told me there is a package on the doorstep.
Something I ordered a few weeks ago.
That I forgot about.
My laptop is charging.
The need to go downstairs is increasing exponentially.
I could go back to bed.
Or fly out the window.
I’m not dreaming, so that’s not an option.
Hovering around the corner of my room.
By my laptop which is charging.
The power went out.
The sun came out, though.
The bacon is halfway cooked.
But the toast is just perfect.
I take a glorious bite.
In pajamas that are almost ready to be washed.
But the power is out.
And I like it that way.
Boomer rang my doorbell
his blue jeans had expired
Required late-night charging
he knocked back whiskeys for a while
"The sea, like life, is at once serene and wild. There is no choice other than being lulled by its serenity and smacked by its wilderness, in turn"- by poet
I stand on the sea strand,
Over the stretching sand.
Before me, waters roar,
Like a charging wild boar
Full of malice to tear.
I stand on the sea strand
The sea, advancing close
Sure it will spring on me,
As tiger, on a deer.
This predator called sea!
I stand on the sea strand
The rising wind whistling,
Waves on waves come crashing,
Sounds like the wolves howling
Seems hell bent on crushing
I stand on the sea strand
The thundering waves dash,
Pounding on huge boulders.
Oh, how helpless we are
Before these huge breakers!
_______________________
Placed First
April.6. 2022
Form- M- Monchielle- New Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
Theme- Sea
Charging Blues
My power bank was dropped a couple of days ago...
Now it is no longer that efficient for power on the go...
The charger I have brought here with me, it is incredibly slow. ..
From early night till the next day, my phone is yet to be 100% charged...
Definitely a Rio Olympics record of a hand phone being continuously charged...
Hahaha... at the very least, a mention please in the Malaysian Book Of Records...?
The caliber of my body contains fire
A roaring passion, embedded truth
That would send shivers down the spine of a lyer
A soul that awaits the coming of the messiah
A furnace that a tsunami is afraid to come near
The mind must see that there is nothing to fear
Then will arms and legs get into gear
A giggle and screech filled pond
on the crushed gravel path
a sheen of sweat forming
on my medditeranian nut browned skin;
waylayed was I by a hitch-hiker.
The gnat maintained a steady oribit
about the circumferance of my head,
wether held there by some unknown power
or the monumental magnetic magnitude of my brain;
none will ever know.
Arms swinging at a frantic pace
it seems impossible to believe my pinwheeling form
was unable to dislodge this bugger,
keeping a geosynchronous orbit around my noggin.
Yet, the likelihood of a tag team
of insectoid astronauts seemed slim.
As the silken breeze went weaving amongst
the pines and rustling withing the pond weeds
armies of these pin pricks of horror swarm
attending summer clad fishermen, beet red two year olds
and there hippopotomus shaped mothers in the drink.
The doldrums of August have begun in earnest,
as the black flies decend, probing their universe,
persistant and provoking as the humans they oribit.
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