"Mother’s Milk"
I don’t know -
what would you have me say?
Life is a gourmond perfume
rolling along on the notes of air
intoxicating musk a jubilee
music you breathe and reign in
words lactonic heaven scent
stimulating the beginning and the end
in synaethesia the let down presents
succelent life, a moment brief and swift
a hint of warm peppered cinnamon
with gunshot sparks recalcitrant pink
a straight shot from the heady accord first off
hard points from mother’s breast rouge the plot
we drink it all in
life is the sweetest illusion
bittersweet and burnt bent
we are all drunk to it;
before we begin,
we begin again,
we are swallowed large
into this small life
like an unknown mystery
karmic charms chime in
fragrant and infragrant notes
recalcitrant journeys
roads less taken
sweet and bitter almonds
we hear the distant bells chime
we sign off reluctantly
to only begin it all again
Candide Diderot. ‘25
The sun does arise,
On the valley sweet,
The birds & pups wise,
Call our kits to meet.
The hoots & hollers,
Sound loud for miles;
Yet! Amiss is one collar,
Lone in the Sky Isles.
The sun does down,
On the green hills tired,
Lining the vale round,
Our pets to bed retired.
The whistles & purrs,
Chime in the crisp wind.
All but one bed stirs;
Our dear numbers thinned.
Long time does pass,
Bleak winter does come,
Hoar-frost is the grass,
Warmed by a low hum.
We stand together,
Upon valleys sharp,
Wond’ring: ‘just whether,
You’re hearing, fain, the sky harp.’
In the LIGHT, I FIGHT to find my clear SIGHT,
With echoes of TIME that CHIME in my HEART,
Each moment's a GIFT, a spark that feels RIGHT.
Through SHADOWS, I TREAD, where doubts may SPREAD,
Yet hope's gentle WHISPER will never DEPART,
As dreams UNNFOLD, chasing bright paths I READ.
In the DANCE, I PRANCE, embracing the SPHERE,
A purpose that CALLS, within me it PLAYS,
To share my SOUL, I'm WHOLE, this is why I'm HERE.
Interesting conversations started as a strangers chime in
Grown men in fuzzy hats riding three-wheeled bikes
Try to envision oldster type males on oversized trikes.
One was a walrus, you cannot fool me at all, said the Prez
And on his head, of course, he wore the fuzzy red Fez.
We are the Rhiners, the diners, the cool cats, the best!
Their chanting was soon followed up by everyone, such a test.
Except if you did not belong, you had better not try to chime in.
For they would throw snowballs at your head, and at least hit your chin.
I hear your voice when the breeze blows
My wind chimes ring out the song
That stirs my heart, for my heart knows
Of whom and for whom it longs
Our frequencies match perfectly
In sync is our melody
Two as one in unison
The song of you and me
Dream catchers chime in the wind,
like soft tones of a xylophone.
Melodic melancholic rain,
is free flowing,
but morning birds still arrive,
sitting on wet window sills,
singing about their desires.
In daffodil daydreams,
the breeze resonates like a flutist,
gently swaying bluebells in a rhythmic flow,
as pink, silver and lilac heather spread
around a bed of golden violet crocus.
Under my magnificent magnolia tree,
ivory petals dance in puddles upon
damp lawns with fresh grass,
weeping love songs strummed
on acoustic strings of green.
Sprinkles of drizzle sparkle,
like an absent lover's ostinato,
caressing the earth in a
rhapsody of tender kisses,
nourishing it's soul to harmonise with
a symphony of returning sun rays.
As a chorus of clouds clear in
a final crescendo, introducing
sapphire hues with golden delight,
rainbow pastels bless the tempo
of rows of tantalising tulips
in kaleidoscopic shades -
as natures breathes in alternating fusion.
The lake has its own orchestrated acoustics.
The quaking of oboes and the bassoon-ing honks
of a skein of geese
conduct a loosely scored morning air.
Rustling reeds chime in fluted stems,
a wind section throats through its hollow notes,
and then there is you.
you who hesitantly strum
within each lip-breathing earshot
nevertheless
your strings are tuned high
to the vibrating moment.
All this ‘a cappella’ is inside you now
like a chick cracking though its own eggshell.
You look around your shoulders
searching for the composer
see nothing, only a naught that imagines
paused fingertips above a keyboard.
Will you sing now or depart unfinished?
The ensemble of the assembled
has left.
You can try again
when your inner metronome
is less bolted to its mechanical tongue,
but for a time
harmony nest elsewhere.
Clear crystals eat iron voices.
The wind dies; its bones rattle on.
A stealing wind moves many loose tongues, but where?
"Where' is not the question but a movement,
a rapport pealing from somewhere.
When wind is silent, wind chimes listen.
Speech goes deaf when the wind rings.
A snow laden sky sings under our feet.
Icicles chime in the sunlight.
Tinkling is the light.
In these colors, do you see red out there?
And in red, do you need strength?
Are you someone needed to be mightier?
In these colors, do you feel green somewhere in?
Do you believe in warmth, grass-root progression?
Or, one day closer in, to fade in within the horizon?
In these colors, will you ever prefer brown?
Skin-colored divine codes, still arrogant in denial?
The huge Carpe-Diem, calling you and me, to chime in.
In these colors, will you ever supplicate for the gray one?
White and black, black and white, color mixing hippy lives...
An utter failure or, an anonymously gray one.
In these colors, do you see a color, for you and me, and a moon?
The cosmic terrain, crawling in into laughter, festoon and religious boons?
Reaching for your hands there, farther down to start within.
Eid Mubarak
trees
blooming
varied thrush
whistle flutelike
chime in the shadow
daisy-rise sigh
rose come up.
you're late
burst
moon
grace us
with spring gift
and silver touch
on warm river's nights
spring awake us
from winter
send bird
songs
1ST Place Contest Winner
Written: February 19, 2022
Springtime Ninette Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: M. L. Kiser
Dumbass Genius Farm Boys Paradigm
David J Walker
“Genius” may have been the most ironic of all
The four-letter adverb monikers daily applied
To describe the general dissatisfaction
With any and all work performed on the farm
“Way to go Genius” was the norm as
The tearing down process was performed
Can you be a Genius and a Dumbass
at the same time
as you chime in
too late to make any sense
of the Dumbass-Genius farm boy paradigm
“What do you think Genius” was the question
To the obvious answer that goes without saying
To any coherent thing in the Kings English spoken
With a deep Texas drawl
“I know y’all aint that GD Dumb…dumbass”
“Y’all aint from round here, are ya Genius”
I couldn’t believe it either, but I was and
I could drop the F-Bomb with the best of ‘em
Forming a drawled word you’d never heard in the
Middle of a sentence never spoken in
Sunday school
“Hey Genius, get yer ass over here”
I’d heard that demand so many times that
I’d planned to send my ass and leave the
Rest of me behind
But that will be next time
Dumbass Genius
Today’s student is not like we were in the sixties.
The child never had the last word back then.
The child must always have the last word today.
Today’s teacher’s biggest problem is this….
When one student is sassy, other students chime in.
This could not have happened in the sixties.
In the sixties, in my day, the teacher was god of the class.
Usually goddess, but you get my point.
They held the whips, chains, all of the power.
We students were respectful almost a hundred percent of the time.
Those who were not, were rapidly shipped off to reform school.
A place we figured was like jail, except without food or sunlight.
In the sixties if a student had been disrespectful, we would have been silent.
Waiting for that student to be tarred, feathered, and murdered by the teacher.
Her full right, as goddess of the class.
The giant blue and green dragonfly,
with its broken wing,
tries madly to escape
its silver cage.
The poor old thing doesn't belie
escape from its sturdy ring
is an impossible reshape
of its once golden age.
I turn away with a sigh,
realizing with a sharp sting,
that I, too, am caught in a dreamscape
of impotent rage.
Image: Chetta Achara
It was a day when my river met
your waterfall, it’s been good
like new year’s eve
one moment after.
There are whole unearthed days,
days legendary for their reincarnated
ghost of a chance.
Some are still rehearsing their
‘what ifs’
and other misplaced wishes.
It was a day when your life
changed to mine.
Sometimes I forget myself,
but you are my day & tomorrow clock.
You chime in my heart.
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