fleeting
pigments
subjective
snapshots
radical
reflective
residues
plausible
piquant
pictorial
perceptions
with
latent
tendencies
lasting
impersonal
immediate
pseudo
sequences
suppressed
chiselled
disturbing
epigrammatic
representation
executed
in
foreshortened
contradictions
The man in the elevator standing there.
His chiselled face, blue eyes, dark hair, very handsome.
Holding breath, as lustful eyes have spied him
Just who is that striking man within reach?
I’m sure he knows, what affect he has on women.
How could he not? Tall, so good looking, well dressed,
And I bet he is ever so nice to talk to.
Smiling, as he watches his own reflection
God I am gorgeous; he thinks to himself.
As the elevator door slowly opens
Adjusts his stance, picking up his briefcase
He smugly takes one last reflective glance.
Another hallowed arrow from his quivers
One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers
Coursing down your spine like rivers
Fine line..never dithers as slivers
Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers
Tipples tickle our livers
The latest tropes of how
Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow
Postman Pat delivers
Matinee idol looks tease
Record books hooks please
Finds batters crannies &
Nooks with such ease
Impeccable length…metronomic
Chin music chagrin
Such strength..astronomic
Gift of getting the ball to lift
Chronic bounce…hedonic
With his swag bag of quicks tricks
Name on the adored hall of fame
Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix
Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best
Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..
Yep..yet another done like a kipper
By this chipper ripper skipper
Who’s not found wanting
His chiselled jaw..up there for sure
With the mean hardcore
Ponting or Waugh
As the best Test baggie green
Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen
Or that’s maybe ever been
The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose,
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.
In the deserted cabin.
In a wooded glen forlorn,
When the fire subsided
They found his body
Long dead, carbonised and cold.
And a piece of chiselled wood
Charred and worthless.
originally written in 10/4/2016
To please Lady Muse, all my heart to bare,
I tried invoking her with chiselled verse,
That, the pure pleasure of my pen’s all hers,
Yet, left I was at blank paper to stare.
I sought some odd words archaic and rare,
And tried to paint the bleakest face of woes,
Which, often a desperate poet toes,
Fervent did I appeal that she be fair.
The words when came, came halting as if shy
And listless, I failed her bulwark to breach,
Nothing whatso worked and I knew not why,
I failed, the fount of words resource to reach,
I still coaxed my pen a new line to mint,
A voice whispered: hearken to your heart's hint.
_________________________________________
Sonnet | 03.11.2008 | poem
Poet’s note: There are times when no matter what you do, words desert your pen as this sonnet says. Notice, the Volta is hinted at the beginning of the sestet, but its high tide occurs only at the poem-ending couplet.
do not look for me
among gravestones by black attire
once chiselled ergo sum
but instead a mother’s arms
a womb from whence laid cobble stones
I paved in tears, in many strides
and tread along forever
then glistening bud
and falling leaf
find me somewhere in between
where I’ve sat
among scenes of many views
the hourglass and all its sand
a grain within grains, find me
and shall not all ends
deliver all beginnings
“F”, we’ll call him Felipe
Felipe found a doorway
he didn’t mean to
he wasn’t looking for it
and at first he wasn’t aware
he’d gone through it
but something was off
shades of familiarity
were centred off-centre
ripples among ripples
enticingly chiselled
casting a darkness
slyly across shadows
against a background veil
but where Felipe was now
an intrigue kept him, lured
for now one of the numbers
he had found a world
in a world that found him
“F”, we’ve called him Felipe
is still watching you
but from nearer, afar
The yellow neon sign casted a glow upon his chiselled cheekbones as the bustling sounds of a city that never slept droned on.
He carried his troubles with him, like a worn out cloak, weighing him down in his every step. His mind was entwined in a thorny thicket.
He has been haunted and bewildered since his introduction to her in a smoky speakeasy.
She was a siren shadow amongst strangers of the night, whispering his name in the breeze, intoxicating his psyche with a tempestuous flame.
She entangled him in a perilous dance, playing a game of chance.
Their encounters were like unbridled wildfires. She captivated him, consuming his soul with her potent allure. He felt engulfed, delicate as a feather in a storm, swept away by her force.
However he was a moth enticed by a relentless flame, she incinerated his dreams and made him feel hopeless. In the end, he succumbed to the hounds of disassociated reality.
His story concluded in tragedy, leaving his loved ones cries to echo through the empty streets of a heartless city.
You stepped into the garden
arrived the Bougainvillea of the spring
stanzas of poetry
You're putting on the big eyeglasses
lips on bouquet get concealed behind
the maze of metaphor
In the nest of deep green leaves
the bud is in a swell
waves of poems rhythmic
In the flute, the serotonin circuit
igniting the flames of an orange
the flavour of a sonnet
The chiselled shadow of your face
on the light brown tea
my lips for the poetry
____________________________
25 January 2023
Self analysis
& motive
imultiple functions
erupt
tradition
chiselled
in reality
distorted
by self perception
folds of skin
furrowed brows
surround
the anatomy of eyes
indentations &
peculiarities
crystallised forever
by self-awareness
in the existential
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand |
I dream to wake up in a new world,
A world that is balanced and healthy,
A world where love, peace and togetherness thrive,
A world where war is not a resolution to disputes.
A world where no one is indigent.
My dream is,
To have my thoughts on a slate before me,
To be able to shut the door to the deluge of my mind,
To be able to permute my thoughts in a serene flow,
To have my sky clear from sombre clouds.
My dream is to wake up in a sculptor's world,
Where defects are easily chiselled out,
My dream is to have the world on a canvas,
Painted with colours of laughter, joy and hope,
Bringing daylight into the midnight train.
My dream is to always yield to the Potter,
To have Him mould me to His choice vessel,
My dream is to wake up in a different world,
A world adorned in its pristine beauty,
A world unsullied by the innovations of time.
August 12, 2022.
UNCANNY RELATIONSHIPS
an outward
fantasy of
coexistence
the gulf
revealed
in a cosmic breath
a contemplation of
ground & sky
carved
& chiselled
with indigenous
knowledge
a glimpse
of wilderness
kept at bay
a wry evocation
motley
emollient
at its simplest
existence
serves
it own purpose
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
I feel every artery and vein
Almost a cup of wine
When you love the drops of rain
I feel the pulses of equines
Your green voice and wild walks
In them pulsates a feline heart
A geese in the row quacks
In your tall neck, muscles look smart
When you are focused on a poetry
A radiance tinges your cheeks
Where the chiselled symmetry
Reminds me of the Greeks
As you accompany your child to school
The sun lays its golden brush
Circles of the curls look cool
On the nearest tree I am a thrush
I watch the handsome visage
When at night my eyes move fast
It's an enticing montage
I stretch my hands, they don't last
Where are the boundaries, in love thoughts that grow?
Life above all else, seasons change,
And love like the star's eventually grows dim.
Wherever I have been again I will go.
Her face when in youth was smooth, smooth as silk,
And his was as fine and chiselled to touch, as she said.
A rose is a rose that will open not close and the bark of a tree
Thick or thin I suppose.
Memories can change as quick as a dream, the stroke of a brush
The pictures it makes, I seek sleep.
Though the words that I write that nobody reads, only for me
Lead down to the sea, where I wait.
What should I do, where can I go, not to far in the past nor the
Future to know, but I do.
And futile is life unable to reach the heavens at night, to see a full moon,
Where Woman and men still have visions that seek.
Unable to change the small world all live in, love is blind, blind to whom
seek,
Is but through life a small masterpiece.
Do those who have never caught a star
between finger and thumb
or loved through the pain
or let a mist tremble through open palm
or chiselled air in icicle blows
watching spiders slip
in golden dustbunnies glow
of monster silhouette
caused by sitting laundry pile
a burning light that
glances now an unidentified object flying
on the the varnished door
does the colour of my dark sky
affect effect
either aye there pronounced eye there -a Scottish phrase to save from pointing, yours
Wanna here a surreal joke
Well i didn't knock
always saying It to coulrophobics
Does that one make you nearly thin king
hear the fox hes closer than before
so adieu
A due i never paid
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