Paratroopers stealthily slide unnoticed,
chutes deployed, small blazes of white obscured by
fog that lingers lazily, til their numbers
cover the meadow…
Faster, faster, not just content to cover,
reinforcements filling in, words unspoken,
synchronized with perfect precision, ever
picking up tempo…
Occupation utterly overwhelming,
swamped defenses, raising a flag, surrender.
Long, the arm of conquering winter, brings a
lengthening shadow…
Not a room for the waiting
or the receiving of the waiting,
but a room for a liquid thinking
a turgidity
that trickles through plastic tubes.
Is this where doors remain jammed
forever between Hospital floors?
Unseen, a wall clock drops
heavy packages of time
into narrow chutes,
latex handprints are shaken
from sterilized surfaces.
The regularity
of beep and whir mechanically
sucks light in and out.
The yoke recalls it shell.
Desiccated fingers
squeeze a phantom pain-ball,
morphine as cold as ice
is delivered
to an unknown address.
A swish of a starched presence,
fingertips retrace
scorched fever-lines.
Eyes creep toward the voice.
Consciousness
scratches a self-portrait
upon a white neon sun,
a hesitant, primitive etching.
A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse
of a free-floating mind.
Space expands under her hands.
Super Souper 9-16-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Super Souper
Super Soupers wrangle rhymes
into verses quite sublime
Taming wild-eyed metaphors
into iambic strophes galore
Lassoing doggy ironies
with clever lines, entendre ease
Galloping alliterations
corralled by personifications
Silencing cacophony
with gentle mooing euphony
Bucking wild imagery
herded into symmetry
Stampeding loco thin illusions
bulldogged into chutes of allusions
Bad hoss herds of assonance
saddled for a dressage dance
Bucking broncos hyperbole
Juxtaposed by analogy
Anaphoras on loco weed
settle into quatrain reads
Super Soupers let words rip
in rodeos of craftmanship.
Depression is like a game of Chutes and Ladders.
We climb and climb until our arms and legs are so numb and weak we can barely move. We want to give up but keep moving on. Until eventually we land on a chute falling all the way back to the bottom just to start over again and never quite make it to the finish line.
In the tapestry of time, where friendships bloom,
Mes amis, like petals, dispelling life's gloom.
Brothers, firm anchors in the sea of existence,
Une soeur agaçante, a tempest, a relentless insistence.
Parents, the roots, firmly grounding my being,
Leaves of wisdom, in the breeze, foreseeing.
Enemies, shadows that dance in the moonlit night,
Igniting the fire, propelling toward the light.
Obstacles, sculptors shaping destiny's mold,
Dans leur défi, a story to be told.
Life, un cadeau sacré, a gift from above,
Not a right to claim, but a testament of love.
In the symphony of struggle, where melodies intertwine,
Chutes et ascensions, a rhythm so divine.
Gratitude, a dance, through joy and despair,
Dans chaque souffle, God's presence in the air.
Number one on the list, au sommet, divine,
Grateful to Dieu, the source of the grand design.
In the dichotomy of good and bad, the ebb and the flow,
All glory to Lui alone, in the afterglow.
Red, orange and ochre…spill over into waterfalls of color
Sable, tan and umber…tumble into a silky symphony
Purple, wine, aubergine…cascade in chutes of amethyst fantasies
Russet, copper and rust…flood in flowing reveries of nature’s tears
The heavens can’t admire themselves
The spotted clouds, and the opaque wavered clouds
Like a light glide of a brush.
Our Lord gifted us with round eyes
That reflect the heavens
And a mind to ponder all his leavened world
Those chutes of bark and bugs
Aren’t impressed by themselves;
Their flat or spiky leaves or truck wide trunk
That I need tools to fell.
The Almighty handed us fingers
To clench and sift and grip
And the air the flowers leaven
This concrete is flat and hard
I’m used to sitting here and becoming
Numb, in my rear,
While I spend my time like hard earned cash
To bask in what’s given free
He believes the grandkids like him. For they know when asked to “watch” the kids that is what he does, he watches them. Unless there is danger of immanent harm he figures that they “will figure it out”. He doesn’t make a habit of “letting them win”. They once caught him cheating at Chutes and Ladders and refuse to play Candyland with him anymore. He does pay his debts so the kids will challenge him and when they win……they win big. He refuses to play video games claiming that his fingers are too large and the buttons too small.
John G. Lawless
©4/30/2023
Ivy-covered sheepskin, firmly in hand
the confident graduate, square-jawed and tan
Pulled offers from prestigious start-ups all over the land
a year later he played lead guitar, hat in hand
He, ever-grateful to his folks for those music lessons
They, bleary-eyed from all the therapy sessions
Yet Patience will out, and Time always tells
Perhaps by thirty-five he'll own an oil well
I heard it from a good source that there ARE toilets in heaven
they are called thrones and you must be pure to sit on one
When you do your BM it quickly turns gold, like the sun
aromatizing the sky with scent of roses at the count of seven
I heard it from a good source that there are chutes in heaven
aluminum coated tubes that deliver your innards to earth in a jiffy
you'll feel so Holy you'll want to hurry up and take a sniffy
before it all goes away, hug it, and then count to seven
I heard it from a good source, the Angel in charge of pollution
that when Satan imposters arrive they are poked with a pin
then as the dung falls out, it gets neutralized with oil infusion
and sent back to that greasy devil who so loves sin
So, if you spot a villain from hell better count until eleven
then flush twice and it will be eliminated from heaven
I heard it from a good source that Angels are savvy and smart
you can't get away with **** , for they got it down to an art.
November 4, 2021
Sponsor Jack Webster
Contest Name The Throne in Heaven
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
Children compromise easily and quickly
You swing first, I will push.
You get a drink, I’ll get a drink.
We’ll play Monopoly, then we’ll play Chutes and Ladders.
Adults have a more difficult time.
Is it because we pushed but never got pushed?
Our teacher made us go to recess before we got our drink?
After Monopoly, we did not feel like playing another board game?
Our experiences may have made compromise more difficult.
Still, it is not impossible, right?
The pandemic has changed how we think.
We cannot touch hands without consequences.
We cannot do hand up, pair up, share up at school.
We cannot play duck duck goose or ring around the rosie
Or London Bridge or any of the normal games.
We cannot play chess or Chinese checkers or Chutes and Ladders
We would be so busy sanitizing the pieces, we would not get a turn.
I am tired of our kids “not getting a turn”.
Why can’t people do what they need to do
So we can safely return to normal?
When first we play in the park
into the sandbox we go
With shovel and pail we dig endlessly
passing the time as we grow
Our parents lift us into a swing
They help us point to the sky
Then gently bring us back down to earth
As we smile our way down the slide
Soon we're climbing the jungle gym
dealing with life's complexities
pausing to hide in chutes, on ladders
keenly aware that getting caught matters
June 21, 2021
PLAYGROUND Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Shreva LN
I keep my window open for fresh air
Just in case I jump out one day
I keep the curtains pulled for privacy
To block the suns rays
I can't get no sex so I do it myself
Just call it voluntary man slaughter
I live by getting away while I still can
Never finishing what I start
But no matter how hard it gets
I never thought about killing myself
That kind of thinkings gotta to stop
Because skydivers dive sometimes their chutes don't work
Dumped in dumpsters tossed in microwaves
Some of us were born by mistake
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