A twilight, hard as it tries to disparage,
shall always remain dazzling in my mind.
The Sun, down, down, into the dark of night
carried off by the gloaming, gently it goes;
glaring, blazing, and impressive to the eye.
Never forget the astral stellar winks skyward,
from the ever-present celestial constellations.
The dark is cloudy; the dark is opaque, much
like the closing curtain during the end of a play.
The zany mists of morning, but a lazy sonnet,
as rising smoke from a snuffed-out candle.
A sunrise light is gnomish; smaller, shorter, but
full of the light of day. Incandescently yours.
Tarry along now, the night a glorious memory,
a magical one-act play that awakens your day.
The teapot whistles, a toaster pops, time for
a muffin with blackberry jam and green tea.
Sunset is beautiful to all people
Sunset is romantic to all lovers
Sunset is theraphy to friends zone
Sunset is normal theme for every painter
Sunset is closing curtain for the night
Sunset is where you see the horizon
Sunset is where you see low tide
Sunset is where you see hope for tomorrow
Sunset is where people see the best of day
Sunset is a sign of dying emblem of life.
Whimsy flowers
On the edge of sleep
Mirage-like echoes
Singing off key
Arias
Challenge
The closing curtain
Whispers
Hidden
In the dusk
Of dreams
Dance
In the vapory mist
Of sleep’s
Oasis.
The crease in the bedspread, the fold in our pillows,
the bends in the doormat’s bristles, the off-angle shoe by the stairs.
The lip stain around a wine glass
and toothbrush borrowed, still damp.
Your tissue, scrunched, unfolds gently in
the bin like a seed amongst pebbles.
It’s your cough in the air,
your hair in the shower.
You left an indentation,
a mould and mark of you
with handprints that cover the walls.
You’re in that paint and part of this plaster.
A door creaks and you’re the hinge.
An envelope drops through your mouth.
Your skin is in the dust floating,
awakened by a closing curtain.
Reduced to tear's
By floundering year's
And persecution
The wickers fell
On mannequin and collage painting's
Hanging from the tower gate's
So opaque
The background checked the artist's brush
That stroked upon the maddening thrush
Where common folk and gentry rushed
To place upon a bed of thieves
Which kings receive
A ransom grand
Gleaming gold
And stole by hand
From Jerusalem the holy rock
Whence pilgrims flock
For station on the end of day's
The final battlefield of men on earth
Shall witness the return of God
The apocalypse is nigh at hand
But who will gain the upper hand
Is no more certain
Than the closing curtain
On which the hook's
Some must hang
If that in which your faith was placed
Was sadly misplaced
Or misdirected
Untitled, Unredeemed and Unrequited
Never have I appreciated poetry more than at this stage in my life,
as I peek at the closing curtain
Tumult, chaos and turmoil all are edges of that same evil knife,
find one, find the others for certain
A Saving Grace, now that is the treasure I truly dare to seek,
for none of the other matter
This dark world, a hell of a place for those sweet and so meek,
righteous hearts that shatter
Robert J. Lindley, 02-21-2015
Note: A fragment of a poem in process, came to me in a dream tonight. I got up , wrote this down.
Must sleep , hoping to find the remaining Muse hidden treasure...
Actors All
by Odin Roark
To fool
Or be fooled
Innate competition for
Life’s continuance sweepstakes
Real life’s honesty
Knows survival of the fittest
Relies on impression’s armament
One’s tightly woven costume of persuasion
Ever ready to defend strategy’s patience
Curtains rise
Settings come alive
Footlights’ massage
Spotlights’ invite
As staging presents
Seduction’s heroes and heroines
Intermission
The persuaders
And persuaded
Take respite
As presentation’s set-up and conflict
Prepares regroupings
Making ready the resolve
Closing curtain
Applause fades
Marquee goes temporarily dark
But just as the next opening
Opts to repeat tried and proven choices
Whether performer
Or audience
The art of persuasion
Continues to evolve
Gradually
Acting’s duality of purpose
Will fade-out separation’s proscenium arch
Opting to invite spectators on stage
Where applause and bows will become one
Where separate identity will cross over
Forging audience and players as one
Making the we/them question moot
Yes
The Bard was right
Actors all
Benito Mussolini was known to folks in Italo as Il Duce.
But they became disenchanted and hanged him with a noosey!
He was strung upside down with Clara Petacci his moll!
'Twas an ignominious finale for his closing curtain call!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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