A crystal path I paved
to the realm of futile triviality
along the contorted contours
of the disguised desire
where the intrepid roses bloomed
amidst the spiculed cactus.
The scent took me on the mirage trail
to the oasis of reverie.
In the motif of morphed image
in my unclosed eyes
the lanced landscape turned
into a garden of glory.
The fringe of flying clouds
captured the colors of horizon’s pallet,
the beguiled breeze conducted
the captivating concerto of twilight
for the ruby moon to rise.
Within my deepening dismay
you in my orbit gleamed
with moonshine grace,
while the floating sequins of silver fluttered
like the fairy wings of ardent butterfly
around your silhouetted face.
In mystique night you drifted enticed
with the argentine flair
in the amorous aurora
of the mesmeric moonbeam,
lifted the shroud of secrecy,
entered my forlorn abode,
where I dreamed,
I was the full moon in your sky.
At dusk, the cicadas rise,
tiny bronze lanterns
warming in the branches.
Their song begins low,
a tremble of earth-heat
and summer breath.
And there~
in soft cotton pajamas
printed with moons and small brave stars~
a little boy steps onto the porch
as if onto a stage
built just for him.
He lifts a wooden spoon
like a maestro’s baton,
solemn in the way only children
can be solemn
when the world finally listens.
The cicadas hush,
then swell~
a shimmering chorus
of wings and ancient rhythm.
He nods once,
and they follow,
obedient as any orchestra
that knows genius when it sees it.
The night glows around him,
silver-soft,
the moon leaning closer
to watch this small conductor
shape the wild into music.
And when he lowers his spoon,
the cicadas quiet
with reverence~
their final notes drifting
into the waiting dark.
The boy smiles,
bare feet on cool porch wood,
pajamas glowing faintly
in the moonlight.
He has conducted the night,
and the night
has bowed.
A crystal path I paved
to the realm of futile triviality
along the contorted contours
of the disguised desire
where intrepid roses bloomed
amidst the spiculed cactus,
the scent took me on mirage trail
to the oasis of reverie.
In the motif of morphed image
in my unclosed eyes
the lanced landscape turned
into a garden of glory.
The fringe of flying clouds
captured the colors of horizon’s pallet,
the beguiled breeze conducted
the captivating concerto of twilight
for the ruby moon to rise.
Within my deepening dismay
you in my orbit gleamed
with moonshine grace,
while the floating tinsels of silver dust
fluttered like fairy wings
on your silhouette face.
In mystique night you came enticed,
drifted with argentine flair
in the amorous aurora
of the sequined moonbeam,
lifted the shroud of secrecy,
entered my forlorn abode,
where I dreamed,
I was the full moon in your sky.
598.
Learn History of Contemporary Times!
Learn Contemporary Times History
Recent developments in this time of modernity
Socialism/Communism arose in Russia & China
Nationalism rose up in India, Zionism in West Asia
There was Cold War between USA & USSR
Smaller countries conducted proxy war
There were stiil conflicts in West & East Asia
War on Terror was initiated by America.
-12/17/2017
(Dumarao)
*WHN Poems
TO A NEVER-ENDING SYMPHONY
OF EMANCIPATION’S RECONSTRUCTION
Stomping cautiously
Along the erratic cadences
Of slaved-based racism
And its quarter-note overtones,
We groove from one oppressive
Barred-beat to another:
The scored freedom sojourn
Filled with negative rest stops,
Designed to decrescendo
Wailing staccato, rhythmic screams
Of jazzy, flowing notes, echoing
With rebellious metered sounds:-
Bypassing silent apathetic rest stops,
With a crescendo of rumbling faith
And sassy melodic hopes,
Renewed booming sounds of liberation,
void of waning half notes,
Loudly burst into vibrant whole notes
Of modulating fixed purpose:
Creating a never-ending
Symphony Of Emancipation,
Conducted by spiritual directing,
Exacting melodic notes
Of an ultrasonic pulse,
Echoing a never-ending concert
And its encore sounds of
Liberty’s total reality:-
War is when someone wants to take what you have, your land, your life, your possessions.
War is ugly, it is painful, it causes death, it causes physical and mental pain.
War can be planned, like the induction of abortion, addiction, and other negative forces, that lead to death.
War is sometimes good and sometimes bad, it can make people get results that make them live a happy life.
War is sometimes conducted covertly, I am thinking of the hammer of the Scots, how diluting the people was used to weaken the control of the land.
War comes in many forms, like having so many separate interests wanting control.
War of food, war of jobs, war of housing, war of assets are just some of the wars that can happen.
War for love, is one we can all relate to, we have so many types of love, love of possessions, love of a spouse, love of a pet, just to mention a few.
War will always be, it will grow and will sit on the shelf and be remembered, past and current wars, are real, so pay attention and learn all you can.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
The sun rose on what later became known as his darkest night. The effort was thoughtless and unmotivated. The broom bristles flexed and backlashed the many aged crumbs toward the center of the kitchen into a pile several crumbs deep at its highest point. A cabinet door hinge squeaked resistively revealing the inner contents. Glowing as if backlit by the softest most romantic light was an heirloom of unrivaled utility—the grand patriarch’s dustpan. Unspoken triumphs of unsung heroes could be read in the patina of dust and sweat and grime and the love of generations. Today he joined the lineage, performing an action conducted for its own sake.
The Invisible Strings of Black Light
I sing my mute blizzard on the stiffened string of full void,
the shrill echo of silence gently undoes time's curtain for me,
like a luminescent howl from a transparent sarcophagus,
that aspirates my breath through the pores of an effervescent abyss,
cacophonic symphony of angels with wings of calcified plague,
conducted by white crows singing in psalms of evaporated matter,
adorned with the phosphorescent keyboards of the abyss-color,
that blinds with its radiant blackness any lucid non-seeing,
abstract paintings of crystallized tears in dried blood,
a hypnotic rodeo of petrified butterflies in arrested flight,
metaphysical courtesans of a sterilized and eternal amor,
king without crown in the kingdom without throne and without stern,
where love is an amnesia that remembers everything in forgetting,
and presence is no longer needed to always be living disappearance,
my sinusoidal trajectory through a crystal of solid fog,
that wove our eternity into an exploded second,
to the nectarous curses floating through your granite thoughts,
the mosaic of my solar nights with fate's luminous catastrophes!
An ominous water tower
Stands tall in Starin Park
Barricaded by a spiked fence
Iron clads the stained-glass windows
A steel door bolted shut
What secrets lie within its walls?
On the night of a blood moon
Witches shrouded in crimson robes
Conducted a satanic ritual
To call forth a demon from hell.
The ceremony was a success, but at a cost.
Hellborn claws slew the High Witch.
The remaining members stood firm.
Combined their strength to subdue the creature.
Calling forth the spirits of nature,
The witches configured a tower
To confine the bloodthirsty beast
So none shall meet an unfortunate end.
They say on a full moon night,
You can hear otherworldly growls
Echoing throughout the tower
Rattling the bravest of souls
Who'd dare to venture forth
To the Witches Tower.
Encompassing a broad range of technologies
machines to perform what would usually be
the tasks and chores for humans
concepts that form the foundations
that enable assignments and and tasks
to be performed
concepts form the very being of
artificial intelligence and it's various employment
of specific usage
it's premise was to be used as an understudy
to help the thespians study there roles
Prompt desks and musical interludes included
the robots are the intellecail property
the theather and all the actions between
robot and person are filmed and are
the intellectaul property
of the studio
all words in accordance to the theathers scritps
and music. Even the humming and signing
are all the proerty of the studio or theather
rerecodings are forbiddened unless
contracted or allowed.
Scayles and Chords are conducted
Fibonacci sequence and arithmetic sequences
are arrangement of notes in a scale to the
overall form of a composition
Collaberations between humanoid and person
are contraceed.
Music Generators
Big Roy Versatile 1080
With a stiff upper lip and old school tie
still it's just not cricket
but the upper crust they say
are on a sticky wicket
to pay the estate or make ends meet
they have conducted tours
of stately homes safari parks
and the family jewels
we used to go to Scarborough Southend-on-Sea
Bognor Brighton Blackpool
have fish 'n' chips for tea
but now for fifty pee we natter
with a Duchess or the Duke
for half a quid a cuppa
with a true blue-blooded bloke
as they're all skint like me and you
there's not a lot a poor Lord can do
but bite the bullet and enjoy
hobnobbing with the hoi polloi
Loss of the Semicolon
The semicolon is an odd mark;
The use of which can be quite stark;
It forces us to make a pause;
Before we start a new clause;
Now a study was conducted;
An English college deducted;
That the semicolon is in decline;
So I’d better stop using it in this poem of mine!!!
Mama’s chili pot put out a call
Wanting a variety of beans in the fall
Forty-nine types of beans showed up in all
Auditions were conducted by me and Saul
Lima beans were boring, dull and bland.
Chili beans are always close at hand.
Pork and beans were stuck up and snobby.
Garbanzo beans were hard and knobby.
We finally chose six types of beans.
Together they made the chili fit for queens.
Mama’s chili was better than ever before.
We kicked the limas and garbanzos out the door.
As darkness wriggled into every place,
The land was governed by a veil of silence.
The previous vivid life had left no trace,
All but some crickets singing in defiance.
The mortal realm stood petrified as though
Succumbing to the conquest of the night.
However, in the sky, a tiny glow
Was rather willing to put up a fight.
What a one-sided clash of force
Conducted by the rebel and the tyrant,
And yet a brutal one without remorse
Between the little David and the giant.
Oh, how alike we were, the lonely star
That dwelled in an unfathomed galaxy!
Though separated by a space too far,
We both possessed a common destiny.
We were the beacons of sagacity,
The last remaining citadels of light
Amidst the ocean of opacity
That wrapped the whole world in the depths of night.
Today, I am a symbol of forgetfulness
the loss of sweet words
but tomorrow, I might be something else
and these four verses, which I have conducted
will bring this world some inspiration
although I do miss those sweet words
something else shall awaken in their place
something that survives in this ever-changing place
I shall seek it yet again...
and I shall find something
and it shall find you.
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