Polish-French Marie (1867 – 1934)
and French Pierre (1859 – 1906) Curie
physicists and chemists
conducting pioneering research on 'radioactivity'
(a term she coined)
won the 1911 Nobel Prize in Chemistry
by the isolation of radium
for the discovery
of the element Polonium
elementary (possibly hyperbole)
recovery even so
a short poem on atomic number 84 is
'Po'
See designs of Creator abound
so wondrous the cycle of rebirth
all we need do is look all around
Hear the thunder claps conducting rain
set into motion here on this Earth
such a light show is our flashy gain
Smell the first fresh cut grass of new spring
an unseen hand makes magical mirth
unites childhood with what we now sing
Taste of sweet honey on curve of spoon what poignant reminder of our worth
over bees we should gratefully swoon
Touch your warmth to mine; we're hand in hand
of joy in my soul there is no dearth
I only begin to understand
As the early dawn begins its decent upon the morning skies,
A gentle spring breeze nestles HIS creatures much like a early alarm clock, bunnies, squirrels, robins, gather together as HIS loving flock..
Kids begin to gather with their moms loving hand leading them to the tall wildflower, wheat fields, listening for the concert of bird songs, blue jays, morning doves perched upon a weeping willows branch sunbathing in the morning rays..
This day The Lord has made, let us all pause from our crazy busy day, inhale deeply, close our eyes in for only a moment, for HIS creation is conducting a concert of heavenly sounds.
The wind, trees leaves rustling in the early morning breeze, ducks calling their mate searching for food, robins, cardinals, singing HIS praises, let our SOULS empty out their worries, sadness up to the Lord, exhale Joy, HOPE, LOVE…
When in doubt of FAITH, look around us, for GOD is in everything, just open your ears and your heart, you just might be touched by a bird’s magical song.
upon waking
no upon the waking
this waking neither first nor last
cold floor
a warm bulb shivers
the alley cat
still feral
counting its own lives
already half made of sound
arriving before it arrives
casts what your february
in its orange persistence
cast before
the hour of the lamp
is standing without you
one thought
and the thought that will not come
something there
has sunk its canines into
the syllables
your syllables
syllabub curdled
frothing
the syllabus
your mother birthed you with
wet and new
red-ink margins
not rehearsing them
no never rehearsing
conducting them slowly
as an orchestra pit must
when all the musicians have gone home
dry and gone
and no one answers the downbeat
and no one
and no one
two three four
the downbeat has no one left to strike
you lift your hand
the cat walks out of the sound it made
already elsewhere
leaving where it will return
leaving before it has left
Cross over legs step from the train
Taking the handsome man to Amsterdam
Shoes and socks stuffed in the pockets
Feet conspicuously shrouded in mystery
Hidden away under advisement of mother and others
Under the umbrella of heavy rain born from clouds
Uncovered in a dance of fog swirling into darkness
Where suspicions point in all directions
To the polished conductor in his imperfections
Already blowing his whistle away
Conducting business without a train or name
Through silences drifting in the distance
I recently watched a documentary on SAVANTS
In particular, Daniel Tammet, whose mathematical abilities
As well as other astounding mental capabilities
Will not only blow your mind
You'll probably say to yourself, “this is some kind of trickery
What he does is impossible for the human brain to comprehend”
Yet when matched against a computer
He is able to do calculations up to 100 decimal places in his head
Without a single number out of place
He is also able to learn a new language within a week
And then appear on television and carry on a conversation
In that language with ease to the utter astonishment
Of those conducting the interview
I'm aware there are skeptics out there... BUT THIS IS REAL
In his middlle thirties he possessed extraordinary mental abilities
That defied all logic or comprehension
While Italian girls were looking at shoes,
And German women were reading the news,
And checking to find some good movie reruns,
The Russian women were grabbing their guns.
And while Germany was losing its gains,
Rosie the Riveter was turning out planes.
While Hitler was saying "You've got to be White",
The Tuskegee Airmen were conducting a flight
And when Germany said, We are going to win,
American bombers were bombing Berlin.
Occasionally I write war poems as part of history.
This one was inspired by the Netflix series on WW2.
Obligations met,
we rightfully stand erect,
somewhat proud of our soul’s stance.
Reflect oh hermit,
how much love did we display,
while conducting our business?
Written: August 05, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flourishing strands of rose-colored mist,
Blend in with the gentle rays of dawn gist.
Silver vapors form around the equine nose,
Glistening bark recalls twilight pine as it froze.
As an argentite with a sapphire-like luster,
Inferno rippled amid a tranquil woodland tusker.
Below the canopy that casts a gloomy shadow,
Icy roads dare to swirl and twirl celestial hallow.
Skies atop mountains capped with snow,
Depicting strong sides and silky locks aglow.
The luminous caramel of dawn after dusk,
Luscious hooves gracefully waltz and husk.
On the clay that is entirely icy and faultless,
Bright-dappled alabaster begins dauntless.
A specter of light and dark, elusive and evasive,
Silent in the thrill of speed, coiled, suasive.
Furiously glints through a gap in the hedge,
Pebbles hit the soil, scatter, and wedge.
The rain fell from above in a stony sleet,
The horse grinds to a stop gracefully fleet.
Conducting an ecological survey,
Perched on her glorious, sun-kissed display.
The curtains drawn the room very gloomy
the stage free of debris and finally the
music plays at first it seems like I'm
dreaming my spouse his lover the mouse
I'm conducting this play as the velvet day
moves the shadowy figures about for I am
the mistro the ushers are a no show the crowd
began to beg for the director to open the
show soon the notes all off the pages are
torn my legs bleed my nerves right out of my
body the theme song so simple as a teen with
a pimple that burst right in me before the dance
silence please I must conduct from my knees for
they are sore my fingers tremble at deaths doors
as I open them for I am sure that the gods move in
full circle and right on cue the cello so broad so firm
takes my soul as the violins began to cry my mind sigh
for the crowd has stopped and followed the pitch
as the Bella screamed death to the poet
for my souls an empty theater
Written by Yolanda Nicholsen May 14 2004 Fort Myers Florida my sons graduation day from high school so many emotions that day i must have written 10 poems that day
Only ten shopping days ‘til the locusts arrive
What on earth should I buy them
I’ve scoured the stores, and what’s more
Amazon, Tik-Tok and E-bay
But ‘gifts for locusts’ brings up very few items
so I’m conducting a mini-plebiscitum
Asking cockroaches, spiders and scorpions
if I should text ‘em or a love poem write ‘em
Headphones cup his ears
Like a sanctuary, a secret cave
Here he can hide , he is safe
Crouching behind the sofa
He hears raised voices
Muffled shouts, words become clubs
His mother is crying again
Sobbing as his father rants
He fumbles for the Jack
Connects the black, curly wire
Like an umbilical cord
Feeding his soul
He hears the needle touch
A few scratchy seconds
Then it begins. He is happily lost.
His emotions surge and swell.
His eyes shut as “Nimrod” builds
His school pencil now a baton
Caressing ,crafting, conducting
Clothing music with movement.
Now, prince of the podium,
Blown like a seed upon the breeze
As the music ebbs and flows
He is free. He has escaped
a pencil, slender and sleek,
whispers secrets on the page,
its graphite tip, a dancer's toe,
tracing lines of thought, unencumbered.
it dances across the paper's stage,
twirling and swirling in graceful arcs,
a silent symphony of words and shapes,
unfolding the mysteries of the mind.
its lead, a conductor's baton,
conducting the orchestra of ideas,
scribbling melodies of inspiration,
in the language of graphite and wood.
oh, pencil, humble and unassuming,
you hold the power to create,
to give life to thoughts and dreams,
with each stroke, a world takes shape.
so let us cherish this simple tool,
this wand of possibility and expression,
for in its simplicity, it holds the key,
to unlock the wonders of imagination.
pitch perfect
absolute hearing
shhhhh .....
let’s run
somewhere
anywhere
quietly
but where?
... it is absolute
our veins follow the architecture of the leaves inheriting its rythm
rhythm is consuming souls
overwrote by the ocean’s crescendo
our DNA is synchronized
Mother is firmly holding a conducting baton
The partiture where we can be undisguised
hasn’t been written
let’s write our own
turn the opera
into the cabaret
and give the puppeteers illusion of the power
This is a moment,
when words between us
are stray bricks on a smooth road.
Pointless, and difficult to speak,
when the tongue is kissing,
hands conducting
last chords of a rapturous aria.
An audience of heartbeats
listens as silence drops.
Skin tracing fingers
become curtain calls,
that echo on into the night.
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