Sewers are strewn with corpses of carrots,
nectarine skulls and peach sloughs
fermenting in the arteries of cities.
The gutters gargle with grape entrails,
mango marrow, and the pulp of privilege
nourishing the bloated bellies of bins.
The concrete congeals with tomato stains
squished coriander and the puree of parsley
nurturing the mildew that murals the walls.
The pipes pulse with dairy despair,
lactose laments and souring milk memories
sustaining fat-lined steel bowels
The dumpsters groan with crushed caviar
sprawled sushi and weeping wagyu
feeding the fungus that froths metal maw.
The Gut lords, gluttonous and godlike,
swallow civilization in silver spoonfuls,
excreting empires into rusted cisterns.
As I looked out the plane window
across a vast snowlike landscape
within my mind congeals the thought
of the vastness of Creator God.
And as I sailed on a cruise ship
across the mighty ocean vast
the image that my mind descries,
is of a God who is so vast.
As I look at the sky at night
Into illimitable space
my mind defaults to the one thought
of a great God who is so vast.
Where’er I look in nature’s book
the message leaping off the page
proclaim the familiar refrain
of almighty God who is so vast.
And what I cannot comprehend
is why those made in His image,
in contrast to all created things
refuse God’s vastness to proclaim.
Another wonder I ponder,
Is how this vast and mighty God
could be born as a helpless babe
dependent on his human mum.
The vastness of God enthralls me
His boundless love overwhelms me
As a creature in His image
In His presence, I bow in awe.
I've been known to fabricate entire planets,
crafting layers of reality like a masquerade ball.
Perhaps the greatest secret I hold of all,
is that there's no clear distinction to the eye,
between my art and my life,
only a thine blurred linen
where pandemonium of existence bites,
congeals into something recognizable.
But don't quote me on that;
I change my mind with the changing tides.
You may conquer
on horseback
but to rule
must dismount
Pandora
lies waiting
new blood
for the fount
Napoleon
Attila
Augustus
afield
The vanquished
in chaos
till order
—congeals
(Dreamsleep: October, 2023)
See there marches Orion
With Sirius close at his feet
Tarrying not long in the air
To begin the midnight hunt.
His quickened breath congeals –
His boots crunch the fallen snow –
His eyes attempt to discern
Between tree and furtive shadow.
Mark the occasion and time
Of this harvest moon's fair
And note the dog's primal talent
For smelling blood and fear
Not to bring down a mighty elk
To quarter and tan its hide –
What they instead come upon
Is Aries in a clearing field.
Twixt Spring and Summer time,
Warm air congeals the cool and draws a line.
Far across the waters, farther than eyes can see,
Warm winds begin to dance with the currents of the sea.
Hurricane season lurks just ahead,
and WE wait, hoping for nothing that dreads.
Each season and region sparks its own havoc,
and WE learn to dance between destruction and raindrops.
WE mourn and pray,
burying our dead without delay.
WE will pause for a while and be still;
and later, WE will rise up and rebuild.
Forward and onward, our lives and times will continue to roll,
never halting our God-given tasks until the bell tolls.
After Adam's fall, WE were commanded to conquer and excel.
Made in the image of God, WE are engineered and compelled.
With destiny, WE have an inevitable date.
A new world, a new YOU and ME, and immortality await.
The sting of death will be no more,
And our God WE shall forever adore.
052323PSCtest. Brian Strand
Contest Name. A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE no 1219
bare trees bear snow load
ice blue night congeals moonshine …
chilled wind cuts the calm
_______________
December 6, 2022
Syllable count : 5 7 5 (HMS)
Contest : Winter Nature Haiku
Sponsored by : Tania Kitchin
Let the cold be more intense
The chill passing through every vein
Till blood congeals
Let the chill make its home
In every home
And the city sleeps
In shivering cold
You must now be lying in the bosom of your lover
Basking in the warmth of love
The cold sheds its tears,
Drenching the leaves and branches of every tree
Sorrow surrounds the city
And falls as dewdrops of despair
Let the cold increase
Let its intense chill spread through every vein
Till my insides turn to stone!
(Translated from the original in Assamese "Kobir Hataxa" by Mrs. Ranjana Sharma)
He slowly sips every drop whilst he dissects the morning news
Coagulating cream congeals in his china cup
Coffee coloured rings form with every sip
If the cup was a tree I could tell its age
Written from observing a local man in our local coffee shop
He sits for hours reading the newspaper for free and makes his coffee last...
08-30-17
In twenty years , I'm sure I shall not be.
Were I to tell my age you would agree.
And if by some small chance I'm still alive,
The curious and hopeful would arrive
At my front door in droves to question me
Or to just to gawk and try their best to see
This wonder of the world who has lived long
And now is subject of both word and song.
A stranger in strange land and all alone,
The very thought congeals me to the bone.
Twenty years from now the world won't miss me.
Or the striving, breathing wonder I would be.
I know the good Lord will not make me stay,
When all whom I have known, have gone away.
April 25. 2017
A lean figure, bearing love
Burdened by a need for belonging
Starved by abandonment and disregard
With eyes of plea that look upon man
Rejection's curse; an unmet gaze.
The cold, the toll
An attempt to live diminished by ignorance
Loyalty pledged, discarded by the heartless
A tale of sorrow; a tail of fatigue
Walking away, a strained wish - running away, an insuperable thought.
False safety found in humanities' trenches
Malice offering an invite, with little reward
Torture imposed upon by a hand of crumbs
Survival, not a guarantee, fortitude, a hope
Blood that oozes for paper, congeals to mark.
Escaping acts an option that imprisons
Time slows but age shows
A sight of ruggedness in motion
Wounds that offer a feed, delved into
Movement that agonizes, inciting condescension.
Unsteady breaths, signaling an end
The search for an owner in vain
Brutality suffered in pursuit of a home
A last limp affording no sympathy, still
Callus paws giving way as love remains unrequited.
When I cannot tell you how I feel
When I want to see you ,not to speak,
I talk about the weather like a fool
Sometimes when I’m tired I feel unreal
Or life seems lost and meaning seems to leak
Then I can not tell you how I feel.
Some months have their winds to make misrule
Winds to throttle throats and freeze the cheeks
I talk about the weather ,as its cool.
We must keep moving or our blood congeals
So sheep must on moorland frosty, bleak
I don’t want to lie for life is real
When winter mocks our age I find it cruel
Yet you are old and for amusement look
I talk about the sunshine like a fool
Oh,happy snowfalls keeping us from school
As on the ice we tumbled with loud shrieks
When I cannor tell you how I feel
The weather stands for what I have concealed
Broken lungs lay siezed as the air no longer
drives through me on turbine wings.
Eyes rust over corneal layers
festering with swollen contempt
and grey-veined snarls.
Fallen muscle across macerated
fleshy mouth masks lost words
that become endangered species.
Whilst blood congeals within
this scorched corpus and pupils
become the blackend vessels
to my frozen soul.
The Sun stops its arc across the sky.
The sickle of the moon settles
upon my skin, travels its way to my heart
and cuts.
I should have ignored the golden deacon
Promising smiles and freedom from hunger
Said ‘No’ to egg sandwiches and bacon
Delicious smell on fingers does linger
The perfect salty, crispy golden fries
With preservatives, chemicals galore
Cannot cook like them in a million tries
Kids don’t like home cooked flavor anymore.
Charming kids with boxes of happy meals
Filing tummies with empty calories
Doling out food that tricks, harms and congeals
I have no words for their wicked glory
“Should’ve said no”, I reflect with sadness
As kids drag me under hills of madness.
Written 05/18/2016
A poem about our addiction to McDonalds and other fast food restaurants
I tell you that love happened first,
In order
In that order— which is to be opened,
Flayed the heart that at first flinched
When the soul would blench at the sound of your voice
That once was love, turned destroyer,
You ask me if it was the chicken or the egg?
I can’t say, I know my heart quivering beating jelly pulpy thing
Would bet on the egg.
I know that heart then liquefies and pours itself out in a massive
torrential hemorrhage
Painting the pathway crimson
Congeals reconstitutes and reassembles into bricks,
That creates a wall that I place neatly back in my chest.
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