Constructions Poems

Islander

Wave just kiss the shore
Retreat back to the sea; he
Does not belong there.

Back and forth he kiss
Retreat back again to sea
Does it everyday.

For so long a time
By obsession, he decide
Engulfing all lands.

No more land, all sea
By obsession, he's now king
Land is his minion.

Union came intense
The sea and land give off from
belly an island.

An island so white
Cleaned, unblemished, innocent
Fresh from conception.

For so long a time
The intruders like it; trees grow
Birds and the likes came.

The island news fame
People came, live one by one
Big constructions rave.

The island rose fame
Foreigners came lodge and lull
You'll hear laughter roar.

Beauty and commerce
Rule the island; visitors
In all walks flourish.

They are now at peace
The land rule the inside reign
The sea rule outside.

We're just visitors
Here, there, near or everywhere
We goes back our home.

High In Winter Trees

Our meadow has always held surprises. After we moved in - that first spring - a myriad of daffodils appeared from dormant bulbs, exactly where I had decided my fairy garden would be.  Like a beautiful stage play the seasons transitioned. After summer showers, gigantic fungi grew overnight in perfect symmetry, like shells, layered on the old oak stump.   - now, into blazing colors of Autumn against  an unreal blue sky, leaves floated like lost butterflies. Finally, bare trees revealed large stick nests that all along, I assumed to be ravens’. Cozy shelters against the winter freeze. 


High in winter trees,
Stick nests become visible 
who would guess-squirrels.



Leaf Nests – These constructions are found at least 20 feet up in a tree. Leaf nests are usually tucked in the fork of a large tree branch, which adds stability. You can tell them apart from bird nests because they are noticeably larger than a typical bird nest.

Constructions An Open Form

CONSTRUCTIONS
elongated
but
accurate
in
preliminary

 aspects
 commissioned
determine
&
 inspire
gracious
emotion
lucid
yet
invisible

an
intended
reflection
languishing
unseen


CHANGES
identified
 pose
in
  unusual
&distinctive
  effect
complement
&
displace
 pictorial
remains
tempting

devotion
a
homely
delight
 flanked
by
the
unfamiliar
imitate
to
confront
prejudice

Clerihew Tatlin

Vladimir Tatlin
made art for the Kremlin
Famed for his  constructions
futurisnm was his song

Progress

When they begin to erect new building in an old town
everything cowers, hunkers down except the ugly.

The ugly is in the concrete even before they pile it up
into office space and loft apartments.

The library and the townhall shrink.
Residents tend to scuttle faster
between the modern high-rise constructions.

The classic frontages, the Greco/Roman facades
once were the pride of a small town
now marble is only used for kitchen-tops.

Mid-West towns are not Manhattan
the sky here is too wide,
history gets brushed away under parking lots.

Nothing fits when the modern gets squeezed
into main street
or when it rubs against the sides
of traditional shop fronts.

Locals are told its progress, but even the ginger cat
who sits in the bay window
of 'Ye Olde' antique and yarn shop
knows better.

Pangie's Sunday Special

              ~Pangie's Sunday Special~



        Old Sol is shining and I am too!!
        Wishing the same for each poet, too.

        For those who love me, thank you for 
        all your love and true hugs that help
        me to function,
        For those who loathe me, that's Ok,
        Gods power protects me from your
        plans for my destruction.

     
        Thank you to my special angels here, 
        who are part of God's plan of my poetic
        constructions!


        May Old Sol keep you ecstatic, till he
        sets in the Wesf!
        And you will smile, knowing you have
        done your sparkling best.

              
         Stay close to those poets who wish you 
         the best.
         Hopeless, useless to worry about all the rest.


         God designed you to follow his path,
         Concern yourself not, with selfish man's 
         wrath.


                     9/12/2021

Human and Inhuman Urban Villages

In the place where I live,
there was nothing before...
No house, no constructions
it was total desolation...
Now they planted grain of
development, sowed
bricks, glass and tiles and
invented urban labyrinth
in the place of haphazard and stones...
But they brought regrettable
resulting from modernity:
Fear, terror, accidents and assaults...
Is this progress...!?

Bone Lake

There are many bones in the lake.
King Fishers and Great Blues
carry the small ones away
to weave them into platforms
high in the wind whisked sky.

They are always looking for more,
so also is the fisherman with his scouring net
trawling these waters.

The cops are out hunting
for the unlicensed and strays,
there are plenty in these lawless times.

The bone-taking fisherman
snags the bones
that the birds cannot carry off.

Back in his shack,
in the low tangled woods,
he is constructing hollow forms
none of them yet complete.

“Loneliness is a terrible burden,”
he tells the half-made
skeletal constructions.

The bones are impatient 
to be works of art,
and no longer want to found
murdered or drowned.

Cosmic Sketches

consider cumulus frost-bitten clouds
curious billows sporting fluffy shrouds
zeniths growing, burgeoning powers
forming glorious looming towers 

hyperboles design brief distortions 
comic sketches of monstrous proportions
colliding cotton, silvery might
enormous collections, wondrous white

cryptic constructions, icy smoke
cumulus clouds lure sky-eyeing folk
hewn works mimic stunning sculpture
structures wrought from counterculture

Waiting For My Covid Test

If I Die, Bury Me With Pencils

My sense of smell is gone.
Acetone is empty air.

The cough
attempts to cut the mucus from my lungs,
expell it from my lungs.

The fibers of the swab penetrated my flesh,
cotton against capillaries;
armies clashed with red and white blades;
sent to Jefferson City,
results unknown for 48 hours
to week.
But, doctor expects it to be
positive.

The x-rays
did not look good. 

“Go home.”
“Quarantine.”
“Hydrate.”
“Call 911 at first sign of trouble breathing.”
“Things go downhill fast.”

Mortality rate of intubation of covid cases in New York City is 80%
Obesity increases mortality rate. 

I wait for my test,
almost breathless,

but not yet.

Crossing my bedroom floor, I look down
and find an unopened package of papermate mechanical pencils,
the school bus yellow kind,
with the good erasers,
and the turning tip with the spinning spring inside that jockeys the graphite out,
perfect for drawing, writing, geometric constructions,
all the things that free the soul,
all the things where anything is possible,
where good and life flow sunlight

and lungs are worlds away.

Icarus Falling

O Icarus, young Icarus flying so high,
As an eagle, in the sunny blue sky, rising.
Waxing strongly in his vigorous youth, so bold;
Fearless, he failed to hear his fine father’s sure truth.
Alas too late he learned his fate, clearly seen
As he plunged into the oblivious sea.
His aged father wept at his cruel, melting fall
Nearby, strangers never saw Icarus’ demise.
So much for feathery constructions wrought with wax
Young Icarus, was lax, dearly paying his tab.
Gurgling in dark white shark infested depths he drowned
No marble slab would ever grace his stubborn head.

Date:10/19/2019
Title: Icarus Falling
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh

Buccaneering Dorian

Like wild buccaneers
on a partying raid,
they came ashore.
Fierce waters and winds
wielding their destructive swords
grabbing defenceless trees by the necks:
viciously shaking their hair-like foliage heads;
bending their backs; snatching them up
and throwing them here and there.

With torrential forces,
the marauding buccaneering
waters and winds leveled mortared
and boarded constructions
as if they were thatched huts of shade.
Young and old beings
became like unripe and ripened fruits
consumed by the ravaging forces of nature.
Behind, lay skeletal fields and sandy shores
laden with rampaged debris.

Satisfied with the fun and booty,
the buccaneering twins
return to their seafaring sails
in search of more up roaring.
Meanwhile, the prodigal Sun returns,
reflecting dry salty tears
pasted on the faces of those
who must now iron out their wrinkled lives.
In the aftermath, Nature makes no apologies
and God can’t be cursed.

A World At War Pt1

A WORLD AT WAR Pt1
Dark sad clouds and shadows
reflections.

Life-less structures of destructions,
suffering, remaining, living, surviving,
within evil controlled constructions,
as satanic slaves in zombie enclaves.


Earthly surrounds, just history grounds,
memories of mankind piled in mounds,
signs, words evil, live, 
a riddled reverse of an ugly curse,
as if life so diverse. 


The will of nature will be to finish,
it's suffering stain and relinquish,
earth's time line, will no longer extend,
rotating in warning to the universe,
God may send a Karmic curse,
for the evil of mankind wars
closed to the universe, the earthly doors

On Top of Sliabh Bannion

I can see it now 
Through the dismal mist 
Pass the sorrowful heather. 
With it's impotent beige bloom 
Mossy fungal stone 
Strangled by ivy contagion. 

Up above, 
Jackdaws seeking justice 
Squabble and  shreik. 
Each one with a crown of thorns. 

I sit, 
Beguiled by a simplistic beauty 
Under a pitiful April sky. 
Forgetting all the constructions of man. 

Up here, 
The foundations of convictions 
Can start to shake. 

I could easily slip 
Into the rhythms of ancient silent prayers 
And sing softly those tragic hymns, 
To doleful face cattle 
Chewing obediently on everlasting cud.

Great Contributions Less Paid

The bricks on the bricks
The stones on the stones
Joined with hard iron
And soft gypsum
Handle the strong hands
To build the buildings
The towers, the palaces
The mills and the factories,
The great contributions
Of those maker hands
To the constructions
To the civilizations,
But those golden hands
Fallen under exploitations
To survive are in fights
Deprived of proper rights.

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