death leaves a void,
but curiosity opens the door to discovery.
an old dungeon of an attic
left abandoned
opens the eyes of treasure seekers
trunks full of clothes,
mysterious contraptions,
faded pictures and postcards
trinkets that at one time
were precious objects
now an eye catcher for collectors.
a wooden framed projector
caught my eye
what a marvelous find I thought
two magnifying glass pieces
set in grooves
holding a small 3x4 picture
held to my eye
what a beautiful sight.
I felt as if I were in the picture
becoming one
encrypted in time
what is this thingamajig called?
The red gumball machine was full of fun
A machine that knew she was number one
Other contraptions thought they were a contender
They were certainly not said my cousin, Sam Lender.
I have had this machine since nineteen-fifty-two.
I know that’s a lie, but Sam is often a liar too.
You were not even born until fifty-six, I say.
He and the gumball machine begin to play.
gobsmacker Gus was his own kind of balloon man, what dare I say?
flew to his Monday internal voices, other times whispers of the day.
He heard voices that spoke of fantasy and whimsy complete.
We tried to follow his antics on social media so sweet.
He could not be held to any one standard, he was an eclectic dude.
Flying his contraptions high in every kind of insanely high altitude!
You know him! Some asked me, surprised of this I would readily admit.
I loved Gobsmacker GTW. He was whimsical, creative, and fit!
Leonardo da Vinci felt flying
was possible, sketching wings in detail.
And the fact that birds flew kept him trying,
even when all of his efforts would fail.
An artist and a brilliant engineer,
he designed dreams drawn by his gifted pen.
But his passion for flying was sincere,
although that goal eluded him back then.
All his life, he invented contraptions
designed to unlock the secrets of flight.
And his alterations and adaptions
haunted his inquisitive dreams at night.
Yet, despite how much one may desire it,
some indulgences fate will not permit.
Throughout the Covid nineteen pandemic
we’ve all been encouraged to wear a face mask
But it’s an illusion they protect us from getting the virus …
they prevent the wearer from inadvertently spreading the illness
We have to weigh up health advice about wearing these items
of course in many places it is compulsory
although some people are exempt for medical reasons
I’ve cracked a smile when I’ve seen homemade face coverings
fashioned from flowery bras of various shapes and sizes
but these contraptions are a mere façade
they may be imperfect and flawed
and can be easily torn or broken
I’ll continue to do the right thing for me
for the health of myself and my family
and for our community…
because at long last we are covid free
Writing Prompt - Flawed - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
06/21/21
Vending machines are so irritating--
mechanical contraptions
designed to fail
So, they take your money
and hold their product
from your grasp.
You stomp and scream into deaf slots
to no avail,
leave a post-it note
for whomever--
But expectations run low that you will
receive a refund,
your product,
or a coupon
For a future purchase
from a...
guess what...
Another vending machine!!!
written June 4, 2021
muttering mist moaned
consoling callous clone
bruised odds birthed:
lanky lust cremated
eerie contractions crumbled
gaunt contraptions grumbled
wanky wind wept
ferocious fills fetched
licking fir's flesh
nocturnal nature nimble
felon fostering fumbled
hoisted end hurdled
bewitched vision feeds
drooling dark dream.
'20:04:16:15:02
Note: Of perforated picture. Inspired by a picture I saved from a Facebook writing group.
I am optimistic the children will be the ones
To save the planet
They have built wind machines
And created contraptions that
Take thousands of pounds of garbage
Out of the oceans.
I am optimistic the children will pull away
From their technologies, and save the planet
Our future hopes and dreams
Preserved
And the greatest poems were made
By hearts so tired and blue
To catch a name
From smiles so bright and true
Words from hollowed pieces
Are weaved to fit in
To create bridges
Between the heart and death's curtain
Emotions penned deeply
On parchments and skin
Veering away finally
From minds struck with pins
Someday these words may
Turn into eternal hymns
That though peril come its way
It'll grant us dreams
t.h.
Mohonk Mountain House is a rapturous place
where we love to visit and walk the long trails;
partake in its charming Victorian grace.
A mystical ambiance- there still prevails.
A manor-like hotel for overnight guests,
we managed to sleep there a Saturday night.
The hallways were long, and at once did suggest
past visions we'd seen which left us with much fright.
Contraptions, wall-mounted, held hoses wound up
with nozzles at end placed to put out a fire.
So much like a movie, we'd seen where setup
did look much the same and so dreadfully dire.
That night, we awoke with some noises we heard
that sounded as though they were right in our room.
A voice giggling loudly- now this was absurd,
as women-like shadows quick-heightened our gloom.
We managed to sleep, but woke up- from a dream?
Fire hoses were chasing us down the long hall!
The nozzles were faces with teeth, made us scream!
They smothered and bit us in that horrid brawl.
Next morning we saw, on the desk, a brochure,
a story which made our hair stand up on end,
that Stephen King frequented Mohonk- proved sure,
ghosts helped shape 'The Shining'- that horror he penned!
Do you want to know What goes on inside my head…
It is a busy place and can be rather haunting at times.
No one understands, they think I am out of my mind.
They have no idea what happens inside.
When the weather is just right-- a huge Pressure builds.
Like a waterfall flowing over my head.
If only I could get that pressure out
There is no upgrade to update my head.
I asked and the doctor just laughed.
I thought of a drill --Nope--Better not do that.
Most of the time the right ear is pulsing and swishing,
Maybe that is where the seashell went--It is missing.
There is a bubble floating in the right side.
The left it is open and light—kind of calm most of the time.
Too much happens on the Right…
Like Borgs in Star Trek do do—It Feels like I have
One of those contraptions on my head.
Gripping to my skull and maneuvering in.
Squeezing…Pulling and twisting…
Like rubber bands stretching and breaking--
Snapping and stinging with pain---hurting my brain.
That is what it is like in my head…
I am sorry I forgot my manners…
Do you want to come in…
Copyright © fonda anne….mooreofme....mamao
Down here in the basement,
There no time for fun or games.
Down here in the basement,
Survival is the name of the game.
No time to ponder space or rhyme
Or any foolish contraptions of the mind.
For when the ganger shouts,
"Move your asses"
We have a ton of concrete to lay.
With broken backs,
We curse our fate
And pay our dues to the human race.
Ganger (Irish slang for foreman)
The soul’s quest is long and reaches deep
into the etheric abyss.
One cannot find God with machines;
God is within.
In the soul of the universe,
in planets; all life contains a piece of the
“God Particle”.
A fool searches with ego driven machines,
accelerating collisions will never
pinpoint Gods location.
Shuttles and ships will never take man,
to the heart of his creator.
Souls connection needs no space craft or contraptions.
No one needs to search for what exists inside.
Each atom, molecule, cell contains God-essence.
Those of wisdom and faith,
touch God each second, of every day.
No search is needed to find, the God within one’s self.
Within lies God, without lies ignorance.
Ignorance destroys what God creates;
wastes universes of life.
When all mortals embrace whom they really are inside;
the utopia of Eden will return.
It’s genesis will birth a new Heaven; a new Shambhala.
“The Fixer”
While clearing gutters of the autumn leaves
I was pushed by a wintery stiff breeze
Falling from ladder, by freak circumstance
Crumpling into flatness by haphazard chance
I felt a beer can directly under me
Memory of him, forever would be
For my Grandfather had tossed it there last
Discovering it flat, from days past
From bikes and cars, to rusty door nobs
As to how to fix their thing-a-ma-bobs
All would come for his consultations
For he was the fixer, of all contraptions
While others would tinker for hours into night
Grandfather would always have the divine light
Scarcely even did anyone ever say
That Grandpa needed more time than a day
He was a helper, a handyman, a friend
Sadly he died of his drink, come the end
The crisis starts boiling
about the invisible foes.
The contraptions hope to recapture
the moods.
Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic.
In the stark nudity of silence
a wooden Buddha lies on the
floor crying.
“ I am not happy, I am not happy.
Why were you still a virgin ?”
White butterflies will not sit
on jasmines to lose their script.
There was a black moon to chase
the fugitive. There will be no midnight
sun. Between lips and cups
the grey fox had lighted a lamp.
Satish Verma
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