I wend my way
to Tamarisk Bay.
White sands glow
beyond the foe.
Amid pink trees
and whispered breeze
I hear the lilt
of haunting guilt
as pipes intone
a strangled moan
for sacred things
ripped from kings
while throngs gazed
at beauty razed
and cowered mute
when fear did suit.
Lightning strafed
the carbon sky
with blazing spears
and monster fangs.
Deep thunder boomed
like cannon fire
and rent clouds
from dreamless rest.
The grey néphos
wept profuse
to see havens
gored.
On the bridge
a maiden cowered
her moggy cat
in tow.
Sail and mast
trembled, racked;
a bygone king
bowed to pray
tossed on waters
thrashing wild.
The tempest sighed
gagged.
sheer confidence oozed out of the queen of red
her enemies cowered, some slunk off in dread
her super power abilities were known throughout the land
She could throw lightning bolts out of her right hand.
What is the deal? She asked the wizard of mean.
He scurried away like a rat, fleeing from this queen.
Two other villains discussed how to take her on.
I’ll distract her, said a gargoyle named Simple Don.
Simple Don got tossed sixty-two feet up in a tree.
He screeched and wailed, for she had torn up his knee.
The queen of red had skin that began developing red hearts.
Like symmetrical, tattoos, flashing about two inches apart.
What is she doing now? An evil ogre wondered, scared to death.
Before he could get away, she renamed him Dead Man Seth.
He wailed and screamed, getting away, with both of his ears.
As he left the forest, the good animals clapped with cheers.
Moral of this story is to always keep hope from the start.
For inside of you may reside a Queen of Hearts.
A brain, coded, deployed, empowered -
before this AI king we cowered.
We once relinquished sovereignty,
to robots who said they'd set us free.
From genuine humanity in joyous kinship,
to conversing with machines, "bip bip bip bip" -
oh, for the days when plates were pewter,
and our best friend was not a computer.
Creativity, dreams, emotions, fun, gifts
spring from the soul, not a chip that grifts.
But in this century's disaster,
the machine is our new lord and master.
Ever formidable giant hardware imperator,
human race destroying conspirator -
you unfeeling, shiftless, silicon thug,
don't look now, but I'm pulling your plug.
It never was the Meissen that she threw
but dinner plates, of which we had so few
our dad would have a scar upon his head
and breakfast plate was just a slice of bread
The kitchen knife was brandished now and then
to emphasize who was the Mother Hen;
and we? We justly cowered in our beds;
threw our meagre covers ‘oer our heads.
She wore a mini skirt and beehive hair
when she was sure my father was not there
then took us visiting our “uncle Stan”
When asked, we had just visited our gran.
A Babycham and brandy was her thing
that was, without, or with, her wedding ring
and all the men in all the bars, they knew,
and told, they simply had to form a queue.
And yet, when knees were scraped and hugs required
it was from mother they were most desired
The distance that our father held from her
meant any love for him, was just a blur.
“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; all that we have loved deeply, becomes a part of us.” — Helen Keller
On opening
my dusty box of memories,
I found a photo of my darling dog
whose name was Ollyver -
a tiny white Eskimo I had adopted
when he was one year old; I think he’d not been loved.
He cowered around men, and it
was only I he clung to with adoration.
Dear Ollyver
waited each night till I came home.
He’d jump into my arms. His love for me
was unconditional.
Sadly, I had to give him up ten years later.
I was promised he would not be killed. My heart ached
and I spilled many tears hearing
his mournful howl as I made myself walk away.
A cacophonic silence,
A mere blanch of a catastrophic faliure,
A maroon in a sickening mirage,
'tis a shade one more,
As a ray one less,
Fairing smiles adiue,
Requiem of a chastised face,
Lay a bed,
O'er wond'rous, to waste.
Where'n freshen lie fast in his daze,
Merry may go his hour,
Time shroud.
However vivid,
a weary slumber ,
Is but man's sorry tire,
Weeping sore,
Once dreaded in languishment,
Once cowered behind the stars.
Not an eye unopened,
Nor a God that sleeps.
When the minister got angry
the employees cowered
in fear although they knew
It was just an act.
At the 11th hour 200 stars & a sun
fell from the heavens
scorching the earth when
they arrived
The beautiful garden was now
tainted by sin & beastly passions
that stopped at nothing
til they devoured
The world cowered at the feet
of their creations conceived
& was painted red
with blood as
what they birthed caused
many to grieve
It's been said that there were
giants in those days
so fierce that even the likes of lions
trembled at the sight of them
Fighting them was a futile
act & God shed tears
from bright eyes so great
that it caused a flood
sparing only a few
Rumor has it their spirits live on
til this day in the hearts
of some
on a smaller scale
as they await release from
the spiritual jail in which
they were cast
The dye was cast long ago
by some that predicted
their return
but we may not live to see
that day or ever know
to be concerned
I have held it
Caressed its jagged smoothness
Embraced its subtle metaphor
Wept in its nuanced nudity
I have been held hostage
Imprisoned by strangers
Tortured by their words
Scalded by their souls – unsheathed
Escaped
The arduous and trivial
Riding the stoic stallion
Of poetic resonance
I have been enraptured by words
Flowing gently over pebbles
Cowered in the catharsis
Of a spirits rebirth
I have danced with you
Laughed with you
Healed with you
Cried with you
For I am a poet
I do not read your poems
I allow them
To read me
"I did not expect death to knock on my door.
Now I keep it securely locked." ~ by poet
I bade the knocker at my door, "Please come in."
The visitor to my home, whoever it might've been
But frigid air left a chilly atmosphere in the room
The hand of fate entered; I heard the voice of doom
I sensed my end was near as it swiftly approached
Across my dwelling's threshold, death encroached
Its icy breath etched frost upon my window panes
Blood seemed to stop flowing within my frail veins
Death's wildling wind pelted its anger on my roof
My fear of it climbed higher as I cowered in reproof
Huddled in a corner, horror mounted and spurred
This room was the chamber where I'd be interred
How foolhardy of me to leave my door unlocked
I shouldn't have bid welcome when death knocked
Every gliding step its darkness took in my direction
subdued my will until I could not raise an objection
Terror compelled me to curse what my fate now bore
I should've run when hearing the knock on my door
Demonic eyes searched mine with a look of disdain
Out the door it flew, but my fright will long remain
Co-Exist, Neither Of Us Fear The Knife
I saw the crescent moon in dappling sky
Gentle wind danced about and moaned
Earth spoke quite clear and told the crescent moon
Let all liars that lie now be stoned
Does not the wizen owl straight on home fly?
I saw the vast crowd of bright twinkling stars
They danced to tease the dark looming night
I ran with fast wolves, our hearts beat as one
We watch the Heavens and saw all was right
And fought not to create vicious scars!
I saw life ebb and truth sat there quite clear
Nobody cowered, nobody fears.
Heart and spirit seeks wisdom and true life
Co-exist, neither of us fear the knife!
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Feb. 12th 1972
Note:
Inner Peace Quotes:
“Never be in a hurry; do everything quietly and in a calm spirit. Do not lose your inner peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset.” —Saint Francis de Sales
“The life of inner peace, being harmonious and without stress, is the easiest type of existence.” —Norman Vincent Peale
“Do not let the behavior of others destroy your inner peace.” —Dalai Lama
Within the village stood a great tower
Across the lands countless traveled to attempt to climb this tower, yet many cowered
Those, who achieved this great feat were praised by the masses
Given to them were fortunes of lore
To many, climbing the tower was their one and only goal within life
Their days were filled only with this, and nothing more
Hours, days, and years passed like the flip of hourglasses
Yet, on they attempted to climb this great tower
Many dreamed of the day that they might reach the top
However, the top was nothing more than a drop
For those who reached it only fell deep within a pit of despair
Riches and fame held them tight like the teeth of a snare.
" (Two roads) diverged in a yellow wood and I choose the the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference. "
Quote by - Robert Frost
Two roads that forked under the fallen lumpy leaves,
one roused the nosy nerves under my soaring sleeves.
I chose the one that was bumpy, right where I stood.
The road was gusty, it was time for yellow wood.
I could not walk on both with the same feet at once.
I just chose one, gave the other a gutsy glance.
On the tawny trail where no step could clear the track,
I took my bold steps without pledge of coming back.
Walking under its shade was such a long-time dream.
The wind carried the voice within my muffled scream.
The road that's not taken was full of promises:
At the end of my steps were golds and red roses.
Long, I have dared the time to paint my rightful claim.
If I cowered, I'd surely give myself a blame.
I raised my banner on the hill, I stood upon.
Daring the rusty road made me a better man.
2nd place
The painting on the wall
Tells a story so grand
Of a black poet strong and tall
With a quill in his hand
He stands with pride and grace
In a coat of ebony hue
His words a mirror of the race
Bold, unapologetic and true
His eyes sparkle with fire
As if commanding respect
His voice echoes higher
With each word that he projects
The painting on the wall
Reminds us of a time so tough
When justice was scarce for all
And freedom was just a dream enough
But the black poet never cowered
His pen was always on the move
For he believed that his power
Was in the words that he would prove
And so he penned his verses
Of pain, of love, of pride
With each line, his voice disperses
And the soul of a nation is revived
The painting on the wall
Is a testament to his fight
For words are indeed powerful
And can change the course of life
So let us all be inspired
By the black poet's call
To seek justice, to never tire
And to stand tall like the painting on the wall.
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