.
there were thuh
sound
soundz
past yourn think
out
yourn
speak
mine hear'd every
note
"that's the C7
to you
Obone Oboe
oops
i denote"
In the fruutful forest filled with trees,
Where Ogham inspire thoughtful action,
And Runes symbolize possibilities,
You draw your creative, illustrated card.
What is on that card?
May the colors of the leaves brighten your path.
The yellow Sun nourishes your mind,
And the Moon awakens your insight.
Two Swords denote a choice,
But the wise Fool takes the Druidic journey.
Numbers convey results,
And the Cup runneth over.
Let the Totem Wolf guide your way in dreams.
May the cat provide grace.
The colors of the sky--celestial blue, royal purple, and pumpkin orange,
With fluffy, cottony white clouds,
Each moving above this sacred site,
A spiritual home embodied in the mind, in dreams, and in the tactile world.
Feel the Spiraling designs of the ancient Stones.
As your ancestors guide you,
And nature entices you,
Bringing you home from your journey,
With nature's solemn, green embrace.
So be it.
Blood-stained poppies mark the day that human
sacrifice did harden the skins of the less murderous mass
for such a brutal aghast affair, how the God all mighty
would formidable bear witness to grief beyond repair
Out into the fields, neither would yield-with bullets they
would tear but what would a stealthy, shrewd general care if many
died on duty which left a nation dumbfounded by the levity and
gravity of a war that was deemed
to be of grandness, valiant soldiers of fallacious valour
mercilessly gunned down and with
no gratification, them forsaken, while the gutless
general is less sanctimonious, pious in his approach for the
fighting did persist, until finally that last shot,
at last serenity in the calamitous storm, birdsong instead
of less fanciful peaceful flight, that night the serendipitous surviving
soldier did sleep so tight, a nation did succumb to pitiful sorrow
and pain-so the poppies do denote blood-stain and brutal,
grim, gutless gain
All the hearted people 'mongst the human race
Pretty soon there won't be enough space
People running place to place
Scared of what they'll face
Why's there war?
Grace
War- no more!
Love- we must embrace
Evil doer's we must chase
Hold the leather and denote the lace
All the hearted people 'mongst the human race
Rice paper dreams, lanterns and beamers of peace
lighting the way to my heart you are in far remote
Intricate cutout beauty, please do not decease
for I need you to guide me with radiant denote
Lantern of love illuminate me with soulful grace
far deeper is your symbol than mere luck of age
Ramadan rose * Easter lily * Passover Iris- lace
some days I am sinner, some days I am sage
Star lantern of my heart help me keep my vow
to a dormant holiday that often seems demure
Oh spirit of the season, guide me to your Tao
and Universal truth, please do not obscure
the lanterns of my soul, as I celebrate in-grit
and return to love, with altruistic composite.
Lapses in mindscape lane don't
denote being fantastical,
subconscious realm portrayed
by vivid thoughts as Déjà vu.
The body lingers and ages but
the Psyche, new as dew.
Countless times,
a reminder of certainty
that I was seen somewhere
when in reality,
staring inquisitively
into my TV.
Then I pondered, did
I unknowingly fall into a trance,
Or did time travel come knocking
unexpectedly?
and even if it did, again,
the lapses don't come to light.
Dreams are pathways to
meditation, that birth
happenings unknown
to this world. But the body
is a shield to absolute
exploration of cognisance.
My imaginary circus yawns
for transportation and
these scenarios distinctively
and simultaneously
visualize without limitations.
Not a pause for impossibility,
we see levitation happen as a tornado,
I can only imagine a gust of parading
doppelganger, I'm just not the witch elevating.
But my illusioned awareness puts me in diverse places through manifestation and imagery conception.
Through arid nights
They fire their gun
But do not see
my war is done
the years of blood
have stained my skin
and chambered death
inside a grin
I have born my soul
To no applause
And washed up on
A thousand shores
When the blasts denote
That death is near
And the mists of dream
Are all but clear
As voices fade
Behind the sun
Then all shall see
My war is done
A mighty note
The essence of colors spoken out
Depth you and I cannot do without
Never lonely
Our Lord walks with thee
Safely together
Blessing your shelter
The age of command that could
Upon your voices we stood
Warmth of your quilt
On this blessed rock you have built
The morning task, since I’m inclined:
to hike out in the glorious wood,
and clear a path, with all that does entail.
But Missy does not seem to mind,
in fact, to her, it even seems good,
as patiently, she sits and wags her tail.
And so we hack small trees and vines,
drag rotted logs and flip small boulders,
and bit by bit, a hiking trail is formed.
I look back on this path of mine,
so much improved as I’ve grown older,
and like this trail, I too have been reformed.
This path through God’s world truly is divine.
----------
This is an odd one - a Raconteur of 13 lines:
8a:9b:10C:8a:9b:10C:8D:9e:10F:8d:9e:10F:{8|10}D
The capital rhymes denote the same end rhyme,
but, for instance, 'door' and 'adore' would fit...
Found this over at Poet's Collective in their index.
It is now only I who can sing the song of thought
The orchestra between my ears swells with emotion
Not only to guide, but to monitor sound
Sound I speak with empty fear and full intention
I am no prisoner to be withheld from autonomy
As well as no criminal to denote destruction
I hold my own hand to cross the street
It’s a journey from stuck to soaring
It is heard, a voice so mighty as the lost
A beacon of resistance, drainage of woe
It is a voice I seldom recognize
But one I take pride in nonetheless
I am not held back by toxic reliance
Or dread of trust falling
But rather wedged between the fingers
Of she who steadies her breath
Cometh the end of each and every
December
January so to with it as well bringeth a
new year to start a fresh once all over
again
And though the time and date and
solar winds may change
The seasons somehow however never seemingly do
The sky is still just as blue as the sun
is red grass is green as is the night
tinged in black
Just as like when spring and summer
eventually return and dawn
Denote it's time to pack away our
winter warming clothes into the
back of our closets and cupboard
draws
That unless we truly feel within and
inside our head and heart's
A certain individual kind of love
and caring does reside that warms
us dearly
Then matter's not the time or season
place or age
Tomorrow they will be no more richer or
poorer
If nothing changes and everything remains
Are lingering sighs, while expressing disbelief
Showing some frustration ere welcome relief,
With sincere, rapt attention to what it entails
Carefully absorbing the minutest of details,
Sometimes with the aid of a silk handkerchief.
Then, too, observing the most foolish mischief
Showing itself in a variety of impetuous motif
Sending one off the straight and narrow rails,
Are lingering sighs.
A heavy sigh can denote suspension of belief
Or registering information requiring a debrief,
To assure utmost security from whatever assails
Attention-getting, to be sure, notice never fails,
Quite different from sudden breath-taking grief
Are lingering sighs.
(I posted this and found out one line did not rhyme, so I had to adjust the second limerick)
That the Ides of March we should beware
is a quote which is not really fair.
Shakespeare wrote it; it stuck
and it now means bad luck.
Of its meaning few folks are aware!
The Ides of March used to denote
the New Year, and so Shakespeare's quote
might make little sense,
but in his defense -
Ides occurred when Caesar they smote!
“The Ides” of ALL months simply means
the moon is a crescent, but beans
do folks mostly know!
new moons come and go.
The Ides fall in months’ in-betweens!
April 9, 2022 for Edward Ibeh's This or That, Vol 11 Poetry Contest
When I watch because I never have
Witnessed or even heard
A be it he or she whomever
Singing a rendition of a song
In a particular voice and key
unbeknownst to me
Because I myself am sadly not at all
well versed In culture or the arts
As honestly i've never been the ballet
seen an opera watched a play let alone
seen the inside of a theater
The only thing I do know is when I see
and hear a singer hitting whatever those
certain high notes are that only they can reach
They screech such pure emotion right
through my ears into my brain
I fear it must and can only denote 1 thing
Once the final note is sung
Someone or other poor soul is unfortunately
Dead
February brings the return of Black History month
Black history is real history every day of the week,
So, I react with an “it’s a long coming” harumph!
Important roles of Blacks have been a hide and seek
It’s a cryin’ shame we must now denote “special” days
For Black history is “real” history every day of the week.
Learning important roles of Blacks will always amaze
Every day in American history, Black people excelled,
It’s a cryin’ shame we must now denote special days.
In school, Black achievements were routinely quelled
We were not taught their innumerable accomplishments,
Every day in American history, Black people excelled.
Black people are long overdue for acknowledgments
For their inestimable, incredible contributions to our lives,
We were not taught their invaluable accomplishments.
All lives matter in the grand scheme of history’s archives
Every day we must honor people of all races and creeds
For their inestimable, incredible contributions to our lives.
Written January 29, 2022
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