Are those just fireworks exploding in the sky ?
Or maybe real bombs detonating nearby ?
Because these days it's become much harder to tell,
Those that are ready to buy, and whoever wants to sell.
Since the days ahead seem to promise, only more division.
As those weakened try to avoid any such collision.
And between Donnie and Elon, who's really calling the shots ?
I guess from where, it doesn't matter, whether country club or super yachts.
So while the political tug-of-war will continue, not to end.
I'm going to pray for a miracle...and try not to spend.
When I’m driving or the lights go out
keeping pace with the dark I overthink;
Second winds of second guessing mount;
I can’t get my mind and calm to sync
so the two can exist in tandem;
Any rejuvenation’s squashed in a blink;
Make shift thoughts collide at random
detonating quiet with a chain reaction;
Here then gone I can’t control them;
Breathing in I move forward a fraction,
slowly but surely I start to gain traction.
Margaritas in a blender,
Sans the lime juice, soon will render
recipes for all-night benders.
It's party time, with fun galore!
Supplies are low; it's time for more.
Against advice, drive to the store,
hit the wall and crunch the fender.
Your girlfriend's car, and she's aghast;
the evening going downhill fast.
Your hookup chances likely passed;
spend the late hours swiping Tinder.
Bombs detonating in your head...
What might that be that's in your bed?
You feel the rising sense of dread,
not so sure about the gender…
----------
A Zejel, a Spanish form pronounced 'the-hell'.
aaa bbba ccca ddda with 8-syllable lines (not required)
A purely fictional poem based on the pronunciation of the form :-)
I gave up defeat;
The light my wings carry flies
above challenges;
Exploding like powder paint
detonating bravery.
To death the inaccessible, the never-pleadable,
start whispering, like shepherds in the fog,
lost in their utter boundlessness.
Stand and talk about the night.
I know it can be done with a mutter, stand
and listen to the walls crumbling, the projectiles
detonating, windows shattering, showering you with
broken glass.
In all the cautions you were using, my friend, you
failed to run downstairs, a veritable fount of hope
undeserved. And now I must entertain your corpse
lying motionless for days, until the sirens stop and
the digging in the park begins.
You do not hear sighs and laments
of the people who suffer by virtue of
your slaughter? Sleep my friend, in your dark cozy shelter,
for the benefit of a nation.
Tears and laughter an emotional lift;
Raw honesty heart on the page
like True North poetry is a gift;
When the peace holding you goes adrift
read each verse and smell the sage,
tears and laugher an emotional lift;
Each line composed slowly or swift
you escape from reality’s cage,
like True North poetry is a gift;
A live wire clenched in your fist
finally detonating all the rage,
tears and laughter an emotional lift;
Penning a contagious paradigm shift
finding the others who slowly engage,
like True North poetry is a gift;
With each line a lantern is lit
each phrase taking center stage;
Tears and laughter an emotional lift,
like True North poetry is a gift.
My father died when I was seven.
Like a girl in a museum I'm drawn to his pictures - those inadequate reproductions hypnotize me
What can pictures give? Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look. They exist, for me, like Cassandra of Troy, full of endless secrets that can never be told.
A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars rushing, rushing ... somewhere.
Why do the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal like the screaming of dogs in a reeling, devouring dance of energy.
The nuclear family detonating with death inches away.
Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?"
"I don't know," 7 year old me said.
Sometimes, as I fall asleep, memories of him - which I hold dear - come to me like the ghosts of departed friends. Image after image in the embracing dark.
Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?
Those images and that voice are strangely silent in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened to a world I'd rather reassemble.
Sore shoulders
Rough nightmares
In my sacred pillow
An unexpected message
From the past
Under a new name
I feel the hair on my neck tingle
I'm being watched
An autumn has passed
So much has been done
So much cannot be undone
I wake in fear
Exhale in relief
The weight has
Already been lifted
My hands aren't tied
To a detonating bomb
I rub my wrists
Free
But weirdly uncomfortable
To not have the
Handcuffs of lead
on my wrists anymore
gone
wintry
overcast
melancholic
gloom
spring
sunshine
renewing
detonating
bright
AP: Honorable Mention 2023
Submitted on March 2, 2019 for contest LIGHT UP THE PAGE sponsored by JOSEPH MAY - RANKED 3RD
sun melts away somber clouds detonating heaven's rainbowburst
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~SUNLIT RIPPLES~ 2019
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Forty million stars aglow
Neath a midnight satin sky
While a dark sensuous serenade lurks
Astride the breeze in ambush wantonly
The temptress moon suspiciously hangs low
A magical atmosphere
It sets the tone for romance
Love’s breath is in the air infectuous
As arm in arm by the seashore we stroll
Breathing in the chilly seasalt freshness
Love’s slow dance voluptuous
Pure youthful and unblemished
Detonating carefree exuberance
Glitters glint with every ludic footstep
As the moonlight sprinkles her magic dust
Forever eternally
Wishing time could just stand still
Divine perfection in every moment
Tonight’s unparalleled emotion shared
Frozen to be remembered for all times
Timid smiles turn to kisses
As two hearts entwine as one
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
We are ladies-in-waiting and martyrs,
as tears are hardened like trails
of muddy barracks…
yet in the aggressive power- courts;
each detonating bullet hemorrhages
all veins of war- torn flesh ,
our stained faces pretending to play
and underplay the hurt of wounds within.
How long are those late twilights
as we anticipate a riddled uncertainty
within our homes' rotten gates and dim lamps
for the screeching angst to halt. cease:
The radio blasts hideous self-pity
into the stings, the bladder of evenings
when a combat fires deathly pellets
through broken hearts of our sons, husbands :
Will daytime become Aurora’s reward?
Maidens of hope, we wail and quaver
for men in camouflage… dear life, speak!
Are they lost. dead. or agile?…
pained, we remain mute ladies-in-waiting.
~*~
Contest of Broken Wings: Broken-Hearted Poems
Written 10/14/2017
the onset of emotional nadir,
where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood
decrying, detonating, and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe
and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting
scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did Swiss hide dill naught
to decimate with Sherman determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times) referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware
of rebel voices yelling “HOORAY”
Info lock and load
The key does require a code
Unique to each one
These atoms that do collide
In mind is where it resides
crimson blades lay lifeless
trembling-
drowning-
savored by the gold leaflets
that long for daybreak.
fire-orange blades rage-
detonating-
rupturing-
savored by the chartreuse leaflets
that thirst for rain.
Hues of combustion remain still-
twilight ascends and alleviates
with empathy...
November 7, 2016
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