Frozen in Time
For seventy years and counting,
Every photograph and every newsreel,
Every home movie and every video,
I feature distantly frozen in time.
Millions if not billions of images,
I am invisible but none the less there.
Yes, I am seen in the family album,
Snapshots of change growing older.
My fascination lies in the background,
Ever present but rarely in sight.
Lurking in the shadow of others,
Is this too deep, what does it mean.
curly sue was enjoying lovely daisies and holly hocks too
she was soon surrounded by flowers of pink, red and blue
a picture was taken and published in a newspaper by Lu
a woman distantly related to the adorable young curly sue
"God did not create darkness. Darkness is the absence of light. He did not create hate. Hate is the absence of love. Darkness and hate therefore, are the absence of God." ~ by poet
Kept apart by time, miles, and circumstance,
their sweet reunion quivers with passion.
Seen distantly across the bridge, they ran.
Teeth, lips, and bodies collide, devouring.
Laughter between kisses, that look of love...
hands caress faces, hair, thumb brushing lips.
Skies break, thunder applauds, and storm clouds weep.
The clean scent of cool rain upon hot skin...
Steam hisses from this idyllic love scene.
Their embrace declares true love without words.
She, in her Easter bonnet
Standing beneath the shade,
Alongside gentlemen in top hats
To view an Easter parade
Church bells ring distantly
Showy, white lilies sway,
Waving to sweet daffodils
On this springtime holiday
Baskets with chocolate rabbits
Jelly beans and colored eggs,
Are carried by happy children
Running by on pudgy legs
A whirl of pastel colors
Meant to delight the eye,
Like the first time seeing
A robin or a butterfly
Joyous music fills the air and
Easter dinner is on the way,
Ham and pineapple wait at home
To round out this special day!
I’ve seen it, late those myriad afternoons—
A twilight blush, first waiting patiently
to welcome back your scintillating beauty,
next succumbing to your mild midnight swoons;
Your sapphire eyes then gleamed as glowing moons—
Though here facing me, near enough to see,
distantly they shone, reflecting the glee ?of more divinely animated tunes;
Yet, stretching out, I could not seem to reach
your spirit, could not stir your astral soul.
With the stars, glittering light-years away,
you were much too remote for wordly touch.
O me, what fool such a faraway goal
would chase? Was it not wiser home to stay?
I can see the black light burn
run in time to the rage of the rhythm
of ages, all is covered in neon dreams
suicidal screams, my pain, n rage
are my own. I feel it like black light
in my eyes, in my brain, it bleeds
the edge of my humanity
it's the scars or my secret shame
my internal war
Heaven light falls not upon my sands
I live in the blackest of nights
huddle around a burning black light
pushing back the folds of time
I’m not myself
it bleeds into my mind the past
a war of the insane
all falls distantly into a drain
I am my pain, my strife of rage
my insanity, my profane
oh, come my sacred rain
wash away my soul
as the black light burns
runs, the light reflects nothing
no more all is gone lost
evermore nothing
nevermore
on follies shores
Walking through the door of my childhood home
brought back tsunami of wisdom overture.
Tastes and colours in décor change with culture;
varied pallet of history in lands roam’.
My children had turned out to be a challenge
as they had early on displayed my talent
for examining and questioning latent
defects papered over; now seeking balance.
We’d a small, intimate wedding reception.
The wallpaper in the lounge is instantly
recognisable (like kin related distantly),
from the photos. No inkling of deception.
My parents had asked this sweet sixteen to voice
her preference for bedroom to replace staid
pattern reminiscent of a fabric plaid.
But they had vetoed black and white Op Art choice.
The celebrations of the many milestones,
spanning the blessed years of three generations
firmly recorded in the decorations;
layers of peeling wallpaper to bare bones.
On the eve of that somber, stormy night,
I began to see strings of spring swirling soundlessly
along the thread-thin blade of this culinary cutlery.
Why does gravity lay on thick in this silver steel accessory?
If only you knew, where there is a subtle screech of harmony,
there is a violent war viciously humming melancholy.
As the dust of what was once obscure drops from the passing clouds,
it sets in an assembly of soft, dull vowels,
waiting for the rug of grass to spread a path to the furthest mountain.
Why do I feel no raging colors from the twilight
yet see them so vibrantly?
How do I know nothing of summoning my movements,
when this adrenaline speaks distantly?
Alone, a rush of flame once formed, now shows the demons in the storm.
When this flesh and bones become one with the unpredictable elements,
I hope what prevails is the lore of my regiments,
where I bled into the disasters of my own shortcomings,
learning to rest without a bruise as I drown.
The Sorrow of the Skies
The sun and the moon were once great lovers
In ancient days gone by.
The clouds formed from their sorrow, and the rain, when they would cry.
For this pitiable couple were cruelly cursed to be apart, alas,
To share the same vast blue home forever, but only distantly could pass.
The sun on the side of the bright days,
The moon on the dark night's side …and when one was fully visible, the other had to hide.
Who cursed this pair, so sweetly in love, to be near but always too far?
The jealous, mischievous Little lights, the bitter, hateful stars.
So when sadly we are witnesses when true love sometimes goes truly bad,
We say the lovers are “star-crossed”, for the stars crossed out the love they had.
Your bones are scattered in a boggy field -
it happens all the time.
Time is your pocket handkerchief,
your shattered wristwatch,
your best evening pants,
all reduced to insect dust.
Hundreds of years later
they discover,
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw,
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Bit by bit your skull is discovered.
Eventually they have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness
of your skull.
Your life is so distantly buried into the past,
that the new beings have to speculate...
some assume you died,
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
others that you succumbed to a
primitive tooth condition.
None ever guess,
that you flew off your girlfriends Honda,
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road
in darkest Derbyshire.
allow me to steal
the world instead of giving
it away, I lye
here on distantly dry stones
and not within your feathers
Multitudinous bells secern the tones
as may resound sharp bamboo xylophones.
Pulchritudinous bells have rhythmic ding,
others that linger with tedious ring.
Some little bells can echo a jingle
that surely bestow a Christmas tingle.
Quite many bells ting melodious chime
prompting our schedule's punctilious time.
A carillons' unique, harmonized bells
swing from gentleness to overtone swells.
Suspended bronze discs reach resonant gongs,
characterized by gregarious songs.
A bittersweet bell that distantly tolls
announces angelic release of souls.
Only snows up there
in the mountains, distantly
horizon's mirage
Hypothetically
we could drive all the way there
but gas costs too much
So they just sit there
like un-touchable artwork
beyond the cities
I've gone there before
trips in California snow
a long time ago
Upon this rock, was my fate etched
By the hands of Akooke Olemo.
I lingered on her laps like mummy’s boy,
Though my own blood at me, distantly beckoned.
Her Martian hand nurtured and nourished me,
And made me dance to the Luo drumbeats;
Singing sweet songs in tongues, tongues of discord;
Music that ruggedly rutted the faces of my kinsmen!
Then our native drums sounded a call,
A call to a wayward son of the soil,
An invitation long awaited,
A time for initiation into the ways of Ateker.
And to the cadence of Atenus beats, my feet did rebel.
Now, to my motherly rock, I must return;
For in her rough rugged back,
Was my dismally dark destiny scribbled:
“Emoit.”
Going home
across the Shard bridge
spanning a rattle-snaked river
that bites into the Irish sea
cold-bloodedly pumping
into Fleetwood's gaping fish-mouth.
Here birthmarks
are branded with icons
like beach lighthouse at Rossall Point
as Northwesterly winds
whistle across the dinosaur ribbed sands.
Yet towers still sentinel
over the dark valley
riveted in iron, rusted russet
like warships wrought from steel,
but aspire
like a winged-spirit
above backstreet's cobbled lanes
that echo with drunken frenzy.
The river's stenched breath
perfumes the breeze with sewage leaks
as passing tankers head north
and farm slurry seeps into pure veins.
Distantly,
Alveley's coalfields fade
whose ashen sides once licked
red ulcers with embered tongues.
Their slag banks were stacked
near St Michael's
whose hidden eddies still swollow
many a beautifully troubled mind.
Now the future skies
spread star-spangled
glowing with fractured light
sparks that guide strangers
embracing Morecambe bay's wide
open seas
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