Eye-lid, of no moonbeam
Drowsy-lowered, pierced.
That fair vision of, itself reawakes.
As pale-gleamy faced.
Eardrum, of no curlew
Headrest-numbing, pricked.
Those wounded tones of, it, too, does make ring.
As pathetic traced.
Shawls,
of dream,
clouds droll wink,
serene skim oe’r,
dark grey urban plinths,
that pierce glazed amber sky,
sonic bell toll’s eardrum plops,
impetus to stir first flush throng,
plumes of steam from gurgling pool billow,
a fickle fountain sprinkles high-pitch wail
Horny Lizard Music
I “Slap Uh the bass”
Gosh darn...
Lizard Brain...
Cold Blooded?
What the heck???
A Speck of Dust in the Eardrum
Humm...
Strum, strum, strum away...
Echo Location
Whale, Monkey, Eagle, Lizard, Dragon, Snake, Bear, Wolf, Pig, Dawg, and “Mouse”
This is a crazy thing to talk about
NOT in MY house...
Just saying
Pick up that bass and go back to “slaying”
Hey...
Is for Horses???
NOT for kids...
Heavy weight of these advances,
backed into no second chances.
Caught in how your woo romances
gasps and glances, gasps and glances.
Gruff whisper hitting my eardrum,
oh how you make my body hum.
Don’t leave me begging to get some
I detest numb, I detest numb.
Finesse me with a bit of rough,
I beg you handsome, call my bluff.
You’ll find that I am tough enough
get off that duff, get off that duff.
A howling rain that blotch upon my skin,
autumn rambler through that tangled leaf maze,
I am the deathly veined nightmare tomb,
whose dance macabre ghost ridden blight,
a morose bell toll clatter eardrum jinx,
blank ink bead choker voodoo last curtain,
light fusing blind host to nonexistence,
undertaker’s tool in morbid trade
Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.
That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.
Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.
Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.
So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.
So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.
Lugubrious blue mood skies funereal and morose shed raindrops,
they unleash tableau vivant torrent’s wet tranche,
blessing, bane or boon from vault of heaven,
damp pearl blob bewitching moisture mellow morph form,
the stuff of less than benign grumpy weather grouch,
whose plight infuses yen for sun-drenched bliss,
haven of the ultra-violet swathe enthusiast,
for others raindrops are a liquid gem relish firmament bequeathed,
to whet voracious craving of nascent pastures,
whose gaunt green blade emaciating stillborn,
that aqueous honey to hue-blazed floral garden in situ bloomers,
who swallow cloudburst drizzle meed in muted slurps,
droplet streak and spiral bubble patten on top hung awning window,
empyrean tear beads that roof top tap dance ritual,
so tantalising to the awestruck spellbound eardrum,
or impromptu downward dribbles on romantic saunterers,
prompting boisterous laughter as they flaunt their dome transparent chromium truss umbrella,
those enraptured red-blooded refugees beneath tilting gust spun bumbershoot,
as mud splatter cherry cheek urchins shriek,
amid the spray and splash globules at agile finger tips
High fidelity
reverberates well
truth of God's message
ringing yon eardrum
reaching depths of heart...
...toward freedom
soul's salvation
liberating
faith to spread news...
...echoing
love and grace*
joy of peace...
...clear for
all to...
...hear!
*Ephesians 2:8-9 For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.
April 18, 2024
The wind takes an eardrum,
and fills it with hail.
The waves crash beyond me
on an unbeaten trail.
There are men here who think
they’ve found victory and wealth,
but the giant’s run-off,
and left for his health.
What do you see in my emaciated emerald eyes?
Idealism or someone lost in love and hatred
Birds eat my meat thrown on the clean floor
A death sentence has passed on my sick neck
Don't grind your teeth as you walk on my rotting body
My blood has become fertilizer for the roads of the raging seas
The breeze plays with our scattered hearts, then the calm of the nights
And your turbulent feelings as material for my disordered heart
The fingers of the gods are pointing at my brain, lying on the table
And the devils enjoy the smell of my guts in the bathtub
And there you see my hopes floating like a pure beast
where am I?
Why do you see me and embrace my soul after all that?
Your eardrum is dull, let's blow it
Or blew my heart after you research its place in the "home"
X marks the spot - teeny fingers tap colors.
Youngster’s attentive to the rainbow bars.
Language of a rambunctious or prissy toddler.
Oscar music songbook exalts experience.
Potent stick and head, of a kinetic hammer,
Hones in on the eight tones, piercing the eardrum
Of the voracious student sounding the glockenspiel.
Newness of counting, colors, pounding, music;
Eyes, ears, and fine motor skills titillated.
4/28/2023
Contest: Writing Challenge - Words with 'X'
Sponsor: Constance La France
Tired of the mind stuff.
It's hard to be free
of all those words
that drag behind like a long chain,
clinking in the silence.
Each weighted step leaves evidence,
deep prints beyond the reach
of waves and tide. They stay,
fossilized in stone, stretched back
across time, hanging on
to the heel and added to
by every taken step.
Think of wading out to the line
of breakers, feeling water
burrow into the eardrum,
offering oceans and fathomless
depths where only the light
from exotic creatures punctuate
the dark with their luminescence
pulsing along tentacles or dangled
in front of ferocious mouths.
These are the guardians
of forgetfulness, custodians
of dreamless sleep in which
even words dissolve
and wait in a nowhere
to become something
or nothing at all.
Who is worthy to challenge the wrongs
He spoke on the air
With connection they heared
With language they understand
He proclaim the ainful manners in him
Spoke the stones of words in him
To quell misused powers
Sending lives to uncoming journey
He spoke the word
Into the eardrum for man to act upon
No one is ready to make the words meaningful
To these barbaric in nature living
The demagogue never delve into the words
The fire has gone out
Who will quench it?
The man has be bruise
The fire-hood of this world
Is for only those who can take heart
To be brave and endure
The pain of the world
Having been lacking hearing since childhood
not completely but without it in full
remember Xrays at six showing irregularity
but nothing could be done where I stood
Only partial deaf on my right side
which was to my detriment to learn
but left school at 15, to be at work
so was still able to work and earn
So many years later hearing grew worse
then got hearing aids from National Health
at first, was helpful but never great
as wax in the eardrum was a real curse
Syringe my ears were now required
as the wax filled my ears so much
but the hearing was very inconsistent
as drastic action now being retired
Now I paid private and went digital
waxing lyrically with my sound
what a difference3 that was made
as I hear words clearly now I've found
So the lesson learned is don't give up
even when you think it will fail
maybe there's something around the corner
to release you from your deaf jail
Upon the mango tree I hear a cuckoo call,
Its call returned by it’s beloved one,
Sweet strident songs upon my eardrum fall.
Harbinger of sweet scented summer squall,
Just before sweltering summer's done,
Upon the mango tree I hear a cuckoo call.
The crow builds nest upon crannied wall,
The cuckoo lays eggs, on its fill of fun,
Sweet strident songs upon my eardrum fall.
The cuckold's crown to the crows befall,
‘Tis a well-known tale, known to everyone;
Upon the mango tree I hear a cuckoo call.
Summer makes me stay in cool and shady hall,
The cuckoos sing, mate merrily in the sun,
Sweet strident songs upon my eardrum fall.
I’m sure, like ne’er before, this’ll make a cuckold gall,
As it echoes through street and wayside stall.
Upon the mango tree I hear a cuckoo call,
Sweet strident songs upon my eardrum fall.
~kcm
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