What mystery binds his poesy,
what purpose is behind his art:
to pose, “To be, or not to be?”
confronts the self-reflecting heart?
What destiny has this poet,
what future prospects wait for him,
when his words pretend to know it,
but the skeptics won't explore them?
Truth's cryptic message hides in rhymes,
chameleon-like, and spreads as memes,
disguised, rewritten several times,
to fit his coded, programmed themes.
The Enigma of this poesy's rhyme,
and process, meant for the clever mind,
to search their inmost, heartfelt clime,
to peel back the puzzle's layered rind.
Enigma
He who has no name lies waiting in the echos
Of my mind waiting for slumber
He invades my dreams like a dog shaking a rat
Tormenting me until the dawn slips back into darkness
Daylight keeps this vampire at bay though I feel his
Presence following me in the shadow
Seldom a day goes by when I dont hear his call
Sometimes far sometimes near
As the sun starts to set I feel him begin to move
They say the body needs eight hours of sleep
I’ll settle for less
Dogma Enigma
When the pedophile is god
and genocide is good
when caring for the other
is a never not a should
when race is a weapon
and gender is revoked
when science is blasphemy
and climate change a hoax
Resist the urge to reason
you will just be labelled woke
Space is positioned
above all between what we feel,
and what we see...
The universe flourishes,
between the void and the invisible...
And it forms independently
in the same way it has always been...
I fear that man will destroy
what he finds here,
before knowing what is there...!
Under the solar system
in our basement I sat,
copying schematics of
superheterodyne radios
from a book on electronics,
while my dad, across from me,
stood at his drawing board
illustrating advertisements
for feed and farm equipment.
The floor was painted blood red,
the walls bandage white—
a battlefield made tidy.
The dehumidifier murmured its hymn
beneath Saladin’s ceramic gaze,
his turbaned brow inscrutable
as my father bent to sketch
a combine in perfect perspective.
And why Saladin’s head?
What did it mean to my dad,
this sultan of Egypt and Syria?
Did he admire the general
for how he fought with honor
or just like the look of him—
that calm authority,
that stylized beard?
Was it a joke I never got,
or a reminder
of some private war?
Saladin’s head—
commanding,
noble,
a little creepy—
still hangs
somewhere in my mind,
a relic or a riddle,
watching as I trace new lines
through circuits of memory,
searching for my father’s face.
Missed links
Clawed wings, blue cheeks,
Rufous crest, maroon eyes
Gawky gait, baffling diet, odd
Bird stinks*
*Hoatzin bird
I knew a gent
ramrod straight
meticulously dressed
Shoes laced tight
polished to a ‘t’
Vest, exquisite timepiece
Punctual meant
ten minutes early
Sipped tea, no coffee
Poker face, played whist
dined fastidiously
Folded the ‘financials’ just so
No hint of a lady or passion
when he vanished
His timepiece was found, stopped
We came,
we saw,
where are we going!
Let's say I am the woman you seek, a silent shadow, a gentle enigma,
with a discreet smile and few words, a delicate presence that doesn't overshadow,
you might think I am calm, easy to love, a fragile being by my very nature,
but inside—God, inside I'm another story, another universe.
Within me hides a coldness, an almost selfish self-love,
I look at people and feel nothing, listen to their stories and just pretend,
the truth is I prefer to forget rather than care, to remember without purpose,
I smile, nod, say the right words, but I know I am different.
I don't want to be like them, for their world seems pale to me, their light dim,
perhaps I was born this way, or perhaps somewhere, sometime, I chose another path,
a path where love is a game that doesn't attract me, and kindness is a mask,
which I wear every day, and yet, you will never know the truth.
Because I show exactly what you want to see, a face sculpted in your desires,
a hidden dream that always keeps its distance, a mystery you cannot unravel.
time
suspended
surprises
buried
inception
cancelled...!
Darkness holds a place in the chamber,
The uncanny weaves the mind,
There’s an emergence of the strange,
There’s a masking of the odd.
January 19, 2024.
Enigma Is no Mirage
Creation station
that's you
imagination
every idea
becomes a new thing
You are unstoppable
I love it about you
I am so damn proud of you
and love to be around you
You make me think all the time
and spark me up in time
nothing is out of line
we just love to be together...
My Enigma is no Mirage
even with his idea barrage
they are very tangible
so many are substantial!
Enigma is no Mirage to Peter 1/10/2024 12:56 AM (C) Susan Manley
"We live, yet the creator's name,
Remains unknown, an eternal flame.
Beyond parents, beyond earthly might,
Lies the mystery of our cosmic birthright.
This universe, a grand design,
Planets, galaxies, intertwined.
Our world, a haven, perfectly crafted,
For life to thrive, with every element crafted.
The human body, a marvel of might,
Digestive system, a symphony in sight.
Brain and mind, a puzzle so grand,
Capacity for growth, an endless expand.
But why do we strive, never content?
Why do we differ from animals' bent?
Why can't we soar through the open sky?
Questions lingering, as we wonder why.
Religion and language, human-made?
Or divine gifts, our souls to sway?
We fight for power, for fleeting fame,
Yet, in the end, our time's the same.
No power can stop our final call,
Death's inevitability, we must face all.
Then why do we bleed, why do we kill?
Is it for power, or an endless will?
Perhaps the answer lies within,
A reflection of our shared human kin.
Embracing love, compassion, and peace,
Might be the purpose we can't release."
Raking in yet another pot
the enigma had won an awful lot
Then a premature bid to leave
served him right in the temple
~ he was shot
It comes from time to time upon a wind
that wafts aromas fragrant to a mind
now wakened from long sleep.
And yet, perplexed, he is resigned
to yet again concede his own defeat,
a yoked, unequal partner, when they meet
as man and muse combined.
Then unannounced, it parts and leaves him much chagrined.
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A 'Mistress Bradstreet' stanza - 10a:10b:6c:8b:10d:10d:6b:12a
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