Poetry is not the
manipulation of lyrics,
as the mechanic tunes
to sound using ears – but,
deeper yet, vital articulations,
the spirit manifesting its
vibrations (essence-forms)
onto paper, for the eyes
to read and the mind to
soulfully respond. Poetry
must electrify, surge across
interior meridians, leaping
established barriers prior
to explosively exiting!
Poetry must carry the
nature of all that is
unseen, pleading to
surface, to know the love
and warmth of others,
as a child needing
weaning and burping –
poetry is not an art...
It is our God of Living
Words.
The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster
Underfoot the dropped was-so-lost pen breaks snapping its midnight ink artery to spurt explosively out like some imprisoned force nearly dead but risen sucking in saving air
while dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black pitch arcs streaking fall staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn between a sofa and yellow armchair there will be an awful task to clean this
now like aJackson Pollock’s winking quickly cast so rapidly set.
After the stroke we gape as the room itself clutches a stiller life mood blank in an erased atmosphere forgetting any will to find a contour of drawn new breath or speech only yet
whispers of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time when the
corpse lies in its open casket
under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers by Rilke
until finally someone declares the tragedy past turning to suggest the use of gold leaf rather than ink on the outlines of the next drawing of the hour as it may proceed.
**********. **********. **********. **********
(C) sally Young Eslinger 11/2020
Thanks be to God
See circusy topic show start through an end
Flamboyances color by number with pen
Utensils swirl-shade as lead subjects decide
Outsparkle in arc-flash or well to subside
Resharpened perceptions concluding attend
Straight forwardly semblance curves back trope betide
Choice obvious reasons sound minded lines time
Due melioration emended pends then
Omega friends alpha preferences blend
Explosively visions seam clown shoes provide
Smile your love across my life
Hold my face inside your thoughts
Talk with fingers on my spine
Whisper your lips over my longing
Fold your warmth around my ice
And speak with words so soundless
"'ana 'uhibbouk
Je t'aime
Ich liebe dich
I love you"
I spell your sibilants breathlessly
Until you arch me to a crescent
Screaming your name in silence
Under your fingers I come alive
Your name, love, your passion
Imploding explosively
Rendered your elixir within flowing fire
turned my head till flames got higher
'neath vapors' influence lustfully burning,
imbibed upon insatiable blushed lips
feverish craving ignited darkly melting hours
intoxicated of ravenously absorbed flamings
zealous ardor pulsing beyond desires,
hungry to the bone poured of unrelenting fervor
skin soaked in mania's intensified voracity,
unrestrained cries out resonating wanton tongues
dizzying gypsy soul dripping sinfully impassioned
liquid quenching glow farther impulsive madness,
scent of mounting sensitivity's rush marinating
'neath rhythmical torrid undulations gushing
through every explosively satiated vessel,
breathlessness melded 'tween kindled ascendancy
exploiting drunkenness of volatile ardent spirits
“Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”
Omar Khayyám
The sky rumbles and grumbles,
As cold wind moves swiftly ,
Lightning flashes illuminate the dark clouds ,
Dirt and dusts dance to this rhythm,
As zinc roofing sheets drum along ;
Branches of trees add vibes to this music,
The sky grumbles explosively again,
Legs running to hide and heads hiding for cover;
Tasty soil rejoices for aqua is about to come;
Praying mantis, duck and farmers prayers are about to be answered,
‘Pratatata….boom! ‘the sky speaks again,
As sprays of water fall on the land.
DATE:8-12-2016
CONTEST:Wordscapes by John Hamilton
The Big Race
The 3200-meter runner started preparing for the “Big Race”
He stretched in his lane getting ready both phsycially and psychologically
He apprehensively took a stance, waiting for the starting gun
As the Ref said the words, “Ready, Set, Go.”
The gun explosively went off and so did the race
The Runners sped around the first curve like there was no tomorrow
He worked his way up and through the front of the pack
He accelerated, overtaking the pack, and stayed ahead
With only one lap left, he sprinted his hardest
He crossed the Finishline and WON that shiny
Gold Medal he had worked so hard for . . . . . . .
Travis “Ceijaeh” Klein
Love's light shines through the night;
it washes me clean.
I am born of sunrise; every single ray.
Every living day has lived through me.
My morning; explosively glorious.
My noon; sustaining and vibrant.
It is here...
Here, in my gold-drenched mid afternoon glory,
I see...
I see how wonderfully consuming my sunset will be.
Our rays are eternal...
There it is, way deep down,
In my loins,
Teeming passion
Boiling upward, to my belly,
Reaching the pit of my stomach, tightly tied in knots.
From there,
Surging up my esophagus/windpipe,
Making me feel sick, gasping for breath
Running, dashing headlong
There at the back of my throat,
The scream surge intersects the brains message.
The two intertwine and merge to become
Forceful, powerful, ferocious, etc.,
And together force its way
Outward, explosively.
A scream, bloodcurdling.
A scream, deafening.
A scream, attention getting.
A scream, head turning.
A scream, imploding instead.
Tumbling down from the heights,
Falling back as ordered.
A scream, silent,
Deafening silence
Hear it? See it?
December 15, 2013
Screaming crow perched atop the flat screen,
messages from the otherside fold in to skin
invisble current
Flowing angrily against grinding teeth
The ruckus awakens deep within us
something terribly holy,
something irregularly pure
pouring
out eyes too awake for a somnambulant world
drowning in prescription whirlpools
Open door, mentholated air,
lungs bleed against the sky falling
Crashing in to anything we beleive
anything we understand
miniscule molecules
explosively disingenuous
and broken
no longer original
no longer transparent
or beloved
Isn't it interstingly humorous
that our bones become hollow
from the words we forge
from weakened states
of being
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