Desperation, draw me not like magnets pull
But once again let saneness possess me in full
Do not ravage me like a loin upon its prey
Block not the seeds of thoughts that come to save the day
Like limbs of a tree in the presence of a gale force wind
The heavy weight of thy encumbrance makes me bend
As a cookie being crushed underneath a fisted hand
Sapping my power, I become a broken man
Hope beyond my greatest self, suddenly appears
Dashing all desperate thoughts, releasing all my fears
Focused like a camera’s lens, my eyes see a way
Attitude and mindful thought, must have their say
Ideals forming one by one, possibilities
Desperation lost this time, healed is my choice of realities
A strange autumn this, with its closed fisted,
hollow fruitfulness.
Ashen drapes shroud listless maples, a sky
reluctant to color its face.
A hostile pestilence has worn out
the pith of those who still survive.
War has beat itself upon our shores,
and the dragons of earth and sky
have allied themselves
to the hidden worms.
The unripe fall far too soon.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
falling rain, droplet by droplet
pane pain pane
sipping on leaves
fall falling
failing to see
leaves livestock
lumbering, conceited
between the pages
their veins throbbing
as a moppet scribbles
over their bones
with primary colors
heavy-fisted, fat crayons
that melt
into the whirligig
cheek flames
and bright eyes
follow the track
jump into the raked
leaves piled high
aww, rains leaking
inside…pane…pain
child leaves it all behind
the grown kid rounds
Louisiana, not impressed
until Autumn leaves
remind and reminisce
stopping the automobile
in real time…real smooth
New Orleans beckons
but the scenic view
having said, howdy-do
is left behind with the pain
of slippery rain
In memory of John Farmer, a man so bold,
An ironworker’s tale, in stories retold.
From Local 46, his strength did shine,
In New York’s skyline, his work divine.
A skydiver brave, he soared the skies,
Twice he faced death, but still did rise.
With a heart full of courage, he took the leap,
In the clouds, his spirit, forever to keep.
He loved to cook, with a chef’s delight,
At barbecues, he’d ignite the night.
With spatula in hand, and a grin so wide,
He’d serve up joy, with friends by his side.
A two-fisted drinker, who loved his beer,
In his local pub, he’d bring good cheer.
Known by all, with a laugh so hearty,
He’d light up the room, making everyone jolly.
For John, retirement was just a fancy word for more time to play,
With friends everyday, in whatever came his way.
On April 10th, 2024, he bid us farewell,
But his stories and laughter, forever we’ll tell.
His retirement brief, yet full of zest,
John Farmer, you truly were one of the best.
Rest in peace, dear John, your legacy grand,
In our hearts and memories, you’ll always stand.
In the hollows of power’s grip,
where shadows twist the heart’s cry,
there—mights build thrones on backs bent,
where abuse wears the mask of guidance,
control, a cloak woven with the thread of fear.
Power thrives in silence, feeding on the unspoken.
Manipulation, subtle as the serpent’s whisper,
curls around dreams, tightening,
threats drip, venomous, eroding hope,
indifference, a cold moon, shuns the warmth
of a shared sun, selfishness seizes, tight-fisted,
squelching the laughter of the young, the joy of the old.
The beauty of a soul, effaced,
a canvas scrubbed too raw,
bearing the brutal strokes of unkindness—
yet, beneath this, a pulse, a flicker:
resilience, a defiance against the night,
rising, always rising, despite the crush of the dark.
The branch lays across the brook
blocking the water's flow
Some things in life happen this way
A conflict, a blockage, things to say
So much verbalized, but nothing heard
Trying to help, facing each stubborn word
Bring you in circles, trapped in this place
Where is the welcome, open space?
What makes things backwards, tangled, twisted?
Brewing in what feels double fisted
Bottom line is, it's not worth it, times like these
So, be that branch underneath the trees
Sometimes, silent is the best to be
Listen, care, but let the advice flee
To somewhere else in the water's flow
One of so many lessons to learn, this I know
Heidi Sands
1/20/24
(C)opyright
Waterways, red cliffs,
ancient underwater caves,
back to the Pangea age,
continents fused as one.
I stand in the stardust
of a million-year-old memory,
a flutter of songbirds,
a bouquet of warblers,
the wild swoop of blue jays.
Hummingbirds check me out.
My breath hovers over crimson wildflowers.
Long before the idea of a kiss,
when love was mystery,
the earth entered it’s quaternary period,
the age of humans.
A time of gestation, anticipation,
the Great Lakes birthing,
hawks soaring, the first migration.
All we see of that coded mapping
are faint skeletal imprints,
visible in glacial rock formations.
The stone I cradle, a mountain remnant,
honors the ancestral presence
and my encounter with raw existence
The lake shivers as falcons dive,
beaks and talons fisted and footed.
A drop of water touches my face.
Profound. As much as a human caress.
I read the news today the headlines said, " arming is the best way "
if only Presidents and Governments would realize, " its not the way"
Tight fisted words and nuclear explosions erode humanity's soul
we don't want to live in a world of war savants we got heart & soul,
I read the news today they got it wrong, "arming is not the way"
When sat before a blank page
I sometimes feel as lonely
as I imagine that blank page must feel
however
that blank page is also
quite stark and challenging
daunting even
it seems to be anchored there
legs apart
fisted hands lodged firmly on hips
chin tilted slightly upward
conveying the message
“C’mon I dare ya, I double dare ya!!”
looking at that blank page
I question myself
is what I’ve got
good enough to fill this page
to half fill it
to scribble on it
even a line or two
or will I just sully it
like a young boy
trampling and scuffing his way
through virgin snow
both page and snow
far, far better
if left well alone
however
like that young boy
I do trample and scuff my way
through that blank page
and view my efforts
with a more than probably
unearned sense of pride
but
and here’s the rub
like that young boy
I feel pretty good about myself
as I step back
and view my handiwork
be it good, bad or indifferent.
Mocking the dead,
the vampire on the hill, high
above the cityscape. Why
does his cloak wrap around?
It moves with a hissing sound,
blackened on the outside,
blue on the molten graveside.
Sharpening incisors on the crag,
but
the villagers with their worn rags
tight fisted with their goodly lights -
those lanterns, infused with salt
of garlic, compelled forward in the dead
of night. Mockers and murderers, fed
by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread.
Hell,
the strangulation of fire, lava rolling
down the hill. Mocking, laughter -
the shivering of the old church rafters.
The reborn, new creation, settled
on roof-blowing praise. Nettled,
old Nick, the vampire king unsettled.
Mocking the dead,
making his own bed, jutting at jugulars,
darkening the atmosphere, drawing
congregants, unholy. But, someone holy
has his heels on the vampire’s head.
He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling.
The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.
Freezing me you're a bend in time;
Forcing my arch making me lurch
I gasp for air in a sweaty panic;
My pulsing hourglass is about to pop;
Forcing my arch making me lurch;
Those delicate keyboard strokes;
A life stolen by your close fisted kiss;
I gasp for air in a sweaty panic,
where did my sense of reason go?
Your run has broken my stopwatch;
My pulsing hourglass is about to pop
to savor this juncture over and over;
For in your eyes nothing's left of Earth.
The Sacred Meow Society
The sacred meow society
Dripping in their jewels
They lead with unseen fisted paw
Make no deals with mice nor fools
Their eyes as gold as gleaming crowns
Resting on furry heads
Poor beast who dares to cross them
Would be lucky to be dead
They are the Meow Society
In decadence and fur,
When they run
(A sight uncommon)
They are naught but a blur
With tails like whips
And swords on hips
And brains just like a crow
The Sacred Meow Society
Most formidable of foes.
"What is life but a succession of preludes to unwritten words . . . "
Quote by_Constance La France
BLANK PAGES OF A DOORMAT
a touch of emotion is what she’s after…his touch a fire
lit inside their combatant stoves…pen ought to inspire
tit and tat attention, enclosed in verbal laundromat -
mumbling and tumbling inside - the words of a doormat
no conception in this tight-fisted vestibule - counselor points
to a list of verbs, nouns, adjectives - each word disappoints
11/14/2022
WRITING CHALLENGE - ''V'' Forms
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Writing
Chairman Xi, like Chairman Mao
Vladimir Putin, shades of Josef Stalin
Kim Jong-un, plus Recep Tayyip Erdogan
Iranian Mullahs producing drones and bombs
Our world is an awfully dangerous place
Yet America's response is a first-class disgrace
Yesterday Congress' focus on International Pronoun Day
At New York's UN today, autocrats against Israel inveigh
At home, crime's way up, 'so' we end cash bail
Why not let all the thugs out of jail
To protect its citizenry, America's government once existed
Now it opens the borders, its explanations ham-fisted
Add to all this rampant inflation, rising racial tensions
Plus self-defeating 'green goals' and underfunded pensions...
The 'threat to democracy' shouters couldn't be more wrong
The reason it's real ~ America misguided is no longer strong
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