Is the tangerine tranquility
of divine signature—
a chlorophyll sanctum
for kindled minds,
where identity softens
into its sovereign form.
Uniqueness glistens
like diamonds in agate woods,
flowing like a brook
through silenced seastorms,
casting resilient ripples
of peace in chaos.
Kaleidoscopic hues
lather liberation
in lilac breath,
woven through rose-glazed silk,
layering thy self
beyond binary divides.
Weaving a raspberry mirage,
condensing orbits once defined,
gravity kneels to lucid silhouettes —
where polarization, veiled in vines,
drifts through phantoms of shadowed memes,
labeling itself among quiet captives.
Appearance deceives—
a haunted massacre,
gnawing at edges
of borrowed illusions,
trapped in the coffin
of jinxed confessions.
Still, I yearn for that foetal light—
a harlequin armour
on mannequin soul,
held by the thinnest threads
of clairvoyant defiance,
tethered to becoming.
Dusk drapes the horizon
in crimson hush,
penning butter-paper dreams
into the murmuring breeze,
where buried silence exhales
fractured fragments of valour.
Lose antennae? I’m a beetle!
Not one bug in Aleghenny
(at least, none you’ll ever meet’ll)
lose antennae.
Luck with chicks? I won’t have any!
Directionless, centripetal,
wireless wimps are ten a penny!
What now? Curl up? Adopt the foetal
position? Move to Kilkenny?
No proud pest in any street’ll
lose antennae.
Nose
Once a year my
long ears and long snout, exhausting to
tolerate, disconcerting, are lined with
mother-of-pearl.
I can convert my
long nostrils into
wafer.
I reprimand painfully my
very plain features.
Adorable, lovable, they aren’t so
that must mean
I aren’t!
I can with my
big nostrils squeaks cause
very hard circumstances to
the possums, and the one or
two bats who think
my attic is
their home.
I sneezed the other day and from
my left nostril ejected a
neon-blue statement made under oath about
the misuse of
placenta and foetal membranes.
Zygote ideas crowd cobwebbed thoughts.
Foetal creations evolving...
Yearning for life.
Crammed in empty wombs
Contracted by phantom possibilities
Gatekeepers to life
Aborted hopes and dreams
Fear laced life blood...
trickles away with the sands of time...
Again.
In the whisper of a moonlight stream I heard her sigh or so I thought,
in the rustle of a mottled deer in oak pine forests I heard her weep or thought I did,
or maybe laugh when flitting brightly over jagged rocks.
Upon the silver tides a figure fitting her description swam or maybe drowned or even vanished in the neon haze.
Earth mother, birth mother, bosom to an infant chain,
whose layered womb pulses to infinity,
whose foetal spark aches
for her many sibling forms to coalesce or come to term.
Teacups by the sink.
Lamentations laid to rest.
I, a foetal curl,
Breathing in your life, now gone
Cocooned in your unwashed shirt.
dinosaurs wilted
their floppy necks curled
foetal position
defeated by life
lights suddenly out
cruel death peaceful
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted on June 18, 2018 for contest WHEN SIX LINES IS A PERFECT FIX sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
The Poets Plucker….. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Here in my cold lonely bed I ponder my all
I have FEARS in SOLITUDE of being alone
DEJECTION of my love had pierced my heart…..yet
THE NIGHTINGALE sings lustily a cheerful tune
My consciousness behaves as EOLIAN HARP
as Coleridge poem suggests full of delusion
So through opaque glass my window I cannot see
FROST AT MIDNIGHT has now spoilt for me this vision
So with dejection, curl into a foetal ball
hiding In THIS LIME-TREE BOWER A PRISON MAKE
I await my fate, wondering will my heart heal
Will I from my ongoing pity…soon awake
penned 5 February 2017
A shrivelled presence.
A mere shadow.
Curled tightly in
foetal submission
unconscious tae owr
subconscious fears.
Eyes dart back
an fourth amongst
the participants in
this ritual of ruination.
Never lingering though
fir fear of also
being snared in
the abyss's gaze.
What is naked? Without clothes?
Sky clad nightmare feeling shame?
Or deepest secrets all exposed?
Wretched, woeful, just the same
Stripped and helpless to them all
Friends and foes just point and laugh
Curled up in a foetal ball
Fragile façade epitaph
So do I yield? Give up? Withdraw?
Cower from the searing light
Let my guilt just ache and gnaw
Shrivel up without a fight
Or do I stand both strong and proud
Exhibit all! Here's what I've got!
Cry out, berate, exclaim out loud
I'm starking naked! Well? So what?
Foetal feet kicked fortresses releasing archaic tome's of reason. Would one really laugh at a painted toenail? Dusty Devine knowledge occurs in every era. But swept by caretakers whose bodies like caterpillars adjust machinery dutifully. For a great deal of power is a relay race of a bull,a lemon lady, a blackbird, and a sea lion with a white candyfloss hair do. Hahahaha watch that run round the circuits. Timing is irrelevant if hit by a beam from the sky temples. Adjust hats accordingly. Little grinning cats prefer lilac whilst larger breeds prefer a nice straw sombrero. Ola. Sing song similar strike. Stroke not a wild mare on a picnic. One should concentrate upon consummation of lettuce leaves on toast. For sitting nearby are the rabbits. Who have arrived in magnificent numbers. Cause and effect of carrot cake then. Hahahaha and now a rake with five arms and ten legs glowing in a tunnel. Hahahaha mince of a floor is flourishing. Xxxx dactylographic z
It is a nagging subject,
this quest within the mind
to reach beyond the self to
that great universal churning
of the truth-- unfolding rays of light
we may not quite depend upon, yet
praise. It does not go away.
One may be thankful. Truth
has a way of coming back.
Another self, autonomous, may then
step up, select a gleam, do with it
as the will dictates, and toss it in.
Caution! The cauldron seethes;
belief is on the dock, tender, foetal,
vulnerable to scrutiny--not yet
worthy of the eyes of time.
It may still moil an instant
(or millenium) emerging as
an honored tool, or ignominious,
lost, unworthy, slipping
quietly away as it is found.
There you have it, an elusive servant
but our single hope of nurture
for an ever infant cry that resonates
throughout the ages:
Tell me why.
~
Sentences dripping with meaning, we sit,
Foetal in a blissfully repetitive equation,
Extinguished stumps of trees taking brief roots
On a plastic surface a meteor’s distance above;
A flood of harmony resumes under the clinical glow of misspent youth.
Condensation condescends from dull walls
Saturated with dim impressionable images,
Ideas shaped to a teardrop’s curve leaking
From cloud-like minds to dry tongues in a leaden cavalcade;
Thus everything means anything insightful anymore.
We ascend in drowsy downpour of precise procedure,
Ending this sodden epoch for the molten notes
And clean ceiling-clung starlight of a place beyond The Box.
Prepared illusion is the offering;
you are invited to remain, sustain
your pre-ordained existence as you wish.
The cost is just your freedom--
non-negotiable, I fear, but then
our common heritage is that
which sometimes we call God--
something cosmic bouncing
in the foetal twilight of our brains.
It may be envy of an innocence
that some will hold
fast to their breasts, never tasting
the largesse before us,
never wise as we, approaching
spirit delectation sensibly
with appetence forever unresolved.
Perhaps the church is right;
creation acts ex nihilo,
for even chimera presents
its shining mental child
amidst the atoms of the mind
irresolute to celebrate its own.
As for the mind, it too
shrinks from the questions
of its birth. There are no answers
and the feast serves questions of its own--
those as well, illusory. As such
I may be pardoned for my lack of faith in God.
My words are product of an emptiness
conterminous with me.
The good news is
I have some timelessness
to deal with that.
~
A man stands on a hilltop, weeping.
Come and see.
For he has watched a nation unaware,
chipped away to just this memory.
We'd found that we could meet a war,
and through a sacrifice to find its end
and then in one obscenity, (a burst of light)
attended with our souls the foetal cavity
of madness--gave to the world
a blood-besotted flag,
and yielded up its ghost.
His tears come hotter, for
they cannot be assuaged.
Once we knew that love existed.
Beauty quietly confirmed itself
before our eyes; we had a god
and ate his flesh, and drank of him--
and once we lost ourselves in moonlight.
Once we sang.
And shall we turn away?
Such grief is unconsolable
and may not be forever shared.
The man has tears enough for us.
Our nation, swept away by greed,
left us only with this hilltop.
Come, and let us find the strength
for our own weeping,
our own blasphemous eternity.
~
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