Slender sapling sprouts budding
from the sub-soil seed,
trembles in the convivial wake
of the bracing breeze.
Forking boughs flutter like verdant wings,
nascent leaves look up sparkling
to the rising sun of promise,
soaking them with sheen of a new life.
Turning seasons bring rain and shine,
strong roots grip the ground firmly.
It grows up in the air of heightened pride,
endures the turmoil of storms
to reach the sapphire sky,
encase the nectar of dreams
within the craving trunk.
When from the spring air love drips
flowers bloom in the tree of life.
The sap of bliss flows in the soul,
designs the vibrant art of living.
Reading a poem about a horse
with a stain
on the author’s page. Patron
ate something saucy,
as he read of a war statue,
forking or spooning
probably pasta or slurping
poetry, precariously, I ponder,
as I wait for the oven timer
to deliver dinner. Deviled
ham quiche - the aesthetic
embodiment of
eggs & cream, cheddar,
onions & cayenne
firmly held in its shell.
I’ll eat in the early afternoon
and get a lift
to see Cheap Trick &
Rod Stewart. Not the cheap
seats, but the special ones
saved for the limo driver’s guests;
he will be chatting it up
behind the stage or
just standing by.
I can’t get past a couple
pages, having stopped
at the blot. A library lie
that these hard-covered words
are all mine, well his;
a-muse-d at a blank page,
how I’ve filled its plate,
and how
I will separate
my pie from my eye.
Frankly, Frank felt foolish forking fourteen francs for frozen frankfurters.
Tainted fate was broadcasted this afternoon,
and the life of which I had called mine
was pasted into the dreary news.
Quoted as a mundane, overused headline.
But I saw it for what it is within;
naked and sunken where bones meet skin,
a sullen little echo of mine.
Steering down memory lane,
grazing fingertips over the wind of essence.
Liberation courses through my veins.
But I beheld a sudden strain upon my adolescence.
Rebirthed into something strange
with an unfamiliar name and a staggering age,
reality brought me back to the harsh presence.
Then upon cruising, I met a crossroad;
a junction forking out into two pavements.
I stared at the uncertain threshold
and defined the pair as Sorrow and Resentment.
I sat mellowly in the inbetween,
unsure of which path to intervene,
so I carved a new road and named it Acceptance.
Secret Love
Another Forking Poem
Shhhhhh... my precious love,
silver, long, hard, utensil
provider, of food.
by, Martin Braun
July 12, 2023
You start by trying to ignore yourself.
This is reflexive.
Ego always wants you look into the wrong mirror.
Later you find out you can't,
you're just too forking obvious.
So you come up with excuses, play the victim
blame your parents or childhood.
If you keep on watching
and don't settle,
then you come to an understanding,
that it was always other people's fault
on every occasion you did your best
under the circumstances.
This of course leads to depression, suppression
and a desire to find some guru
to get you out if this hall of crazy mirrors
you find yourself in.
You almost convince yourself you're happy being this
lovable person that everyone likes,
it works for you.
Then you die -
not in the body but in your humanity,
now Truth can do something with you,
you allow that Truth to set you free
but maybe just one prison at a time.
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists,
Skiers,good,novice & the inactive;
On the flight from London-Heathrow,
Trusting Italy was full of snow.
Huddled in a coach past Trento,
Disembark in MSV's mountain shadow;
Crammed & crushed into the cable car,
Just in time for schocolade in the the bar.
Up early to claim skis & boots,
Dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits;
Wait in line for the revolving chairlift,
At the top,jumping off pretty swift.
Down & up the beginners' slope,
In a whiteout,with a prayer& hope;
Pasta for lunch,again & again,
But good to miss out of the English rain.
Learning the knack of forking fondue,
Joining the folk-dance,without a clue;
Saying danke to Karl the owner,
Back on the bus to airport,Verona.
A collection of eaters
sharp glints on dull knives.
Silver forking service
dunking bread permanently cancelled.
I do not like
a hot-mike talking dinner.
I do not like the tinkle and clatter
of plates and dentures.
I want to eat a hoagie in a dark closet.
Slurp my gravy on a lapping tongue.
Gustation and gab
the flap of white lining and napkins
no, I do not like it.
Spoon my soup
through a letterbox,
let me finger my food
in a gut gulping gestation
far from the marinara
the red stained drip of dipping neckties.
Give me a take away,
give me gobble space
some bones to stew upon,
but most importantly –
long before the crème brulee
let me eat
ALONE.
The humidity is a sodden blanket
over our heaving bodies.
We are climbing through the jungle
to view a temple on top of a mountain.
The exertion is draining us,
I have to nail words together
to form constructed sentences.
Amorphous clouds of vagaries
form miasma's in my head.
I don't even care about the temple
despite my Buddhist leanings
but these evangelical missionaries
are as keen as mustard - go figure.
I thirst for a cold beer, a cold anything.
We are sweating through our clothes
choking in the heat-haze,
but the keen young nurses and doctors
are all for struggling on.
I'm just a follower; a lone Brit
in a happy mob of Americans
thank God they don't all burst into hymnal songs
or call for an ad hoc prayer or two.
At the top
I am wheezing, sweat blinding my eyes
i'm hating these good folks
with a satanic fervor,
though too weak now to curse.
The temple is very old
and it's okay in an ancient way.
I want to sit here and meditate a while
but this forking girl and boy scout tribe I am with
want to explore.
In my mind
I see a laughing Buddha
a Pu Tai figure
rocking back and forth on his fat ass.
The Garden of Eden
Some people believe that the Garden of Eden
Was in Africa, Asia, Australia...not Sweden.
The presumed site of its location
Is assumed from the interpretation
Of which Good Book's being read…and who's doin' the readin'.
Noah
Noah's ark, neither yacht nor a sloop,
Was constructed to be one big animal coop.
On his crew It must have been a strain
That during forty days and nights of rain
To keep forking in fodder and scooping out poop.
It Ain't Necessarily So
Pious people are prone to become agitated
When agnostics assess their belief's overrated,
And the words that they're liable
To find in the Bible
By mere men were created, not divinely dictated.
They had to notify and call it in.
They had to cordon off and begin.
Apparently, he was middle-aged.
Apparently, he was married.
Apparently, he was a father.
Allegedly he had a mistress.
Allegedly he had left his job.
Allegedly he had embezzled.
A gun was found in his mouth.
A hole was found in his head.
A note was found by his side,
by the bed.
No one knew what it said,
until it was read
The note was unfolded,
bloodstains decoded,
a message behold-ed:
“Who could have known
I would end up in a cheap motel
with a TV chained to the wall,
with a nickel plated gun,
and a bottle of spiced rum;
just a hell of a thing.
Just one hell of a thing.
Just one hell of a damn thing” it read,
“and me without a clue
alone in a forking town
called Kalamazoo.”
On a swelteringly hot afternoon;
Bracing the savagery of the elements
Upon sun-baked desert sand dunes
A mongoose on the prowl wanders
Into the far distance, forking tracks
Akin to contrails in the sky;
Announcing... "I was here"
A blowing wind slowly erasing
Traces of travel. There's no prey
In sight; no oasis for miles and miles.
A mongoose in the desert.
Too far to travel for prey.
Rattlesnakes and rodents sought...
Punishing journey
Let's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Theme: Nature
Forms: Unrhymed couplet, imagism & dodoitsu
Date written: 10/20/2021
If time shall not our derelict joys
Revive with tunes melodious so,
Let past's nostalgic merries balm
Our souls and bid all sorrows go.
Should ebbing laughter and smiles
Their cold arcs yet vanishing carve,
May old cheers of our jolliest whiles
Redeeming warmths pitifully impart.
Although gone mirths seldom thwart
Present galls despite their vivid hues,
Mortal forgetteries lulling blisses are,
As would certainly void painful clues.
Thus might sweetly reechoed tones,
Excerpts from our merriments dead,
Like beneficent ditties in unison allay
All lingering whits of lonesome dread.
And if blunt fate her forking bivouacs
Twirl and twine in drab manners sour,
Beclouding paths erst snowing white;
Here’s bold shield in life’s icings dour.
Poetics Poem, Red River Gorge, KY
I traipse the course of a forking, rambling stream
Barefoot from the rounded top of one small boulder
To another, the slashing strikes of cold water
Startling my every careful leap, place to place,
Landing with deep, short gasps, yet wordless
In an utter joy of intense sensation over sun-sprinkled
Spots so bright against the deep gray hollow splotches of
Drenched stone. The stream does not trickle
Along this gorge, but roars the air and throws
Its echoing roundabout the cliffs like a newborn
Learning its scream forth from being
Buried for years beneath massive storeys on up to
Greater views. But, the stream continues its carving around
The hillside. And the newly-born cries will
Find the voices of self-expression with each gasping
Leap from boulders to cliffs, climbing in a wrapabout
The gorge’s hidden, grand lowlands and rising
Of its own ineffable poetry so fully held within the birthing
Of Nature herself, all that which carries
Of language as spoken
In the heart of God.
**********. **********. **********. **********
(C) sally Young eslinger 10/9/2020
"Plain women know more about men than beautiful ones do."
-Katherine Hepburn
Plain Women
Those pretty ones, those halidomes with cascading blond hair, who mark themselves with beauty marks to impersonate imperfection, whose reflection in the mirror hugs them tight, spreads their charm far and wide like butter on endless bread. They know every inch of their own beauty. But for men, they know how to slip him on their pinky and like a velociraptor, lick their lips forking a man’s tender heart.
her self-reflection
the dereliction of him
untamed perfection
Invisible attributes and adorable makeup tug and squeeze, pleasing to the lips and thighs. She’s a quick study, takes refresher courses on his mind. The plain woman quicksteps, closes in, captures her man’s heart unabashed to enter his personal space, the puzzle just her size. She lassoes him over and over again. He’s satisfied.
a lifetime study
his eyes, his important tasks
plainly she loves him
1/8/2020
Maureen McGreavy’s She Inspires Series KH Poetry Contest
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