/Boom Bap Reverie
Crates cracked open in dusk-lit basements/
Needles tracing dust on grooves of gold, Soul samples looped—forgotten statements resurrected from wax, stories retold/
Basslines thump like city heartbeats, Hi-hats flicker, snare drums snap, old school wisdom in concrete streets, Cyphers ignite in a boom bap trap/
Chopped horns echo in subway tunnels, Scratch of vinyl, a DJ’s prayer, Freestyle poets, words like funnels pouring truth in the midnight air/
Apollo Brown dreams in sepia tones, Soul-worn records, crate diggers’ pride, Underground kingdom, built on bones of legends who never died/
So, spin that hour of rare instrumental. Let nostalgia ride the groove in every sample/ Hip Hop's past is still on fire/, and hip hop’s spirit finds its truth/
Boreas, the North Wind
I am in Iceland, 90 miles from the Arctic Circle,
walking through a gorge in a valley between
European and North American plates. Fierce
Boreas funnels its headstrong wind right at me
tears my knit hat off my head, rakes my hair.
I’m in Rekjavik, at the city’s highest point
walking half-way between Hallgrimskirja Church
and Leif Eriksons’ statue when Boreas sends a gust
ripping glasses from my face. I chase them across
the square, miraculously retrieve them intact.
The is a land of extremes, powerful geysers,
roiling rivers, cascading waterfalls, high mountains,
floating icebergs, volcanoes, poised to erupt, lava
flows, one thermal Blue Lagoon, acres in size
defies frigid air, soothes sore muscles.
This is a land ruled by the North Wind Boreas, erratic,
hungry, sleeping rarely, it is terrifying, exhilarating,
raw as life itself.
Blakean ghosts' boasts..frollicking in rollicking
Rolling hillock hosts..ripe shenanigans..perry toasts
Believing in hefty heaving heroes
Hallowed harbingers..halcyon hedgerows
Harbouring tranches of branches..ferry very merry berries
Majestic mosaic montage barge of balletic
Incandescent flowers..weaving wherries
Showering prophetic kaleidoscopic poetic dreams
Streams through towering mesmeric green tunnels
Full to the gunnels..reams of sheens teem..flowing funnels
Bestowing.. glowing transcendent beams gleam kinetic
Luminescent aesthetic barrage..overpowering iridescent fluorescent flowering
Every single one of Mother nature's tendrils tingle
Mingle..saluting seasonal succour..mooting rebooting from fruiting..pukka
The river is not wide
but it's violent,
it funnels down from the mountains
like a herd of running horses.
You can park your car
at 'Overlook' landing
to watch the stampeding.
If you're a local
you know that
there's white water ahead
before it leaps over
"Baker's Falls."
Beyond that cataract
your parked car
forgets how to chase down roads,
you have to reset the GPS
urge it to backup,
it's like it understands
that only the river
knows where it's going
from here.
First things first, we enter the void of vast space,
deep within the cave of our heart to discern
truth of our self, discarding crutch of belief …
free from fear and doubt.
Dropping mind, we navigate magnetic fields
pulsating in funnels within feeble form,
hitherto unknown to us, enlivening …
fabric of our soul.
God’s light that lights all lights then pervades each cell
in organic decaying body which we
ensoul for the duration our life breath flows …
darkness is banished.
The grazing sheep in blue
The puffs of white breath
The Simpsons’ scene
The artist’s wrath
The floating dream
The anger of Zeus
The funnels and swirls
The nightingale’s muse
The daydreamer’s playground
The shepherd’s delight
The picture taker’s bait
The Milky Way night
The poet with honey
The rumbles and clap
The astronaut’s gate
The mariner’s map
The loved ones in heaven
The drink for the land
The drought’s call of death
The home of God’s hand
Come muse with me if you dare;
Where it matters not who you are;
To a place free of debates and politics;
A place with no room for philosophical lunatics.
Come muse with me if you dare;
About a place of no flare but care;
A place of purity and unpolluted air;
A place where worries are not allowed.
Come muse with me if you dare;
About a place where mortals stop and stare;
Where sorrows and tears have disappeared;
Where there is nothing we ever need to fear.
Come muse with me if you dare;
Where humans no longer take but only share;
Where nature's corruptible has been redeemed;
Where creation's destructible is no longer seen.
Come muse with me if you dare;
To a land void of UFOs and time tunnels
Where there are no black holes or cloud funnels;
Where all such mysteries have been put to rest,
and none lifts an eye or raises a cry of protest.
010224PS
What a colourful world we live in so much beauty to see
From the clear blue skies above birds flap their wings so happy to be free
The bright yellow object in the sky sends light and warmth, surely sending waves of happiness our way
The tall green grass requests a haircut,take a little off but not down to the clay
My day begins with a glass of orange juice and my toast waiting patiently to be smothered with blackberry jam
It, 's a good thing traffic lights are bright red, green and yellow or surely there would be a lot of slams
To show your love to your partner a dozen roses I am sure she would adore
When the skies turn grey and the rain funnels down the black asphalt inherits puddles galore
Imagine the dilemma of finding your car in a parking lot if all cars were white
Christmas lights with their bold, beautiful and bright colours such a delight
Life is full of a wide array of colourful things for us to enjoy
The site of a rainbow with its multi colours about to deploy
The bike rolls up mountains,
thunders forward on the revving edge
of orgasmic storms.
Trip-taking is boring,
flying nowhere on a Harley,
like urgent sex,
is hard core
also the way a dandelion seeds
on the breath of the wind
is hard to the core.
The bike gets lighter
as the biker funnels through
narrow tunnels of speed -
danger-pleasure -
verge riding.
Leather and oil
mixing it up,
fumes
gulping daylight
down
into the cast-iron engine
of a throbbing moment.
trees in grey-green garbs
cuddle creepers and climbers ---
constant coitus
beside painted sky
doves parrot sparrows and hawks ---
conduct chirp concerts
trickles of torrents
the babble of breeze in booze ---
flowers in frenzy
rainbow spread meadows
floral funnels and tunnels ---
sapphire stones and rocks
cosmos is on a mission
of harmony ignition
11 May 2023
Haiku Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joanna Daniel
Syllables Checked At: www.howmanysyllables.com
LAUNCH
In the Yard I was serving my time
When they launched a new ship of the line
Four funnels had she
And as big as could be
She sent shivers right through my spine
two boys racing
dash, dart, tear
airburst in a clearing punched open
arms of piston pumping disperse white funnels
dandelion fluff curling
scattering flowered stems
as water streaked, streams down joyful faces
clearing,
a clawed out seclusion
child claimed freedom unspooling in summer heat
pulling back its gauzy veil
pushed to disarray
in this seething space, holding promise
two boys, breath weary, tumble into the tall grass
laugh and roll,
confessions shared like wanting to drift somewhere
- imaginary to real
claiming turf needing no repair
stories whispered before they're pushed off the page
in a green clearing, its window-heavy future
till tall tales take a different slant
to rest like beaded sweat
upon lined brows
Poem composed February 21, 2023
Forms most enormous seen from our earth,
Dwarf the tallest, the grandest of mountains’ girth.
Magnificent spectacles rounded up in the sky:
Sculptured foam, floating frothy, towering high.
Black ominous clouds of malevolent breadth,
Funnels of doom, destruction, and death,
Whirling and wheeling, zigzagging tyrants
Twisting down alleyways, roaring in rants.
Scalloped and mackerel in all shades and hues,
Textured cloud patterns, sunlit paintings to view.
Imagined likenesses of earthlings below;
They dwarf us, impress us, then just fade away.
Menacing, magnificent, visual delight:
Dilemmas of wonder any day, any night.
Larks are ascending funnels of sky,
songs smoke from enteral chimneys.
In an industrial park a fine Autumn light
burns bright.
Shoes fill with walkers,
we are out and praising
the clanking machinery,
for we are all leaves
in the same furnace.
What we suppose
to be sleep and decline
is a wooded factory, a whittle and grind
gearing-up for an over-spilling,
a bundling color-filled season,
one that will in time
hammer snow out of spoilage.
The Larks are trilling,
they rise to the top of their voices.
Conveyer belts of cooling hymns
are ready to be parceled and sent,
addressed graphically:
'Return to Sender.'
Soon, they shall flood matters channel
To the formed five-man panel:
East Town's urgent need of good spade
That shall into big waters wade
And arrange useful bridge,
As one drowns and next is the fridge.
East's Generator to suck flood
Like mosquitoes would sleepers' blood
No Government's fast attention,
A sad picture's odd retention
Yes, pavements, too, at the junctions
Waters there need interruptions...
East's flood zones to face big tunnels
Or if you wish Trillion funnels
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