The plain is fuzzing with the ingress racing.
Predicted rain is heard in the birds singing.
Sow your seed when the moon tells its time.
Hear the tales close to the fire; it's sublime.
Contemplate the skies for the hawks cry.
Focus on the breeze and the moonlit sky.
The noble spirit exudes an altered tone.
To heed of the rite of the elder, not atone.
The misery of grievousness is heinous.
I am fated, that I could carry forward.
There's no growth from the coldness.
The stable grace cannot stem rearward.
For a dismal exhale to seek for reeling.
Hear the beat and banter with moving.
5TH PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 10, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Categories:
fuzzing, analogy, appreciation, bird, devotion,
Form: Sonnet
I visited the shadow world,
preoccupied with shadowed thoughts
that smoke across the page,
and vanish in the light of reason.
That is to say, it is the proper way
to deal with thoughts like these,
the ones with worrisome exteriors,
fuzzing up the mind...to visit, sift them
through the lens of the unknown.
Is it not pure sacrifice of light
that sculpts an evanescent joy?
Send the night upon my heart
and let the shadows dance
their pure, seductive art
that streaming day would cloy.
Something else occurs beyond
the simple blockage of the sun.
Something past humanity
tears at romance, makes possibility
of pathos and of festival; it speaks
of rest and restiveness. and sends
its waning light on pilgrimage to truth.
Shout down the stealth
of gods who blaze across the sky
upon their firery chariots; their myth
is wearisome, their legacies of death
are past design. The time is ripe
for children's games at twilight
when the shadows play, and tease
and disappear into their history,
yet there in immortality
for still another day.
~
Categories:
fuzzing, introspection, light, light,
Form: Free verse
The neck, long and lean, feels
Fizzing, fuzzing emotions
Ready to pop
And spew and sizzle and swim
Soaking the skin, sticky
Someone lost the lid
A long time ago
Once the liquid spills out
The empty hallow
Transforms into a transport vessel
For a message
Of hope, love, longing
Or of rescue, release
On the top shelf
She keeps her collection
Of colored glass
Gathering dust
Shaped like violins or hour glasses
Did they hold whiskey or rum?
She bites her lip
Until she bleeds
But she never cries
I do
Poete maudit
accursed Poet
Categories:
fuzzing,
Form: Free verse