Do you question reality?
I do sometimes;
Today I found myself on the second floor
Of a fast food building;
Sitting nearby the window
In some bench-like chair;
There were three of us;
One in the corner;
One in the middle of the small room;
And I nearby the window;
For a while I appreciated the fact that we,
As species,
For a while,
Were able to eat each its respective food,
Without gnarling and snarling at each other;
A heart that persist win with pride
The race of time and its silence,
Throughout joyful inconvenience...
Grace uphold above hopeful ride.
Uncertainty has its effect,
On steps to be taken with light,
To bail out vow's long supposed fright
When opened to choice love neglect.
Seek truth and be made whole, darling.
Take each quest beyond quarrelling...
Lay your head, check your assurance
Before hope rides life's deliverance;
Then take you back in time snarling-
Unsolved puzzles, aptly gnarling...
I do not bother God
with too many questions.
I watch with sardonic interest
as ants continue to terrorize nations.
The ugly I have found to be beautiful
the root
the gnarling trunk - everything
under my hands and feet.
What I see - I am.
Writing poetry
keeps me light-headed,
I break words open to free their souls.
I am crazy for all things broken.
The air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds,
most pillows are stuffed with whispers
I know this
as much as I know your restless dreams.
Gulls scream their savage songs
because the sky is all theirs.
Ghosts do not bother me
what does not seem to change -
that,
that alone bothers me.
Carrying the fever and heat
of love’s first flame,
I set out on a journey
expectant and anxious,
sealed and tight lipped,
all emotions bottled.
From port to port I journeyed,
travelling in a little love vessel.
What a heavy cargo of dreams I carried
with the scent of memories perfumed.
Did a black cat cross my path?
Behind all veils of cloud,
hope lingered
My spirit…. pulsating inside.
My senses….
waiting for the moment of beatitude!
Skyward I flew
floating through the air
to land, finally in your trembling hands,
dreaming of a nameless delight,
bursting out at the earliest moment.
With my heart beats rising hoarse,
you slit my mouth,
pulled my soul out.
But,
gnarling at my face,
mercilessly you tore me into bits.
and threw me into the bin!!
In the Westerly wind,
slivers of me flew about like ghosts,
unable to get back to their graves.
After whirling naked in the gust of wind,
pieces of me fell down one by one,
to lie inert on the ground,
gasping for the final breath.
Did the firmament tattooed by stars
mock at my pitiable plight?
Hey bro,
Have you checked up on her lately
Did you ever apologise for what you did
Have you asked her friends how she's doing
Bro,
I know things are not the same as they were
I know she doesn't want to talk
But bro, you gotta be her shield
You have to wipe her tears
I know you thinking this is bull
But you gotta realise
She was busy with the sick that never thought of herself
And her shift is over now
The pain is gnarling at her
She writhes in pain
You gotta get to her first before depression hits home
thee deep seated hatred gnarling
at ones soul beckoning eating away
of the sheer foundation of self
a terrifying entity alive and well
searching the innermost calm
of a peaceful being believing in
the purity of goodness only to
behold the hidden shallow virtue
of demonic human angst being
carried out between the realms
of envy curled up beyond a quaint
sudden rapture gathered above
a sinking notion of the death
of human compassion hindered so
to the point of no refuge from envy
forced to end ones on life in return
comes across quite appealing rather
than behold the mere notion that envy
has crawled inside the attic of your mind
hatred employs wrath murdering my soul
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
god has not bothered me much
he said
ants continue to terrorize nations
the ugly I have found to be beautiful
the root
the gnarling tree trunk
they believe in me
what I see - I am
he said
it is hard to cope
only writing crazy poetry
keeps me sane
an eighteen-wheeler roars
the rigs smoke stack passes
just below
wings hovering
descending to the black top
to the flat carcass of a possum
a beak resumes its conversation
with death
i recall as a boy standing by a window
looking at a flock of sparrows
sparrows just like those seen now
every feather could be the same
are the same
he said
the air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds
most pillows are stuffed with whispers
gulls scream
the sky is all theirs
yet it is not enough
ghosts do not bother me
what does not seem to change
that bothers me
I have spoken much -
my trivial record of the hours.
God has not troubled me much,
while ants and termites continue to terrorize nations.
The ugly I have found to be beautiful,
and the beautiful ugly. The root, the gnarling trunk,
and the dying leaf know me.
On the highway, crows pick over a possum.
The meat is gone, bones cracked open.
An eighteen-wheeler roars toward them.
They lift into the sky and hover unperturbed.
The rig's smoking stack passes just below.
Again they descend to the flat carcass
and resume their conversation
with the possum.
I recall as a boy, I stood
by a window looking at a sparrow just like this one.
Every feather could be the same, even the mien and stance
of the bird – the same.
I had never thought of myself as a tree, yet all my life
I’ve been branching away from first roots.
and now thank God, I am become - homely.
My air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds.
Under my dreaming head a pillow stuffed with whisper.
Ghosts do not trouble me,
what does not seem to change bothers me.
Splashing, thrashing, wetly crashing
rages the rolling sea,
like a dying serpent swirled
in waves of misery!
Through stormy gales and black of night,
these sailors from afar
seek out the dim, faint, speckled glow
of heaven's Compass Star.
But howling, howling, madly scowling
swells the deadly squall
with spite and ire in its briny veins
to damn them—damn them all!
So far away from home and hearth
their ship has sailed the seas;
its men seen sights of boon wonders
with deft and seafaring ease.
Trapped by the foaming, deadly squall;
the wrath of the ocean
rocks their masts and strikes at their hull
like Neptune’s winged griffon.
Gnarling, gnarling, viciously snarling
the squall’s stormy tempests
strike and savagely beat at the
ship’s wooden bow and breasts.
Alas! Alas! All is now lost
as soul after drowning soul
lose hope, panic, and then perish
with HMS The Merry Troll!
The stormy tempests of the squall
sink, swallow, and devour
up all without rue or ruth: so scorn
not the squall's wrathful power!
There survives a burg, strangled by,
A fume as thick as thieves,
Where soaring glass stalagmites screen,
The adroit aggrieved.
Skyscrapers and broad avenues,
Where vast trains shunt and squall,
Where soaring glass stalagmites screen,
The vestige’s caterwaul.
Where night tide is perennial,
The gargoyles chill and ward,
Aged curves and finials resist,
Thick gnarling walls contort.
gnarling branches are
grasping up, reaching for rain
in hopes to give life
Russell Sivey
Entrant into Nathan's "Skeleton Tree (haikus)" contest
7/3/2012
Dragon gnarling gaze
The fire mouthed beast gurgling
Deluges of flood
And creation cringe
Before the broiling fire, razed
All things with desire
Toppled thrones, doomed kings
Mangled and twisted in wrath
Shambles to the bone
Melting citadels
Smoke choked lungs screams sin's silence
We crumbled to ash
The gleaming warriors of Light advance
Aflame with Life, their shields aglow with gold
And lambent fire a glint from sword and lance.
Their silver battle-axes flash and flourish, bold
And brutal in mad massacre. The hordes
Of Death are falling, black-plumed helmets split
As skulls within explode. The scything swords
Have fringed the banners with each rending slit.
Death’s men have floundered, failed,
Skewered by the jeweled lance that spears the brain,
And reeves the heart, weak-shielded and ill-mailed…
Infantries of Death are cruelly slain.
The battlefield’s now sodden with the gore
Of ebon warriors. Onyx helmets lie
Trampled, some with heads within, before
The gilded hooves that clatter, sanguine, by.
Death’s flag with bone-white-face
Is rags. His ink-hued armor plate is rent
And shattered by Life’s spike-thorn mace.
Death’s sword is sundered and his pike staff bent.
And he himself lies maimed upon the moistened sand,
His cypress standard in his gnarling hand
Till tired black fingers spread…and let it fall.
Youth is raw and naked
Bare white teeth gnarling
Into the flesh through the bones of life
Laughing the mocking laughter of the undefeated
Knowing all
Proud is a peacock in full color
Hard, strong, tall and beautiful
Youth is stubborn
Youth is glory
Youth is fleeting
Thirty candles on a birthday cake
Welcome to life and living
Welcome first grey hair
From out the copse of gnarling trees,
As nature blinked a rapid eye,
The raven lashes took to flight
Tumultuous in the darkened sky;
And roaring as their flock dispersed,
Peppered shot on grainy sheet,
Fluttered, cawed and squawked a din
With beaded eyes and wings to beat.
And then, as if by some decree,
Recited in the twilight reign,
All was like they’d never been
When nature closed an eye again.
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