Green was the theme, mainly green and blue
then came you
in your floral dance and open mouths,
red insect-eating lips. snaky tongues
big, bold, and subjectively pretty,
objectively fleshy,
lushly, lustful, lapping at life.
The sun adopted the new
grey turned greyer next to you.
Blooming bouncing behemoth begonias
yet uncultivated, all hungry to suck the soil,
burst breeding seeds, pollinate, infiltrate,
dominate, habituate, inflate.
Then when the small ape-like manikins
(proto us),
began to populate
they picked you.
The brittle crack of frost on pane
followed the rain, as winter bit and lit
the edge of leaf and hedge with quicksilver white.
As the night supercooled and pooled the lamplight
with halos effervescent, like incandescent lollipops,
atop streetlights of grey, receding lines.
And mist thickened to fog whilst work weary folk
slog through commuter throng on the long
journey through suburbia's blur to bedsit or flat,
or house somewhere.
Shoulders bent against the eve, they weave their
weary way at end of day.
Bleeding out the city and pretty girls habituate bars
or spill into cars and text momma's to expect them late.
Yet others wait at bus stop and underground,
where rumbling sound heralds their arrival,
all vying for survival in this great melting pot of humanity,
their sanity questioned, their reasoning profound
in their undying quest for the British pound.
Curves
Slow, cradled walk towards the goad,
Skin pink naked to the crowded few,
Light beckons the inner property pack,
Until the red is aphoristically bright said.
One body, one noon to habituate around,
One lapidary to bleed for tight inners,
One clavicle osmosis to two muscles,
Two refutals needed for the fame slat.
If society had a heart it would tick,
Anything for all people this or that,
Inside the other it would say alloyed,
Legal means not legal forgot to writ.
Rhoda Monihan
Heaven hovers over hope horizons
Which highlight the light and flight of the confidence
Concealed and sealed in my sentiment seasons
When happiness hastens my perseverance and persistence.
Heaven hobnobs with hope habits
Which coupled and pooled with happiness
Humbles, fumbles and mumbles mercies at rabbits
Which habituate and situate my crimson coziness.
Heaven hosts posts and pots of happiness
Blessed to impress stress relievers
Spun in honey and money business
Which conveys a convoy of bliss believers.
Heaven blesses and kisses the noblesse of couples
Whose mission meets marital measures
Moulded to dignify and magnify dimples
Which accentuate the contours and detours of pristine pleasures.
Mind is, but a battlefield
A constant war to win or to lose.
It robbed you of your contentment
Ne'er grant you with good night
I’ve been there so, I know…!
What’s your stronghold?
Sometime I pray to be an overcomer
Sometime I give in to it.
Knowing, it set me apart from my near ones.
Sometime I ponder on things which steal my joy
Sometime I perceive an ungodly thoughts that do no good.
A mere harm I go through.
Alas, I brawl through stronghold
unfastened the rope of imprisonment.
Renewed melancholy persona into generous optimist!
What’s your stronghold?
Mind is, but unreliable next – world!
Restless wanderer, drop you to the pool of grieve.
If you don’t grasp the stronghold of your mind, peace dies
relationship dissolve just like a melting ice.
Energies the lies and limit the good.
run from stronghold of your mind
Habituate it; activate it to hold on to what is best!
Then no matter the strong holds …you win!!
Two societies, two cultures, two ways, two worlds,
But the same mechanisms, glares, shuns and goals;
No-one knew the other, but the church had words,
For the special disabled school to adjust their bowls.
No pluralism, no perspective, no individual identities,
Just a passionate disabled self to only mix with flames,
Never allowed to cohere with or love outside entities:
Was indeed suppressed and thwarted for playing games.
This world holds all people and is made of communities,
Which habituate diversities and not similar creations,
That can’t often be specified because of rare novelties:
When an identity is just emerging, it has no derivations.
Acceptance is the yeast of decision, it gives us stance,
And betterment will only come whenever we assimilate;
Integration does not transcend from condescendence,
But prevails when affection does blossom to mediate.
Oh! If I were a Japanese painter
I could do justice to where I sit now,
on top of a rock by the river
watching a pale sun weakly glow.
Through the overcast it will create
a calligrapher's world of subtle lines,
infer creatures that habituate
the river. With a slight wash give the signs
that the next storm means to collect its debts
of the few orange leaves left on the trees that
marked a long years sunrises and sunsets.
So we end this year with a clean clear palette.
I and my golden dog are small figures
on the rock by the woodblock signatures
Reminds of folks frostiness,
Blanketed dismissal grown,
But snow can become a man,
Lower element.
6th November 2015
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