SENSE OF IDENTITY-:-
exceptionally
strong
numbers
widely
regarded
in a AURA OF GENIUS
high-flown
linear
idioms
inspire
rhetoric
UNITED BY A STIMULATED
active
sensed
activity
eagerly
seized
Above my head, foliage, and feathers clatter
as a hawk tangles with a squirrel.
Above my head, Russian tanks pop their tops
in boggling bubbles.
Just above a bald patch, shaggy clouds squat to piddle.
I am heads above those below,
the silver slick worms hardly notice as I thread through
the less grassy and bare.
Mind-hairs are a real thing, mine wave their thin tentacles
like fishing sea anemones, they snack upon
the overheard overhead; ripple gently
in the whisking winds.
A highbrow gets above itself, stutters as it utters.
I wear the headgear of long dead heroes, they ride
my scalp, baseball bats wave there whacks,
ultra-maga veterans of foreign wars
salute my stiff necked, heads-up pose.
There's a world of wonders down under,
but just above my head, that's where dandruff
ponders its flaky notions,
and all high-flown conundrums learn to fly.
Dandelion puff clouds
tickle the air with their flossy flights.
Other weeds cannot fly
they are deeply rooted, their seeds
flop low.
Landscapers grind the ground grimly,
mowers grapple and growl
but the low gravity and the fluffy,
the wind-walking dandelions
sneeze up their fuzziness
and care not
as they ride the sky, their
high-flown wispy pedigrees
waving goodbye.
To call it a poem and to pen it in a baroque form and style
is to abuse carte blanche to express and bring forth a reader’s bile;
avant-garde works that break traditions may appeal for a while
but if its sole aim is to create an anomaly it may find home in a junk pile.
Emotion and Experience that gets its bona fide expressions born
in a poem fresh are meant not to give a déjà vu feel all over again;
may be this is a lone voice of a dilettante poet unknown
unable to write with such élan that it is not poem high-flown;
but I am sure this is not a cacophony of words thrown
to get out of my ennui, so here are my thoughts on poetry shown.
16-Jan-2018
Contest: Ten words ten lines 2
Sponsored by: Silent One
Bombastic… So grandiloquent
We are stated to be pompous asses.
Therefore, our outcry is heard.
2017 is over.
We are ready to bring in the New Year when the clock hits eleven.
One more hour to go.
Yet, time is moving too slow.
So, we party!
We are dancing and singing our favorite songs.
Illumining where we are demonstrative and high-flown.
Magniloquent… So bombastic
We are as plain as eyesight.
Our excitement is not pretentious.
We ready to blow minds.
2018 is the year to overcome the barriers that preexist.
It is time to move on and the past is history.
This because we are futuristic.
Orotund in the New Year with laughter and good will.
__________________________________________________________
Written at 8:40 PM EST on 12/31/2017!
Happy New Year!
Walking on My Cloud
celebrating victorious
high-flown elevated verse
of desperate desolation
voyages grand black anger
of calming spiritual
passages reflecting light
then…
surprising realization
a personal revelation
the house is the same
as you have lived in
all these
years
© Kim van Breda—19 October 2014
HERO WITH NO MEDAL
Could be you or me fallen out of the net.
Just an old guy, down and out -
Park bench newspaper-blanket :
Drop a coin in his cup as I walk about.
Never was any great hero - high-flown
Lawyer,actor, preacher, top of the championship.
Had a wife and two kids now grown -
Now all gone - end of the line, end of the trip.
Bad luck in his small shop business:
Lost everything. Lost everyone. Not sorry.
What was it all about? The hurry,the mess,
The bustle, the scrimping, the worry?
Could’ve been a drunk, a louche trying
His luck as a gambler, a no-good-Charlie.
They end up just as easiy lying
On a park bench, but enjoyed the trip. See?
His only possession is integrity.
He faced his problems head-on, solo.
Didn’t win, went down fighting his enemy.
That’s called being a hero.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck
Entered in Janette Fisher's Contest Holding out for a Hero
If I were to be an animal,
I would want to be my kitty.
He is so spoiled and pampered
That it is a downright pity.
He does not do a single thing
That he doesn’t desire to do.
He answers to no one’s commands.
His high-flown tastes are catered to.
His dinner is served at his demand.
He naps whenever he pleases,
And he has his very own kitty vet
To keep him free of diseases.
He never worries about the bill
But takes every thing for granted.
He knows I will come to find him
Wherever he has gallivanted.
If I were to be an animal,
I would like to have the easy life,
That my beloved kitty has,
With no worry, no work, no strife.
By: Joyce Johnson
For Kristin Bruni's contest. "If I was animal, what would I be?"
No enlightened poet am I proclaimed,
Rhyming high-flown philosophies in poesy,
(Instead, I only scratch out my words
In verses of winds and scents of spring--
Of the shades of the light crowning wintertime clouds,
Sing the grace of the wings in a homecoming sky.)
For I am no more a poet than you,
And you, with your verses, no more than I.
(And so I write of the white blush of moon
Not referencing love, neither lost nor found
And rhyme the rhythm of the lapping sea
With the throb of the heart in the desert heat.)
For what more, oh poets, are poems than beauty?
(Write: The ethereal river spills sheens iridescent
Beneath the expanse of the heavenly lights)
And what more than beauty is life?
(Breathing perfumes and sparkles of nectars and grass
Spelling effervescence within the infinite hues.)
WELL, EXCUSE ME
People don’t like me to say at parties that it’s such
A waste to throw out good food when so many
People go hungry every day even in our city.
Can’t you laugh for just once? they say.
Sure I can laugh, laugh at myself for having such
High-flown ideas that even the birds think I’m
A danger to their fly-ways, and should be grounded.
But the next time I hear someone complaining that
His Lexus is a pain in the neck due to its low gas-mileage,
I will surely add he should sell it, walk, and send the
Proceeds to Oxfam. And the next one who asks about my worry
That the planet is over-heating, will surely feel uncomfortable
At my sardonic response about worry that it is not over-eating.
Even a poem like this can make some feel uneasy in their penthouse.
Well, excuse me for disturbing your complacency.
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