I think of my ancestors building you,
Tying and placing tree-trunks, like girders, in queue;
They constructed you, then, with stones,
Twisted, turned, criss-crossed, hung, dangled in zones;
Road bridge, railway bridge, gate bridge, bay bridge,
You resembled longest and tallest mountain ridge;
Clapper, beam, truss, arch… you became suspension,
Cantilever, cable-stay, movable, floating, and high-tension;
How fond designs you are in, today, like miracles,
Magic of marvelous magicians waiting for oracles...
Travelling from place to place, and meeting people,
You build up relationships from valleys to hill steeple;
Though, through you, communication is continually created,
Has communion betwixt hearts clemently elated?
Connecting, interacting, do you construct relations?
Beyond hills and cliffs and national foundation…
Socialization, cultural extension, and environs easy,
You’re sometimes breezy and other sleazy and queasy...
Cognition, senses, sensation, and sensitivity,
Once broken impulsively, aren’t you in vainly pity...???
15 March 202
It has been a long time.
Summer of sixty-nine.
Dad, Uncle Don, and I
Their decision to fly.
Wires, you control type.
I ran and walked inside.
For Pepsi cold as ice.
Was there under five.
Had just arrived.
He hit a high-tension line.
The mega-volt kind.
The arcs flashed, pure white.
Blinding light, ten feet high.
As we knelt by his side
tears welled, began to cry.
It has been a long time.
My Dad survived.
Etched forever in mind.
Truth is stranger than Fiction.
HIGH TENSION
Horizon to skyline traversing panoply of greenery
High over verdant land they drape an elegant catenary
Stark constructs of geometry stand noble tall and fine
Their mission for the nation to forever hold the line
They gather in their buzzard nests
clustered in dry grey frazzled wastes
steel sticks to walk upon their footsteps
humming with metallic stilts
supported grid on artificial legs
their crude utilitarian structure
hang in groves above the chainsaw stacks
Buzzing across the forests
as their cables saunter
their arms outstretched
quietly immobile lurking in the distance
frames crisscross their anti-nature
by rivet and construction artifact
through the mountains
over hills advancing stagnant
Silently is in their interference
high tension of Guglielmo Marconi
affecting some strange unfathomable sickness
distortions through auras energy
is their invisible electrical disturbance
and living with them is notoriously dangerous
Hopscotch and crossword their generator
puzzle to whom
where from
where to
follows you all the motorway home
to the click of a switch
down the side streets and back out of sight
their invisible mile and kilometer
and their arid blight
the digital clicking cash collecting of J.P. Morgans meter
connected by conductivity's twisted fiber
and living in the nightmares of Nikola Tesla
I sometimes find myself listening for God's footsteps
as He treads softly,oh, ever so softly round about me....
I sometimes find myself wanting to shake God's hand,
gently, lest my own hand is crushed by His might....
I sometimes find myself wanting to give Him a big bear hug,
wrapping my arms around the endless warmth of Divinity....
I sometimes find myself wanting to talk with God, to have
a most pleasant and low-key chat about meaning, like
the meaning of good and evil, and of life and death....
But I can't, I know: how could anyone survive touching God?
It would be safer to climb a high-tension pole and reach out
and put my bare hands on the wire as 50,000 volts course
through my body, and my soul is expelled....
It's just...my longing for Him, to hear, to feel, to touch,
and to see with my soul's eye the Lord of All the Worlds....
I suppose I should be happy just hearing the echoes of God
in the rhythm of rain or the songs of birds or the giggles of
kids as they play in their own world....
And I am happy to hear His echoes everywhere.
Looking for a girl with attention. Have been looking for a girl you been sexy. You caught my eyes and you gave me high tension.
Wait can I get a break from all this emotions.
Your smile is making me wave like an ocean?
Cause baby wait I can't do this no more.
Keep your smile if I won't get a number.
You doing a number on my heart and am losing stance.
You doing distance on my heart and it moving fast.
Black and sexy baby.
Black you rosey on your own.
Black and sexy baby. Have been siting you for quite a while.
Inspired Thinking
Inspired, I’m thinking
I haven’t an inkling
From where it comes
And where it’s going.
Crawling from a rock
Laid down atop
Fossilized dream silts
Beneath the rivers of
My mind?
Inspired, I’m thinking
Somewhere a clock is ticking
Keeping time to the echoes of
My mind.
Drifting weightless into sleep or
Waking as if popping into a dream
Inspired thinking leaves its tell-tale
Aroma,
An elusive waft upon the
Breath of my rising and falling
Consciousness.
Just a hint of cinnamon sugar
Epiphany, or
Bitter-sweet smoke of
The long dark spark of genius
Striking metal.
The memory of a taste on my tongue.
Giant leaps of intuitive solution,
Cures for mankind’s deepest ills,
Kisses of “Paradise Lost” whose tickle
Quickly fades from my lips.
Maybe there is an “other side.”
Have I in moments of
Inspired thinking drifted too
Closely to the invisible thread?
Have our most brilliant minds
Simply found the way, a state of
Deep mindfulness where they’ve
Learned to hold on to the thread,
The “high-tension” line, of consciousness
Beyond the veil that separates us from
Truth with the illusion of reality?
dealing with imbalance
between harm and harmony
in a loaded circumstance
all hope seems so phony
comfort is infamous
for never lasting long
calm is notorious
for always feeling wrong
in the presence of high tension
when all begins to quake
overflowing with apprehension
even faith begins to shake
but beneath massive pressure
faced with killer calamity
I still keep praying to endure
even if only due to destiny
One day a Starling did speak with his brother
He twittering and whistled ten minutes or more
On and on about preening and bees,
About sly cats that hide in the trees
How he lost brown bread by the blue porch
'twas a small piece he said, seriously, not much
The wind pushed and pulled at one feather
Life was generally good - except for wet weather
With the verdigris lines beneath their sharp feet
The hounds of winter waiting below on the street
This conference was held a bit after six
Every evening they'd meet just to sharpen their beaks
High voltage lines swung back and then forth
Humming some tune about the cold further north
And while he bobbed on the high tension wire
He sang his sad song with terror and fear
“The bell would toll on a late autumn day
The bell would toll and the dogs still say”
“Only humans and fools butcher then weep
Like dogs, they dream, and cry in their sleep”
“When mankind's wars are all long past
Bones like crystal chime in the tall grass”
“Starlings will gleefully sing as they must
The Bells toll poorly when covered with rust”
My lines are sharp like a mallam's dagger
my lines are long like dreadlocks, a mad man's dada
my lines have the suspense, they can hit you like a stray bullet
my lines knows love, they beat romeo and Juliet.
My lines are wild like nursing lines
my herbal, they can cure your loneliness
my lines are uncontrolled, like a rampaging tempest
but my lines are unique ,they remain the very best.
My lines can be dirty like a "IGBUDU" gulta
my lines are soothing like a Spanish guitar
my lines are tempting like a naked virgin
my lines are hot like your local dry gin.
My lines are breath taking like a chronic atsma
my lines flow with pure undiluted charisma
my lines can be shocking like a high tension voltage
so sit back and accept comfort like a cold porridge.
(c) ferd's poetry
edoja faith
08100728762
As a giant wave rises with passion
aroused by the overtures from the moon
I surf within its folds with high tension,
As a giant wave rises with passion
racing ashore with intense emotion
I must unravel this timeless bond soon
As a giant wave rises with passion
aroused by the overtures from the moon.
Visual#1
"One Lovely Summer Triolet" contest by Andrea Diatrich
In cold words of spite, shoot me down,
Let hate grind down the heart to dust
The dust to fuel the icy frown,
But frowns can smile when truth they trust.
I’m caught in the bitter cross-fire,
Bullets fired in to cause her pain,
In pain, I can walk the high wire,
High tension wire where words lay slain.
Gutless, using me to get ‘She’,
‘She’, perceived threat to the male,
A male so weak he shoots at me,
And me, they won’t make me fail!
So waste dear words, it changes naught,
From naught everything is grown,
In learning grows the strength I sought,
And dreams I sought to be my own.
Form: Wreathed Quatrains
The young ailanthus tree grew in a narrow yard
Behind a rowhouse in a block facing the boulevard,
And anyone could tell it never would grow tall;
Only its shadow loomed immense at evening on the wall.
It trembled in a breeze. It tottered in a blast.
I'd see it battered to the earth after a storm had passed.
Yet always it would rise, and to its limbs would cling
The thick white snows of wintertime and half-grown cats in spring.
In summer, lush and green, it dreamed and seemed to smile
As though it were a jacaranda on some tropic isle.
With hand-like ferns it reached outward and ever higher
Until one day its growth was stopped by the high-tension wire.
And still another day, urban renewal came,
All of the houses with their trees leveling in its name,
So you would never know, in viewing the debris
That over here stood someone's home and on this spot a tree.
Together we were young, in many ways akin,
But I do more than mourn the void where once a tree had been:
I pray that when life's storms torment and buffet me,
I find that power to survive I first knew in a tree.