Temperatures are high in Héraclée France.
We bear the heat with the triad of grace, ice, shade
and later in the morning, air conditioning.
The sun is as bright as optical illusion,
‘Worship me, worship me,’ it seems to say,
but I will not look up and ruin my eyes.
Besides, if I’m happy, it looks on indifferently.
if I am wilting, it looks on indifferently,
and I’ve already had one God ghost me.
As I stand in the shade of this ancient deity,
The fact that there’s no cosmic care,
implies no cosmic judgment.
I am an impudent little animal, I suppose.
but a deity should make wondrous promises,
not try to fry you like a falafel.
So, as I negotiate heat and meaning-systems,
- all fiery-Sol foreshadows, is a dry and barren liturgy,
emptied of consolation.
.
.
A song for this:
Meet Me In Love by Blossoms
EXTERNAL ILLUSIONS
images
assigned
&
occupying
the
sensual
phantasmagoria
perceived
feeling
for
form
in
aesthetic
reality
or
pseudo
transcendance
reproduced
& receptive
contemplation
of
fortuitious
transparent
phenomena
analogies
&allegories
of
activities
in
blossoming
perspective
re emerge
impersonal
inorganic
changeless
manifestations
A life of darkness, a soul is the cost,
when your mind can’t function, and your heart seems lost.
In a world of deceptions, without care,
alone in our darkness, yet there are others there.
Our own darkness or our own light,
for which are we willing to stand and fight.
Each day thoughts, feelings and emotions, stand up to play,
through the spirits of others, in our day.
To deceive us, to use us, and put us to the test,
for under their deceptions, is illusions at best.
They lie, they steal, they cheat in life,
to render unto you, their man made strife.
If your a child of light, hear what these words say,
how the darkness keeps us, in the light of day.
Is the darkness not a tool, depending on how we see,
open perceptions, are allowed to you and me.
An open mind, no box can contain,
while from the stings of death, they learn to refrain.
Seeing both worlds created together as one, is true life,
if you can face your past, in truth, you overcome it’s strife.
As you walk in the truth of the light,
sometimes to stay in the silence, as a reflection in the night.
You think you feel the world you hold..
The warmth of skin, the firm, the cold.
A hand on glass, a foot on stone..
Yet none have truly ever known.
For when you press, when fingers meet..
No atoms kiss, no edges greet.
A silent force, unseen, untold..
Keeps every boundary controlled.
Electrons whisper, “Stay apart..”
A guarded dance, a hidden art.
They push, they hum, they softly deny..
The meeting point you can’t defy.
What you call touch is not embrace..
But fields that hold a sacred space.
An unseen shield, a cosmic lie..
Where closeness lives.. but can’t comply.
Between each thing, a void remains..
A breath that hums through all domains.
A gap so small, yet vast, profound..
Where truth and illusion both are found.
The universe, with quiet grace..
Denies all matter face to face.
And what we feel, so real, so much..
Is but the echo.. we call touch.
Fashion’s a verb
an action word
something you do.
A subtle brush of blush
cheeks dusted with peach
eyes, smudge-framed with kohl
a soft fingertip of powder on the nose
so it doesn’t like-Rudolph-reindeer glow
A shimmer of glimmer arching over lids
A bit, a spark, of barely-there bronzer,
and on the lips, a trace of glossy color.
Alchemy or pretty pollution
Chasing radiance on tired skin
powdered to porcelain
Yesterday's bad decisions
hidden by good DNA
and makeup in a cliché
of desperate optimism.
Disclaimer: Tell your doctor
if you show signs of delusion
and begin to believe the illusions
.
.
Songs for this:
One Way or Another by Blondie
Rush by Troye Sivan [E]
.
.
[E] = explicit song
Do we have an open mind to let
things get in? Or does it then let out our
convictions out when we do? Do we require more
information to find the truth?
These questions require tolerance yet there some say
that tolerant people do not understand the problem that confront
us.
But I believe intolerance is ignorance on the defensive.
My thoughts are my own but there are times I wonder
who I really am?
Am I who I thing I am? At times I wonder if that is who I really am.
So you see, my age keeps telling me to be myself. I
become confused when people tell me how things ought to be.
I think I will just stop listening to the news media telling me who I ought
to be and telling me who to like and who to hate.
We've woven Samson's hair, into Emperor's clothes
From the tangled web, that enough of us chose
We try to find our way back, while the drawbridge is closed
As the portcullis crashes on the cry in our throat
If we could but match it, with sincerity's tear
We might fashion a shield, and a mantle to wear
But if we cling to the cloak of the silk that's been woven
By the dance of the golden hooves of the cloven
We'll be trampled under, that stampede of lies
In the gathering storm, as it darkens the skies
It won't echo and thunder, as our epitaph
But a death knell our legend, as history laughs
At the folly of thinking, "We're better than that."
Swept into the dustpan, or under the mat
Placed at the bottom, of a yellowing page
In some forgotten tome... of enlightenment's age
I dream of Heaven—
I polish clouds with longings
scraping the ground bare
underneath for my liftoff
to escape from gravity
O my life! What a beautiful disaster it has become!
For the doses of my sunny days and starry nights grew numb,
And the sweet caress of my existence has partly succumbed.
It paralyzed me—as though my foresight had been overcome
By whispers creeping into my mind like an intruder's hum.
If I could depose the noisy image of my tomorrow,
Would it bring me silent war or peace amid the undertow?
How could I unfetter the finitude of my own window?
For my soul could barely perceive the playful tongue of a foe,
Or a friend's delightful persona behind an ugly show.
Yet I lament that the world has made its own foolish nickname
When filtered righteousness and glamorous deceit have enflamed.
On whom should I lean when moral transgressions take on their name?
Or should I wish to fly to the Heavens far from where I came?
For illusions seem true—and truth can be an elusive game.
A Law — is but a Whisper —
That trembles through the Air —
It binds — the speaking Conscience —
To what it dares declare —
The Truth — may wear a Shadow —
And Fraud — a fair Disguise —
The Jury — peers through Windows —
That open — into Skies —
A Word — can build a Prison —
A Glance — can set one Free —
And Justice — is an Angel —
That cannot always See —
The Fine Line — is a Filament —
Between the Heart — and Oath —
Where one — will perish — speaking —
And one — survives them — both —
So Florida — keeps her Balance —
Upon this Thread — so thin —
That even God — must marvel —
At how it won’t give in —
They sat holding bottles
In their hands
And armpits
Pouring mouthful
Of liquor to fill
Their hollow stomachs.
They gazed at each other
As cat and mouse
And spoke a lot of
Inglish with slain syntax
To devirginate
Their motherland.
The two drunkards!
Spoke of a nation's illusions
And the wilted state of
A nation's elites
Raping the cultural norm
Who raped the temple?
They said something
About Lubowa hospital
And praised the Bus Kingdom
For Grazing well the Gen z's
Digging the tax hole
Who murmured a secured Future.
They gazed at each other
As hare and hyena
And shakily gasped for breath
Of the holy bribe paid
For their nocturnal duties
Poverty pasted on muzzled faces.
Oh, the two drunkards!
Finally hit the climax
And roared at each other of
An accusation of not belonging
Reached for each other's neck
To strangle a refugee within.
© Ankwasa Harlord
I smiled when I saw
The figure in front
I ran to get close
But only hugged smoke
Written: May 15, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Crystol Woods
**********************
I’m neither harmonious nor a hidden hymn
Who said I'm wedded to whimsy, lilac looks?
to all those who gifted me
countless worries through the years.
Simply silhouettes in my rear—view mirror.
I sail past rhyming reefs,
of my quest faintly reflecting
Why should I let them define me anymore?
I make mistakes; so what?
my heart is full of love and ambrosian words—
it shines with rhapsody.
my hands can heal amidst the severest pain.
my mind envision cures
for sparkling vanilla—algae tears.
Tidal teals whisper tales that truly transform.
Despite doubts in glittering, grape-colored gales,
I'll face them as the north star kisses the sea.
I will rise and face them head on,
while history hisses at my heels.
I'll sustain my anxieties for what they are — illusions
with a clairvoyant cape and rivulets unraveled
what matters is now
what matters is my striving
what matters is the rise
toward rebellious rainbows
and what I require,
as a necklace of seashells
worn and stained with sepia
In the garden where illusions grow like paper flowers under the velvet sky,
Life is woven like a tapestry of shadows and lights fading into the distance,
A sweet lie we embrace with open arms,
For the pure truth, like a cold wind, might scatter our dreams,
We paint our reality with the oils of dreams and unfulfilled hopes,
While our soul dances on the edge of an abyss of desires.
In the memory of a yesterday that caresses us with whispered nostalgia,
We build sandcastles on the shore of time, knowing the waves will come,
But we love the ephemeral, the beauty of moments unraveling in the wind of forgetfulness,
For in every illusion, we find a silent truth that warms our heart,
And in every lie, a spark of reality that keeps us anchored in dreams,
And in this duality, we find our steps on the path of life,
A trail of shooting stars that shine only in the night of consciousness.
Thus, in the cosmic silence of our thoughts, we let ourselves be carried,
On rivers of images and sensations that flow unceasingly,
For in this stream of the mind, we find a refuge, a sanctuary of light,
Where life, with all its lies, becomes a story we choose to live.
You live like this, sheltered in a delicate world crafted from dreams and illusions,
Believing you are truly living, while your steps are guided by routine,
But then you open a book... or embark on an unexpected journey,
And discover that you are not living, but hibernating, asleep in an apparent silence.
The symptoms of hibernation are easy to spot: first, the restlessness that haunts you,
The second symptom (when hibernation becomes dangerous and can degenerate into death):
The absence of pleasure, of the joy that once filled the cups of your soul,
That is all.
It seems like a harmless disease, a virus of monotony, boredom, slow death,
Millions live like this (or perhaps die like this) without knowing,
They work in offices, drive cars, have picnics with their families,
Raise children and wait for times to change.
And then, a shock treatment occurs, a person, a book, a song,
And it awakens them, saves them from the death that enveloped them like a veil,
But some never awaken, remaining asleep in their silent slumber,
In a world where only shadows speak of the life that could have been.
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