SHIFTING FORTUNES
notions
of
elan
enforced
energy
coherent
yet
artifical
inchoate
harmony
& simplicity
an
epitome
of
security
revived
vehemently
with
self discipline
peace
in
quiet
acquaintance
beyond
normality
far-away
looks
of contemplation
wayward
innocent
embodiments
in
subliminal
motifs
of
passive
consciousness
&
perception
illumed
insights
faculties
aberration
of awareness
in
authentic
transcription
the
inconceivable
inhibited
attuned
to
sensibility
within
inchoate
contingent
stimuli
individual
thresholds
inseparable
preludes
drift
&
circulate
in
a repertoire
of
shadowed
silence
Why do men have an Adam's apple?
Because of sin and how we grapple
(It was Satan who did deceive Eve and ironically
It was Adam who choked (like the eye and the mote)
One thousand deaths every time we sin
One thousand breaths, this death, the lack therein
Then we eat sin and it becomes caught in our throat
Because we did not meet sin as one not inchoate
We don't support our wives even when we're right there
Why didn't Adam step in for his maiden so fair
Because we don't speak up in everyday conversation**
We don't meet the nay-sayer in every contemplation
We are called to battle sin everyday
Not explain or justify our sin away
So turn away from the sin that we play with
And away from the life that we decay with
And make a turn to a Savior because of our behavior
Have a stiff upper lip before the slip of the lip
Because Jesus rows us away from the slave ship
As I complete this poem and hand down this sentence
We've been given the gift-command of repentance
Laughter creased my face
With the wideness of joy in a darling
Hallooing loudly, Hawaii!
Making me younger with weakly wrinkles,
It warmed my heart with a flaming ring of mirth.
And I liked it.
I watched the waves as they rose and fell,
Like the big flattered locks of a comely
Landlady combing her tresses on a windy, snoopy
Sunday morning.
And I loved it.
Who are next to be loved?
Lucy & Lucille.
One laughs
The other winces with laughter
When cold fleeting winds blow over
Our inchoate sensibilities.
And we love it —
Like we loved Lucy.
Ecstatic eye of night
thoughts tangled tangent
tint of orange moon
slivers were just hazy
incipient learned launch
as the querulous quirk
indented ingress idly
still desperate to capture
though less likely
lavishness connoting mood
human forest focal point
I dream in dribbles soppy
though never flagged yet
as futile aspiration amid
hues strictly night bound
might benefit wistfully
when strident slumber
indigenous to townscape
has its muted rippled
riddle not tactfully
resolved due to blind
daylight tinctured template
aroused by the clangour
of mint medley lure of
Arcadia circus dangle
of inchoate promise known
as crystal carrot jewellery
box whose flecks fly a riot
before the milling cluster
who wantonly wonder
at collapsing fortress inside
whilst rugged resilience
that tower block of prime
revitalised endeavour bent
on a fantasy forage with
disposition a pointless block
though underbody wobbles
if left without the widest
custodial watch of the self
one might be elated finally
I find myself searching for the sea;
Floating;
Mavericks break upon the shore
inside;
Cymbals splatter inchoate foam;
Symbols;
Teahupoo surf behind lowered eyes,
splash in;
Welcome to boiling over nature,
my head.
O Death, how dost thou captivate the mind
And shape one’s final days as light grows dim.
Though man in earnest looks, naught will he find;
Close to thy breast are held thy secrets grim.
For some, inchoate fear of the unknown;
For others, quests unfinished, incomplete.
Some acquiesce to toss a worm a bone;
’Tis rare the ones with open arms thou greet.
In these, perhaps a hint of the divine
Has sparked imagination, fancies spawned.
Yet faith that takes a leap must not consign
When breaking free into the great beyond.
Assured, yes, but I shan't be in thy thrall,
For thou art but an ordained port of call.
—————
[ Death ]
for the It’s All About Three Qs Poetry Contest
sponsored by Constance La France
written on 07/08/2022
It seems old poems never die,
remain inchoate, ill-defined.
No matter how hard we may try,
they haunt the forests of the mind.
----------
Third Place Winner
for the Bite Size Poem no.44 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Line Gauthier
written 05/15/2022
IMPROMPTU
Her wordless lips
Seemed destined to say,
Yes, I’m the one.
My moveless eyes
Tried to hide my inchoate question,
Are you the one?
In a spontaneous reply
To an unasked question,
The loveliest face
I had ever seen
Turned to meet my gaze.
Our souls felt the warm
Spotlight of magnetism
Irresistibly drawing us
27 August 2021
Longing
by Michael R. Burch
We stare out at the cold gray sea,
overcome
with such sudden and intense longing . . .
our eyes meet,
inviolate,
and we are not of this earth,
this strange, inert mass.
Before we crept
out of the shoals of the inchoate sea,
before we grew
the quaint appendages
and orifices of love . . .
before our jellylike nuclei,
struggling to be hearts,
leapt
at the sight of that first bright, oracular sun,
then watched it plummet,
the birth and death of our illumination . . .
before we wept . . .
before we knew . . .
before our unformed hearts grew numb,
once again,
in the depths of the sea’s indecipherable darkness . . .
When we were only
a swirling profusion of recombinant things
wafting loose silt from the sea’s soft floor,
writhing and sucking in convulsive beds
of mucousy foliage,
flowering,
flowering,
flowering . . .
what jolted us to life?
Keywords/Tags: life, evolution, love, desire, longing, passion, lust, sex, sexuality, relationship, chemistry, biology, hormones, appendages, orifices
Villanelle : Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate
Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate
Ask only why your actions lead down the wrong path
All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate
Neither Past nor Future time exist inchoate
All and everything's rolled in ever Present birth
Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate
Are alll lives exemplary and of equal rate
Or only those fated to be humoured by Death
All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate
Is Life just a gift of the gods or Man's mandate
The Buddha's metaphor of bleeding arrow worth
Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate
Those who preach living Life to the full suffocate
Carpe Diem is fine if you can afford mirth
All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate
No trace of passage on earth makes one contemplate
If lives we leave behind acts of blind psychopath
Doubt not who is Master of your conditioned Fate
All else makes for doubt doubt only if Fate's innate
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 13, 2018
Slowly my night was aging,
I found no dry path to stride along
Under the grey moon,
All those mortal moments, that I passed by,
Were not encouraging to me,
I desperately looked for a forgiving mind
In that poorly-lit night for my redemption.
I have an inchoate sense, it tells me—‘there is
Debris of hopes strewn out there somewhere.’
I found one, and picked up to illuminate the
Labyrinth of my erroneous life.
A lot to say that has never been heard,
Just Listen silently to the inchoate panorama....
That rebilious child,
That spring will shoot out soon
Wanting to wander in the wild......
That old man in that coffin waiting,
For the day of redemption
To see the world suffering that whole life he has hated......
That woman bound in cages,
The confetti waiting for the wind to blow it away
Who has not seen sun since ages......
That soldier fighting for the nation,
Urges to see atleast once his new born child
But deying was imposed on him as his destination......
Still you think you know much?
Listen, just listen to the inchoate panorama my friend.
High up here,
amid this cold and alone,
my tools might best be
forgiven if they've
long-since forgot
that they deserve better.
But the only lips my teacup
have known are my blurburing two.
The only ink my brush has known
has been that scolded into some
sorrowful form on this not-mulberry rock.
The only skin this robe has known
was that of this persistent perpetrator.
It's yet to feel a worthy monk; the only sage its known
is the sage I've crumbled into my pestle
in pitiably inchoate mockery of an apothecary
when my knee went turned and grew as big
as my dreams.
The only ears or heart my poems have reached
up here, in this thin air,
have been,
has been my own -
Source and resting place of my
ignoble offerings.
I forgive my cup.
I forgive my robe.
I forgive my brush.
I forgive my flesh.
It never knew better.
It always deserved better.
It never knew better.
Tethered by life's boundless gyre;
doltish in the headlong plunge.
Swirling in its turbid mire;
mock demur feigns to expunge.
Inchoate thoughts swell pathos' rosters;
errant guides whose hack beguiles.
Pay scant regard to such impostors;
debar with glee their rueful smiles.
Then peerless grow your firm resolve;
abjure ego its tumescence.
Ascend the arc and thus evolve;
render glacial your senescence.
Else succumb as prisoner of your thought;
Fashioned into something you are not.
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