There are rumbles of thunder,
Yet, outside, a bird
Is chirping; I wonder
If he has not heard.
For rain clouds have started
Ejecting some drops
At Nature’s imparted
Commands; movement stops
In the trees, where each leaf
Hangs there quiet and still
For it is my belief
They’ve a job to fulfill,
Which is follow the lead
Of what Nature decides.
To survive, they must heed
Their instinctual guides.
As the raindrops increase
There is no other sound
Than the cloudburst’s release;
Not one bird sticks around.
As when out, late walking
Blackness confronting
Face-moulded, mime whose response
Ugliness does bring.
Having pulled back in shock
Screamed, scaring a flock
That screwed up, so horrified
What in place does lock.
Instinctual! As both share
What is of it bare:
Whose appeal, would otherwise
The Divine declare.
What hastens a head
Up to the heavens
Questioning or pleading-eyed
To so angle it?
Reflex, instinctual, rather
Child's to a father?
Upfaced for a look
Of lone neediness
Earth's, too, yet dawned on, yet warmed
Of its own god's love
Have sensed. And at which same hour;
Night-deep, fogs devour.
I have a right to dance.
In my elder years, all sound has faded.
The once pure melodies are now atonal.
But kicking up a storm,
dancing is a revolutionary act.
I have a right to dance.
I awaken to a chorus of chanters,
I awaken to the legends and lore.
Part dream, part audio reception.
Part past life, part immaculate conception.
Part laugh, part delirious deception.
I am connected, I am comforted,
I am confronted, I am contorted
by forces ever so much larger,
by senses ever so much stronger.
I have a right to dance,
a right to prance in the human parade.
Like ants, my cells are self-organizing.
Like trees, my rings archive my story.
I smell and taste the music I recall.
I savor the instinctual harmonies,
the behavior of rhapsodies.
I deliver the symbolic pirouettes,
the mimetic genuflect.
All motion becomes a spectacle.
All movements shape a carnival.
With my body, I advance,
moods and dreamscapes, I enhance,
lost and forgotten in the endless expanse.
I have a right to dance!
She is the life source, a vital essence
maternus unwavering vow
instinctual guard and guide
from conception onward, no end
in her arms an eternal bond
a babe’s birth right, his light
when asked for a sign by the night star
a glimpse of beauty a moment no less
and when ether’s smoke rises afar
She’ll lift him toward the dark vastness
Complimenting the mother’s essence, & its symbolism
Mother's Day Tribute
5/10/26
Clouds collapse into themselves, a restless gathering on the horizon,
The air is thick with electricity and unseen pressure,
All at once, the sky cracks open—
A jagged brilliance, white and sharp,
Splits the darkness, rattling bones and silence.
Horizontal rain erupts—not drops, but sheets,
Carving the world into fragments,
Vision blurred and uncertain,
Wind screams, unbound by order,
Wrenches branches, hurls debris,
The world bends beneath its force,
A raw exhibition of nature’s indifference.
Windows pulse with thunder, trembling glass,
Lights flicker, shadows multiply,
Inside, a pulse—steady, instinctual,
Waits for the storm’s rage to subside,
For the hush to gather again at the door,
For the air to return, soft and clear.
The memory of chaos lingers, just beyond the pane.
Tempest Poetry Contest
1/20/2026
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
i remember now
the sucking whoosh and rattle
of my life
as I was uprooted
still squirming - caught now
in the slalom clutch
of a blood smeared latex glove
a world as cold as a morgue
coagulated around senseless perceptions
a fluent reality that dripped slowly
into clotted forms
for a moment I wallowed
in that instinctual mud
that is both a sacrifice
and a subterfuge
a lamb born not to suckle
but to swallow all before it
if i was aware of anything
other than
my newly crushed heart
it was just the fading echo
of an erstwhile progenitor
either weeping
or laughing
A narrow creek.
Night falls, I know the way,
even so
your hand guide's mine.
Your shoes can swim,
your arms can fly,
but you are not here
or anywhere,
just a presence,
a chaperone,
ushering me
upon an instinctual way.
I think you might be
the all-seeing spirit of an owl,
or some other nocturnal watcher.
Not a ghost,
not feathers or flesh,
just a shadow of heaven
by a narrow creek
where the dark travels.
Flesh fuels fire. Spirit yields. There's body-soul fusion.
Springs up, will to power, and power to will illusion
Narcissistic senses and sensations amalgamated
Moral fibre, like worn-out dental roots, is deflated.
Selfishness, like the greed of predators, murders morals.
Egotism, like crabs in competitions, grabs all laurels.
Overconfident sensitive ego, like porcupines
Spreads its pokes, and thus, to hurt anyone, crosses limit lines.
Mind-not-on-task, - mental disposition, pervades the mind.
Consciousness compromises; awareness gets quarantined.
Hunger for acknowledgment and appreciation grows.
Self-contentment and satisfaction get peaceful repose.
Pretension and flamboyance soon become ethical codes.
Property, possessions, power, projective passion modes
The gratification of instinctual impulses
leading, ultimately, to emotional convulses
Grazing upon my hide,
lumbering,
ravenous beasts
farm,
crop, and munch upon
the harvest rich-fields
of my squamous integrum.
The dermatologist tells me not to worry,
that it’s just the normal microscopic
fauna and flora.
They clean away the dead,
vacuuming-up
the desiccated debris
and dander.
“We are not snakes” he says,
“we need help to shed.”
I can’t help thinking of those millions
of par-blind,
pig-like,
tank-shaped organisms
forever thriving,
feasting,
and then they themselves
decaying
upon my skin,
and they all-unknowing
that they are
most definitely not
the greatest creatures
ever to have roamed the earth!
Instinctual animalcules
constantly changing
the density
of the shadows I cast,
the thickness of my shedding.
Mites nibbling away at my silhouette,
until either it seems to be
far too heaped and corporal,
or way too transparent
to be seen in strong sunlight.
The male of the black widow spider species
offers its head to be eaten
by the lager female arachnid.
Is this sex, love, or blind instinct?
We need a different mind-set
a new understanding.
Some say Nature is perfect,
some consider it flawed, brutal,
red in paw and claw.
Only a bad dream could be this horrific,
only a good dream is aware that it is dreaming.
The exactness of the spider web
could only be the work of an impeccable design,
an image of a reality proffered up
not to confound, but to awaken,
the male and female spider seem to know this,
all be it instinctual, yet naturally beneficial
to these unquestioning creatures.
We should all pay attention,
for a dream within a dream is still a dream.
Upon my bare bent boughs, the blossoms itch,
‘Tis the high season when pollen count rises,
So much better when I wore not a stitch,
Now one's nerve jumps at nasal surprises
Humans emerge from their winter abode,
In awe of the plush panoramic rush,
Foregoing instinctual rambling code,
Flora slowly chokes below feet that crush
A summit of Bards I steadfast embark,
Beneath acrid acidic fall of rain,
Mini Beasts vie to bite deep through my bark,
As strained soil struggles to feed its gaunt grain
We ponder, Is Spring not all it may seem?
Spring with wise Sapiens would be a dream.
Date: 19 February 2023
Spring is not all Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
Brother wolf, you come to me in dreams
yet, I’ve no fear, we are one and the same.
We children of nature in dreamtime twilight,
evoke wooded memories,
held in mid-night echoes.
Survival is our mutual lot and your courage
I have sought among these astral timbers.
You speak of courage and I, your charge,
wear yours upon my spirit like a steel mantle;
I fear not for our pack is our strength;
together we survive.
Imbue me with instinctual guidance;
impart your wisdom brother wolf
and I will cross boundaries
with feather-light ease.
2-18-2023
Your Choice Again Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
It is most important to not hurt a cats soul
for it is the perfect balance
of nobility and ridiculousness,
be gentle with its finer feelings
they are more sensitive than yours.
Do be not laugh
if it scares itself in a mirror.
A cat is instinctual to the core,
a bewhiskered accolade of slapstick.
Clean its litter box, twice a day if need be.
It will refuse to poop on its own poop
unlike some humans.
Your cat needs attention,
it expects you to admire its coat,
its signaling semaphore tail,
its delicate pink tongue and beautiful eyes,
failure to do so
may result in fur balls in your bed.
Be warned
cats are not naturally forgiving.
the swans hiss
parental obligation
…warn the intruder
sunning turtles roll
drunks falling off of bar stools
…curse the kayaker
water lilies
mimicking ice cream cones
…licked by the bees
floating overhead
an Osprey admires himself
…a silent river
a pickerel darts
a frog croaks
…not just wordplay
the Geese look surprised
a cool riffling of feathers
…instinctual need
John G. Lawless
©7/29/2022
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