A muse, a mist, a lover's kiss,
assists another sage.
He taps his crown, and jots it down,
and scripts another page.
His quill is dipped, and well equipped,
accomplished for his age.
So deft of hand, mature command,
perhaps to earn a wage.
An anxious calm, a tense aplomb,
reactions hard to gauge.
Reviews astound, perhaps he's found,
an exit from this cage.
Twas sought afar, from schools and bars,
he's the topic, he's the rage.
A wisp, a glow, now scripts the show,
of stars from screen and stage.
He hits the snooze alarm twice
before getting up. He’s already
been up three times during the night.
Two cats are waiting for him downstairs
but for now they leave him alone.
He wistfully looks out the window
as gray skies cast a soft glow.
He says he had a good dream
but can’t recall.
He calls out a woman’s name
but I’ve never met her.
His right shoulder aches.
He mentions something
about the years he bears.
A ravine lies at the end of the street
and bare trees reach for clouds
as they wait for spring.
He says that life on a dead end
is more than it seems.
He jots down a line or two
on a blank page. He plays
a song or two on You tube
and lets inspiration stir
for a moment.
His fingers stroke keys
and bring a poem to life
then holds up the creation
to light.
He showers in haste
pets the cats
and they watch him
as he runs out the door
and goes for a drive.
I see wonders wherever I look,
be it in the sea or babbling brook.
Decoding Mother Nature's handbook,
Time jots down secrets in its scrapbook;
cataloging every niche and nook.
I need but gaze at a starry sky
or hear the honks of geese flying by,
to appreciate Earth, and oft sigh,
picturing sunsets in my mind's eye.
All colors of the rainbow adorn
Gaia's landscapes, time-tested and worn,
enriching our world from rose to thorn.
And as a sea of stars starts to pool,
Luna's moon glimmers like a jewel.
Our planet's a blue marble in space.
Earth's gifts are easy to overlook:
I hope to see them before I die.
For in Nature, I oft feel reborn;
realizing that only a fool,
would not be wonderstruck by this place.
Ferry on the river;
‘Copter in the sky.
Bicycles and scooters
(Some with bells!) all pass me by.
Joggers pound the pavement;
Walkers simply stroll.
Benches are deserted.
(Recent raindrops took a toll.)
Still, I’m out here sitting,
Checking out the scene,
Feeling not quite up or down
But somewhere in between.
As my trusty pencil
Jots each thought upon a line,
It helps record reflections
Found within this mind of mine.
I know someone who jots down short poetry.
Now she puts what she writes inside a fortune cookie.
I am running around breathlessly, trying to do it all.
There are followers, admirers, helpers but this is my fantasy.
An orphanage, a dog shelter, and a home for unwed mothers.
It is the sixties, when they were tormented and abused for being so.
Add a movie theater, a skating rink and a dance studio I call to an assistant.
She jots some notes and hurries away, toward the children’s clown college.
“What can I do?” Dirk, one of my most persistent fawners asks.
Can you feed the sheep? Goats? Missouri mules?
He nods and runs off happy.
I am still walking at a brisk clip,
checking things out, making sure they are right.
My assistant’s assistant runs over to ask “popcorn in the theaters?
And Junior Mints, I tell him.
“And I want that theater built by tomorrow night.”
All possible when you are a nine-year-old child
But how in the hell did I know about unwed mothers?
This was 1961, and my parents told me nothing.
I still ponder this recurring dream I had every night for a year.
Candles flicker like a lover's whisper,
tickling walls with whimsical illusions,
becoming purer, becoming crisper
with cinnamon swirled laughter fusions.
3-7-2020
Reference: Warm Poetic Jots, 12-18-19
Contest: Rithimus Divisa 2
Sponsor: Gregory R. Barden
The frightful winter solstice approaches
with an opaque snow globe life intertwine.
Stars sprinkle early, romance encroaches
upon one headstrong to dread wintertime.
Power poles are overthrown by wind gusts
but the fireplace roars in competition.
Soon the living room temperature adjusts
to our own Norman Rockwell rendition.
Candles flicker like a lover's whisper,
tickling walls with whimsical illusions,
becoming purer, becoming crisper
with cinnamon swirled laughter fusions.
Board games played on the dining room table
welcome nostalgic, restorative thoughts
which begin to inspire and enable
closeness revived, warm poetic jots.
12-18-19
In sullen silence
darkness looms my thoughts
writhe with your absence.
My eternal grief.
A maze existence
till heartens soul rots,
ill vex incumbrance.
Longing your essence,
lumbering time jots
muffle remembrance.
My eternal grief.
2/13/2019
Poetry Contest: Writing Challenge, Feb 2019, Roundel Form
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
incumbrance
https://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/incumbrance
any obstruction that impedes or is burdensome
Drip drop, splish splat, flip flop,
tick-tock, drops like clock,
chimes click away
as ice thaws
dribble
jots
Peace plays
Sound say
Truth tells
Worth well
Hope hurls
Sweet swirls
Faith frames
Grand game
Love lives
Good gives
Joy jots
Live lots
Cheer charms
Art arms
True trips
Rest rips
Spread smiles
Sound style
Meet maze
Dream daze
Dream draft
Cheer crafts
Leon Enriquez
21 October 2017
Singapore
From her thick, littered journal
Notes of passion burn with love
Against clangs of dinnerware---
Till hours roam into near morn
Her spouse digging through work’s pile.
Upstairs, she jots tender lines
Dreaming of intimate nights .
17
Behold my pen
that writes and scribbles
and bleeds blue ink
in drips and dribbles.
That crosses paper
in bites and nibbles
and weighs my thoughts
in spite of quibbles.
Words as strange as
this and then.
Letters and numbers
like S and 10.
Thoughts and feelings
I've had before.
Memories waiting
the pen to bore.
Lines as long
as stretching can.
Jots and jolts
where each began.
Loving strokes
to those I send.
Messages made
that they might blend.
All these meanings
from the heart.
Behold my pen.
Their only art.
Carving out some
solitude, for
fortunes have
weighed against me
recently.
Tracking life's
linear roots to a
place just beneath
me.
Graced with our
unwritten moral
code, and bracing
for any violent
onslaught that may
invade my personal
space between now
and the near future.
Slicing up some
thick thoughts.
After sounds trade
my mind for sketches
and jots.
A blatant repulsion
of all things.
Disregarding bits
and pieces of the
whole as i dwell on
an entire field of
feeling.
Soaking in Sun's big
gift.
Drifting in and out
of minutes and pit
stops.
Under-conscious,
frankly, less
driven.
It's this place.
It's my face.
It's this hazed over
valley and this
state of ignorant
souls.
It's my late claim
of bitter taste.
But a simple answer
does await.
Pack up all your
thoughts.
Now, leave, and be
like Lot.
Don't move your
neck, don't turn
your head, for upon
you finally lay that
violent onslaught.
Verse flings and floods, verse hurls and primes;
Engulf and blend, engulf and feel;
Reap pulse of blood, reap dance of rhymes;
Zest firms line trends, zest strings voice thrills;
Work and sculpt well, work and write spell;
Ink spots weave plan, ink jots steer fill;
Zoom in and tell, zoom in and sell;
Open mind scan, open heart seal;
Find what you need, find what you want;
Choice spreads sure will, choice funds pure thought;
Offer to feed, offer to front;
Zeal maintains fill, zeal transcends lot.
Leon Enriquez
24 Mar 2014
Singapore
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