to love, is often to bleed,
cut at the wrist through the fields of reids,
mummification of a beloved memory,
wrapped in caramel gauze of a felo de se.
“should we see this heralding—?”
asked the lonely chimera to the aardvark,
her eyes welting with levees to break,
single teardrop of a fallen empire drips to hands.
“time cares not for your water child, just your heartstrings,
but by which face, who will you let lead is the mystery,”
its cane snapping, sending it bouncing down the hill,
quick way to get around, if you are built for hellscape.
“to which face i lead,” it silently speaks,
“am i the lion, a snake, or just a sheep—?”
Like autumn leaves, our memories rustle and fall,
gently nudging levees, a bitter sweet recall.
Where shadows play and deceive, I wander lost,
I am a broken doll, with a mischievous grin,
trapped in a maze of complexities and faux,
a fleeting glimpse of joy in the darkness within,
searching for the path to wisdom, hunting relief,
between enlightenment and ignorance, siren beckoning,
And now I'm trapped in a mellifluously sung melody.
Threnody dirges miseries
Severance of machinations
The gravedigger’s shovel buries
These coffin crypt lamentations
Lachrymose welts filling levees
Life’s vile xenotransplantations
Psychopomp as a wraith’s whisper
Dust swept away by a zephyr
Zenith swirls of black rose petals,
burst into a flock of circling crows,
descending ash and rain on my frozen form.
Viscera and scarlet pools flash,
feet running of a child,
car screeching tires with broken glass.
Piano motif grave into a tilt,
fingers dancing like butterflies,
levees welting over the brim crimson,
down the side of the dam,
Moon alabaster dust suspended,
upside down pyramid spins ever so swiftly,
I wish to go inside this burgundy sepulcher.
Ferryman take the bribe from the crypt keeper,
under the veil of the cloak in black,
piano crescendos with a cello in orchestra.
Now I float amongst the wraiths,
nevermore.
Golden silence here in crepuscule,
wonder if that sun ray in the distance,
is meant for me,
a telephone ring.
Teardrop a shudder in a large mirror reflecting,
zeal cherry blossoms in its grasp.
Lilith is the queen of darkness,
caution tape blueberries and cherries,
a moth that never emerged from larva.
Skulls pile up at the cemetery,
husk buried separate on the moon,
an ethereal tether to the void.
To live a long life is to die alone.
In the final week they still swept their floors.
A gate was mended on the third last day -
the people in the village so stuck in their way,
that some, in leaving, even locked their doors
as if to keep back the dam tide -
frail wooden levees that will not hold.
They die hard: the habits of old,
and cannot be casually cast aside.
There is a nephilim here, in the leafy dark,
staking his plants and pulling out weeds,
though the distant coffer dam is broken.
As in the days of Noah and his ark,
the gardener labours in vain for vain needs,
ignoring the government prophecy spoken.
some poems ask to be naked
they have no use at all
for punctuation
not even for an en dash
an em dash nor hyphen
they play with a flowing grammar
that must be read like water
or paddled through on a leaky canoe
the poet can then hide behind
these unchained words
while demanding to be truly heard
while of course
all the suggested literary pauses and in-breaths
can be just a matter of spacing
it is quite a scrabble game
one played with disjointed symbols
on blank tiles
a stylistic approach that can
if done right
be thought of as avant garde
or pointlessly regressive
but
we all like a nude
a form without garb and baggage
and perhaps some of us wish
wish we could walk on water sometimes
A Cup Runneth Over
My cup in dry abyss boils over
Condensing dewdrops in vapors of blessing
Into foaming condensed extracts
Like effervescence of divine dust
That bubbles up to the rim.
Rescued like a fallen star
From arid droughts
You send my thirsting emptiness
Like a winter deer to search for streams
And find deep pools of dawning glory.
Purified elixir drips mercy
Into my crumbling calyx,
Molding a new chalice,
Brimming with benediction,
As tides of absolution rise into oblation.
A frozen vessel washed with snows set free
Bathes my nascent cup in all ruth
In swirling celebration’s release
As levees of grace break free
Spilling into this my new fashioned grail.
7-20-22
Contest: Pick a Title Vol 31
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title Chosen: A Cup Runneth Over
Poem #39
Seasons of Spring
Consider the sight of evergreen trees and levees falling to the ground. The spring season is here, I love it. Spring makes me feel calm, peaceful and humming.
Nature raised up my mind, soul, and inner man as spring filled. His unknown time is fast approaching, and the seasons are speeding up.
For that says just know the seasons is a time capsules, we as Christians cannot rest no time, we have to seek the LORD awhile we still can he is coming shortly unexpected. So be so ready for his appear in the awaits.
Seasons Of Spring
By Ms. Gretchen Mickler
02/13/2022
Coots sleepily dabble
in a smudge of water.
Wisp-wings waft
on a surface mist.
Dipping ducks,
necks tucked into the half-light.
watch muddy shadows dive
under mounds of stalky flotsam.
Vista’s gather to paint
their levees of light.
A slight uplift opens
in a drape of sky.
Dawn emerges through reflection,
through liquid eyes,
a looking-glass sun
swims deep-up from above.
Lipogram A – Free Verse – I’m Not Sorry
I’m not sorry
For ripping to shreds
the invented future you drew
Between the person I will never be
Plus the person you’ve forever been.
I formed by body to serve—me.
Not you. Not your love. Not
The style in which you disgustingly beg for connection.
Me.
So I’m not sorry.
I felt nothing when you cried
Or implored me to forgo
My own mind
For the hopes I’d rescue yours.
I’m not concerned for yours.
I hope you cry rivers until even the levees
Flood in your misery. Until I’m drowned in your
Self-pity.
I will never be your toy.
I’m not sorry.
June 5, 2021
Lipogram (A) Contest – Emile Pinet
Mallards dabble
in a smudge of water.
A silver flare
from the edge of night.
Muddy shadows dive
under stalky mounds.
Levees of light overflowing.
A gleaming pond
knows itself
once more.
Mallards sleepily dabble
in a smudge of water.
Then an emerging sun flares
from its coatless face.
Like dipping ducks,
muddy shadows dive
under mounds of stalky flotsam.
Vista’s crack open
their levees of light.
"Dam it ...
I said dam it!!" she cried,
Tears soft-swimming in her eyes,
Welling up like the swift torrent inside her ...
"Can you not see the rising submergence in my gaze?
My vessel is yet full," she pleaded, "and will soon runneth over!
The waters of my ravishment have flooded the lowlands to breaking,
And the banks of my best intentions can no longer stem the tide within!
Please ... please be my sad salvation, and do what you must,
For should you not shore up this trickle of passions,
The levees shall most assuredly break,
And quickly drown us both!"
Indeed, he thought,
Brightening.
Rivers be rising,
Rain ain't gonna help at all,
Pray the levees hold.
Rivers be rising,
Rain ain't gonna help at all,
Pray the levees hold.
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