Long Apposite Poems
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I turned the clock of time to look deeper into the divine; I turned the clock of time to see what is mine. The wheels keep spinning and the machine keeps rolling and I behold an oracle rising up from the sea and it is entering the galaxy guided by a strange satellite with millions of light years cursing by its side. I wasn’t sure what to make of it but it left me completely static.
It drifts and drifts circling around the outer layer of the sky bidding the old moon goodbye and somersaulting in thin air. Time has taken it to a new dimension when it suddenly collides with the heavens, the devil was waiting on the banks but the angels formed a long line and direct it into space.
It traveled a thousand miles in space breaking through the middle ground shooting out fire behind its tail and rising to a dimension that confuse the heart and soul of man. It explores the universe, gathering data in its throat with pinhole camera attached to it, it continues to drift in time until you see what lies in the shadows.
The temperature keeps growing with the time, and the mission keeps focusing on the divine; the dimension widens the suspicious broadens, and time and space compression expand beyond the distance .I can feel the electromagnetic wave pulling me and the distant relationship solidifying me and the feeling of hope is walking all over me.
The mission continues in the sky and I will hold on to gravity umtil I die, the gravitation fields are strong so I have to find a different place to land .
Mars is waiting for me but that mission cannot carry me. I need something bigger and broader that can withstand the nature of time and move further inland with the divine.
The planets are boiling and sooner or later a miracle will be exposed. The Earth will raise, Mars, Pluto and Venus will take you to the next level. Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune will meet you at noon and you will have dinner in the garden with earth apposite the lake, you will invite a thousand soldiers to dine and you will play the flute to bring back memory of your youth; time has just taken you on journey to understand the heat and prepare the fleet.
Waiting in line until it is my time.
I wondered what I will say,
What did I do, what is my excused?
Looking apposite me,
I am curios who is she?
She looks so pale and fragile.
I know she is dead by the blow in her head.
What life she had been living, by the clothes she wears,
And the blood dripping from her hair?
I bet she will bargain, to be pardon.
The man next to me, looks very conceit.
Bet he will plea that’s not his fault he had a wealthy life,
Killed by his jealous wife.
It looks like he had an affair with the person in the other chair.
Because both are still naked, with gunshots in their heads,
The reason their lives were terminated.
Still pondered what I will say,
Why did I deceased on this day?
Mr. Peter, the gate keeper looks so very stern,
No regrets if he had to send you to burn.
I don’t think I have to say anything,
After all He knows my history and my abusive story.
As I look around and see these dreadful faces,
I know this interview is not based on gender, wealth or race.
You will be judge by the rules of the holy book,
It depends on what choices in life you took.
At last I heard my name,
Now my interview begin.
Time strokes the wrinkled canvas,
the ancient spider in twilight hour
weaves the senility web,
the empty eyes wander in the wasteland.
The hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss.
The face morphs into metaphor
for the past panorama dislodged,
captured in the snapshot
of the narcissist impulse congealed
in the portrait I make of me.
It’s made of latent lattice of delicate design,
lines on lines contour my body.
The vibrant epitome of expression align
with the pattern of unique look personified.
An insular captive of my mental making,
I’m an inimitable loner within me,
defined by the entrenched essence singular,
scared to face the crowded world.
I get driven by the self-obsessed urge
to uplift my sagging morale,
clothe the portrait with an apposite attire.
I open the sparse closet to select a T-shirt
with the walking punchline
“Be Brave, Be You” inscribed bold.
It makes a simple style statement
for me coming out of the lonesome shell.
TREASURES
mesmerising
asides
reside
to
display
the
extraordinary
&
delicate
blooms
a choice
narrative
survives
gently
resides
in
patterned
fragments
swirling
in the
spectacular
detail
so
apposite
&
contemporary
a foraged
signifiance
monumental
precious
of
intention
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
COMMONPLACE PHRASIS IX
Everything in its season,concentrated
and alive stray objects ripple across
the view and solitary imagination
is its scale.Recollections of things
past,so apposite for self-expression
sieved to retain the essentials.
Exaggeration modified,ignorance
contemplated and constrained.
Atmospheres of yesterday translated
loom & sound so, unique as a
snowflake to speak to the ear.
Our inner make-up,exposed as poetry in
pictures,hearing colours,a synthesis
of myriad detail&circumstance.With
uniquely added value we browse here
& there outside our comfort zone where
timing is all.making a mark on eternity.
From Retrospective a commonplace book 2009
Listen to me recite this part phrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthys chiro
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid, seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
.
Slang
deck = cool
gillespie = hipster
meow = I want
confuddled = confused and befuddled
derp = anything and everything