Long As if by magic Poems
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(alter knit lee titled: vita in oculis nudato)
goo goo gaga I wanna yell
cuz, synonymous
with other wordsmiths,
or...well
whatever will eire'n burr,
a sought after creative
passionate pursuit aye tell
ye a boot me own aha...eureka insightful
revelation explaining
ma quotidian writing spell,
and phalanges skitter
across qwerty keyboard
at light in an attempt to quell
onslaught tidal wave crashing
upon me conscious state pell mell
which tsunami flood spongy
heady gray matter with hell
over high tide heals assailing,
bruiting, clobbering this fell
low inducing (me) to play
Handel's Semantic Water Music
on the smallish piccolo cello
which Sirens of Tighten,
(who just appeared out of thin aire -
cuz scriveners can resort
to prestidigitation to make appear
any necessary entity
without rhyme or reason),
anyway, this sylph sea Oceanids nymph
i.e. mermaids didst dee clear
particularly via
barely audible verbal communication
sotto voce en dear
ring gently beckoning
affinity this modest heir
to secret himself within secluded lair
whence, an automatic
erectile flickr, kickstarted,
levitated, and manifested
an instantaneous jubilant kik
lobbed me near
this seductive, sedulous, and sedum
scented sir experienced hypnotic stare
charming froto into trance scandent state
as if by magic the tubular
testicular proboscis didst inflate
aptly serving as modus operandi flagellate
thus proving a "happy ending" against being celibate.
I can hear the wind whistling in the trees,
blowing loose strands of hair into my face;
playful-like, not quite enough to displease.
As a stillness morphs into a cool breeze
and Sol weaves colored clouds into pink lace:
I can hear the wind whistling in the trees.
As if by magic, crystal raindrops freeze,
and the snowflakes fall at a gentle pace;
playful-like, not quite enough to displease.
The sky exhales in whispered harmonies
as a scarlet sun sinks without a trace:
I can hear the wind, whistling in the trees.
Combining alternate realities,
Autumn and Winter start to interface:
playful-like, not quite enough to displease.
When temperatures dip a few degrees
and leaves get scattered all over the place:
I can hear the wind whistling in the trees,
playful-like, not quite enough to displease.
Went to a concert last night, across town,
To see an old favorite of mine, Jackson Browne.
We slogged through a downpour of thunder and rain,
Where the opening song had a “deluge” refrain.*
The show was amazing; the singing so fine
That years fell away with each lyrical line.
The fans were enamored; we clapped and we cheered
As our younger selves, as if by magic, appeared.
For more than three hours, the music fulfilled
The crowd’s expectations, with most of us thrilled.
Yet still, there was texting on cell phones a’light
From various seats, which just didn’t seem right.
It put a slight damper on what was, to me,
An evening as special as any could be,
For certain performers tap into the past
With a power that, over the years, seems to last.
*”Before the Deluge” by Jackson Browne
Enraptured by a butterfly one day,
I watched her from beneath a shady tree.
She flitted all about, then stopped to stay
upon a flower; how delightfully
she lingered there, a fascinating sight!
Her wings were blue, a most enchanting hue
against the flower’s petals pink and white.
Entranced, I stared at her until she flew
away. Then suddenly I found that I
was wafting with the wind above the land!
My arms were wings the color of the sky,
and dreamily I viewed the earth so grand.
As if by magic, I turned out to be
The butterfly that captivated me!
For Brian Strand's CONTEST NO 203 any form/theme max of 14 lines
Reflection - The Fragrance of Grace
Mail order catalogs seem to have the ability to procreate in my mailbox. Just when I think I have rendered them infertile they give birth to multiple sets of quintuplets right under my nose as if by magic fertilization! And, of course, I have to examine these newborn opportunities to raid my bank account just to make sure I haven’t missed some article of clothing or thing I can’t possibly live without for the survival of sanity and my eternal happiness. They are like new spring leaves!
spring sprouts in new leaves
boughs sport jackets of light green ~
chartreuse convention
A new arrival from a New England country store pictured a garden of stately purple iris that immediately grabbed my hand and took me on a ride back into my grandmother’s iris garden with delicate, yet eloquent, perfume wafting from silky petaled garden royalty.
Each page was an adventurous journey through my childhood reminiscing about miracle wrinkle erasing creams, magic bunion healers and kitchen gadgets long declared useless by technology. But, one page made me stop, drop and drool - perfumes. No nascent scents but old friends looking at me from glossy pages bringing to mind the women who gave my life definition – the Royal Secret of my grandmother; Bellodgia and Gardenia of my favorite aunts; Tigress of my tigress mother and Blue Grass, a Kentucky meadow perfume of my teens.
These remarkable women straddled fleeing decades, crushing depressions, cataclysmic world wars often suffering the unthinkable loss of infants, children, husbands, siblings and miscarriages. Yet, through their signature scents, they taught me about thanksgiving in tragedy, faith in grieving and the irrepressible iron will to live in the fragrance of grace.
harlequin bouquets
fragrance of flower’s essence ~
sunlight washed gardens
4-21-21
Contest: Moments of Reflections
Sponsor: Malabika Ray Choudhury
The sparrow cannot help being tireless.
The banyan cannot help being sheltered.
The moon cannot help being constant.
And I cannot help being Amma.
Even in my sleep, I dream of your healing.
Even in my sadness, I love my purpose.
I swim in the rivers of my devotion.
I climb through the mountains of my fatigue.
My hands move from cradle to cooking pot,
From your fevered brow to folded laundry,
From the newborn's delicate skin to dusty floors.
My presence stretches thin across this house
Your in-laws' glances slide past my labour,
Your husband's eyes never quite seeing
The midnight vigils, the 4 a.m. feedings,
The meals appear as if by magic.
I travel for years and years
Through the terrain of invisible work.
And on the other side
Is Amma, beautiful Amma,
My weathered hands created order in the chaos.
You do not see me fully now, my daughter
How could you, wrapped in your pain and wonder?
But this too is motherhood:
The blessing of being unseen
While seeing everything.
Nothing I accept about myself can be used against me.
I am the silent centre of this storm,
The root that holds when winds blow fierce.
I carry generations in my bones.
I am necessary, elemental.
I am enough.
I've got to clean out these loaded ancient poetry files
What will I sell first maybe I'll just stack them in big pile
I know then I'll sort them_separate by topic
Remove ones about child sex abuse as if by magic
Now the world is safer place for children to play
I'll get busy seeing what's left to take care of this day
Now I'll remove the ones about poisonous snakes
Get rid of those pythons who threaten human lives to take
What do I have left to sell_some with misspelled words
Haikus not written very well, grammar gone amuck by yards
Now for pricing what can I do _easy stickers
Those wih self-stick tacky glue_poor Haikus snap-shot pictures
I'll sell them first three for a quarter_maybe dime
For folks will say why they don't even have any end-rhyme
Forget this dang garage sale_just have an estate sale
Have professional come over price then use slide scale
Somehow these couplets will have to come to a close
The lunch timer just dinged_sorry I'll just say adios
Finis'
Sponsor:~Skat~
Contest:A Poet's Garage Sale
Written: September 24, 2012
Shark is sitting on my lap the second I hit the porch.
Shark is an outdoor cat, he fights me if it is cold.
Because I try to pick him up and take him inside.
You would think he is from the Arctic.
Maybe he is.
He was a stray.
His brother Mr. Fluffy Pants disappeared the first year.
We have no idea where he went.
This is Shark's eleventh year with us.
He was aptly named.
He has his own kill zone around the house.
Sometimes we find thirty carcasses there in the winter.
We find them after the leaves blow away.
Shark can leave for days at a time.
When I start to give up and become sad,
There he is, as if by magic.
He is mystical.
Can you tell my grandchildren named them?
There is this phenomenon we feel growing older
that happens to us old folks a lot:
How some days we feel our age…while others…we do not!
Some days those aches and pains that accompany growing older
seem at best…inopportune…
We moan, we groan, we grouse…we feel older than the moon.
Other days those aches and pains subside…and then
as if by magic our bodies heal…and we feel young again.
I have a theory about this that, I imagine, in old people is far-flung…
How our body absorbs the ravages of age
so our mind can help to keep us young.
When our body feels its age in it’s wrinkles, creases and kinks
our mind is there to remind us…were’e not as old as we may think.
Our mind draws on strength we thought we lost long ago…
we’re not sure where or when
to fill our ankles, hips and knees with energy and help us feel young again.
It’s a wonderful and loving relationship between the body and the mind.
The way, as we grow older they become more and more intertwined.
Which leads to this wonder in old people..if you look…you’ll witness it a lot
How some moments we feel our age…while other times we do not.
It’s why one moment you might see us sitting comfortably in our cozy chair
but upon a second glance
You’ll hear us moan and groan as we get up…
then suddenly smile
as we begin to dance.
How wonderful it was when young to stray
and find sweet springs to sip from on my way;
to get to stroll down summer lanes and touch
the cattails’ fuzz that tickled me so much!
My childhood passed. I got to cross a sea
and see green mountains tower over me;
see sunlight streaming on a Spanish plain.
I FELT it too upon my face, and rain
I also got to feel while ambling
down Paris streets; I loved my rambling
from west to east and back from east to west.
My youthful days of rambling were the best!
I’d wandered, yet I somehow always knew
I’d make it back - my rambling days all through.
I was not made for wandering too far
nor making many wishes on a star.
I settled down. Most wandering left my mind.
I never guessed the future I would find.
One day inside my empty nest I found
(as if by magic) I could get around
to other places! Thoughts would fly to me -
the lovely vagabonds of poetry!
I do not have to leave home; there’s no cost.
Creating, I am wandering, not lost.
Dec. 22, 2021