Long Bioluminescent Poems
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Owl was unsure what makes fiber optics light up
He pushed back his supper, refusing to sup
I am not going to eat food or drink anything he said
Until I have the answer, lying safely in my head.
He read about quantum physics, and bioluminescent plants
Those reference books will not help him said his much wiser aunts,
They put electricity books in front of him, and arranged them pretty.
He read them all too, but then switched to San Francisco and New York City.
I don’t think he cares about fiber optics, he just likes to learn things.
His mother and father agreed, as he switched to books about kings.
He was reading about steam engines, power tools and other stuff.
Owl is a self-taught lifelong learner, and this is no guff!
In those dark eras of the split, to live was to be alone,
A calculated isolation chilling to the bone.
They hid inside their separate pits and hoarded what they kept,
While just beyond the blast-doors, all their starving neighbors wept.
Lysander watched a nearby vault collapse into the grime,
Their priceless banks of ancient seeds destroyed by mold and time,
Because they lacked the synthesis, the codes to make them grow,
Held by a hostile bunker just a thousand yards below.
They traded only in their scars and deep, ancestral dread,
A territorial madness that infected every bed.
The mind locked in a cage of concrete learns to hate the dark,
But hates the neighbor even more who carries still a spark.
Lysander saw the rot was not a scarcity of bread,
But the absolute division of the living from the dead.
The lonely mind was screaming out behind a wall of stone,
And so he took the broken blueprints time had left alone.
He did not build with iron wire, he did not work with brass,
For metal was the weapon of the executioner class.
Instead, he grew a softer thing along the dripping wall:
A bioluminescent moss that answered to his call.
A fibrous, pale conductor made of cellular design,
That mimicked how the brain-waves spark along a living line.
A living loom of emerald wool, a bright, organic lace,
To knit the fractured pieces of a broken species' face.
For twelve long years he labored there, a surgeon in the night,
He harvested his cortex for the seeds of golden light.
He took microscopic biopsies from his own thinking brain,
And spliced them into mossy veins to cultivate the strain.
He became the anchor node, the root within the deep,
And when he lay his crooked spine down on the floor to sleep,
The Sunken Spire would start to pulse, a soft and rhythmic gleam—
The first erratic heartbeat of a solitary dream.
In the middle of the night,
when the butterflies
dance to the moon's song,
I create constellations
with the map of my soul,
allowing astral lights
across feathery skies
to guide my chrysalis
heart back to an avenue
of cosmic reveries.
I lay in a bed of
delicate petals,
and dream-catchers
designed in emerald
swallowtails.
They remind me
of how I found my home
in the gossamer warmth
of your lunar
struck presence.
And when sirens echo,
across silent seas,
distant muse ebb and
flow symphonies of
mystical mermaids-
grieving at the
outskirts of
bioluminescent shores.
For in your absence,
I long to hear your voice,
as the crystal clear
crescent glimmers,
amidst the fragile truth,
floating above
a flurry of glass-winged
jitters, that camouflage
with hypnotic tales
lost in the air.
Tonight I’ll lock
my pollen dusted
dreams in slumberland..
where peacock pansies
interwoven with
pastel peonies,
would be tucked
beneath sweet
scented sheets..
Your love is the
perennial blanket
to all my
nocturnal fears,
as hieroglyphic runes
of life rhapsodize
a lyrical elixir for the
shifting spheres,
whilst change is cloaked
in mellifluous hues,
unraveling a choir
of nature,
orchestrating a
celestial chorus-
to illustrate
cloudless mornings.
Become my air,
pursuing my scent
in sweet fragrant fields,
where devouring tastes
of bohemian spirit,
delicately descend
in subsistent sighs.
Distracting the
tones of silence,
from subtle susurrus echoes,
like a tender
sakura breeze
kissing fresh
lavender blossoms.
Set adrift in
shades of yesterday,
dandelions bloom
in flourishing orchards,
prostrating to the
mercy of your grace.
But tread carefully
through
the hall of
dream crashers,
where strange streams
from nightmarish tears,
drizzle down,
composing
somber serenades,
choreographed
from an
enchanted symphony.
For l've seen the
invisible reality,
twinkling across streetlights
of sumptuous stars.
Distance is
an unspoken truth,
just a rainbow
away from roaming freely,
within an
evergreen paradise
above bougainvillea skies.
If this was the last poem,
before my last sigh,
today will be the day,
red of rose will
kill my bleeding ink,
so let lyrical acrolect
of poetry fill your thoughts,
look for 'you' and 'I
in the island of love,
where there's no
thunder without lightning,
nor “sea" without 'waves of us'
These distractions
of desolated dunes
are mere signs
of the wounded warrior
within me.
I'm waltzing through
vibrant valleys of white lilies,
in the hope of finding
lost gravity,
which overcomes trials and trepidation.
l'll always be your
lighthouse on lonely nights,
at the edge of
bioluminescent sand lines.
A haven where your
clusters of couplets,
will transcribe an
alchemist's poetic remedy.
Each verse will portray the
personal poem of my soul,
infused in a
profusion of soothing
cosmic hues.
As raindrops kiss
your face, they'll heal
those lamenting
leather lips-
for you are
the wind carrying clouds,
I am the ripples
crying to touch your sky.
Within a garden, unseen yet so true,
A cosmos blooms beneath a mother's hue.
Bioluminescent butterflies take flight,
As constellations whisper through the night.
Here, shifting sands of emotion flow,
Hormonal storms where gentle breezes blow.
The whispers of grandmothers, wise and old,
Echo in dreams, in stories yet untold.
Singing stars ignite the fertile ground,
Aspirations for the future, dreams unbound.
Whispering trees, with roots of memory deep,
Nourish the garden where the baby sleeps.
The body stretches, a canvas vast and grand,
A metamorphosis sculpted by nature's hand.
Blooming with life, a vessel strong and true,
A sacred space where miracles accrue.
Love's gentle rain upon the garden falls,
Nourishing dreams within the earthen walls.
The tremors of life, a joyous, rhythmic beat,
Felt not just within, but beneath her feet.
This journey, a tapestry woven with might,
Of magic and wonder, bathed in moonlit light.
A bond that strengthens with each passing day,
For mother and child, forever they'll stay.
So let us celebrate this miracle's hold,
A story whispered, yet bravely told.
For in this womb, a universe takes flight,
A woman's magic, a radiant light.
Jenna lived in rural Wyoming lands,
where grass rolled over small ridges and buttes,
a small town way out in the cow country,
where the ranchers still throw lassos in loops.
She was driving out to see her boyfriend,
who owned a ten thousand-acre large spread,
he had a big house, riders and a herd,
and was a keeper, all her girlfriends said.
It struck her funny that he'd done so well,
since her man had not been born around here,
they said when we came here eight years ago
he'd shied away from a mustang in fear!
She supposed he must've overcome that,
since now he rode like a weathered cowboy,
he'd bought his own place, made himself a name,
and had brought Jenna no small bit of joy.
He wasn't expecting to see her now,
but she knew that Calvin would understand,
the diner had been sheer hell this morning,
she'd even been groped by a sketchy man.
She needed a break, to hash this all out,
Calvin always had a way to comfort,
and he liked to say that she was his world,
she was sure that he would be there for her.
When she pulled up the whole ranch was quiet,
the hands must have been all out in the hills,
but she saw Calvin's horse at the corral,
had he decided to just hang back and chill?
If that was the case, it was good for her,
she would've hated being here all alone,
so Jenna walked up the big farmer's porch
and noiselessly entered her boyfriend's home.
She was tied, didn't bother to yell,
just padded upstairs to his big bedroom,
the lights were off but a translucent glow
seemed to pierce through the darkness and the gloom.
Inside she saw a bipedal figure
dressed all up in Calvin's battered work duds,
a flat-faced being with a slit for a mouth,
and two huge eyes, both the color of mud.
The skin was smooth, with no human blemish,
a vibrant, bioluminescent green,
and when the figure turned to see Jenna
she loud out a truly terrified scream!
“Jenna, what--”the creature began to say,
speaking the words in Calvin's own voice,
then slumped down and muttered to itself,
“Well I guess no I don't have any choice.”
There before her eyes the green skin shifted,
the figure became Calvin once again,
he frowned and awkwardly looked to his feet...
“Well, I guess I should explain all this then...
CONTINUES IN PART II
In the ocean’s vast and boundless deep, where light begins to cease,
A world of silent shadows casts a spell of tranquil peace.
Abyssal creatures, luminous with bioluminescent glows,
Paint streaks of light amidst the dark, where the deep ocean flows.
Jellyfish, like floating lanterns, illuminate the sable sea,
Drifting through the eternal night, in a ghostly, drifting spree.
Anglerfish, with lures of light, beckon through the abyssal plain,
A mesmerizing, glimmering beacon, in this tranquil, liquid domain.
Deep-sea vents, like chimneys, exhale plumes so rich and hot,
Harboring life in warmth and wonder, in the frigid, sunless spot.
Whales sing their melancholy tunes, reverberating through the deep,
A melody of ancient travelers, where the ocean secrets keep.
Corals, intricate and delicate, in the depths, quietly reside,
Creating havens for countless beings, where life and beauty abide.
Squid flash iridescent signals, conversations in hues and shade,
A vibrant dialogue in colors, in the oceanic parade.
In the abyss, where darkness reigns and where pressures densely pack,
Life forms with resplendent light, revealing nature’s knack.
For even in the most inhospitable, in the harshest, deepest sea,
Life finds a way to dance and glow, in beautiful, pulsing glee.
May we find inspiration, in these beings of the deep,
Who illuminate their own paths, where light is scant and steep.
In the glimmers of the abyss, amidst the pressure and the dark,
There resides a quiet, enduring spark, an ever-persistent mark.
For in the vast and inky dark, where hidden wonders lie,
We glimpse the boundless potential, under the ocean’s quiet sky.
May we carry forth this luminance, in our journeys, far and wide,
A beacon of resilience and hope, in life’s ever-turning tide.
Sometimes I feel a loosening,
not a rise or fall
but a sideways slip
into the body’s secret dream~
the one it keeps folded
behind the pulse.
Inside, everything is surreal.
The ribs bloom like pale petals,
opening and closing
with a slow botanical breath.
Capillaries curl like red vines,
twining around thoughts
I haven’t had yet.
I wander deeper,
past the soft machinery
of muscle and memory,
where neurons spark
like tiny bioluminescent fish
darting through a midnight reef.
The heart meanders by~
not beating, but floating,
a warm, wandering lantern
in search of its own echo.
I follow its glow
into a chamber~
where cells gather like pilgrims,
trading stories in chemical syllables
I almost understand.
Here, my body feels ancient~
a living archive
of every dream, wound, wonder
I’ve ever carried.
And as I move through it,
I realize I’m not leaving myself
but meeting myself
in places I never knew existed.
An inner-body experience~
not escape,
but entry
into the surreal biology
that has held me
all these years.
There are people on the other side of the world
Whom I will probably never meet or know
People who will have no idea who I am
There are sights on the others side of the world
That I have read about and seen photos of
Sights that may or may not really be there.
How would I know?
There are animals I will never see or hear.
For all I know unicorns and dragons live in Africa.
It’s not like I have been there or will ever go.
There could be giant crabs in South America.
Man-eating crabs in bioluminescent colors.
I do not doubt it.
I ponder the wonders of the world which I will never see
And I smile, for it is fun to imagine all of them and more.
Between paper-soft
worlds of fragile
imaginations,
I float upon those
gossamer tulips
that split every
second of saccharine
musings and
eclipsed confessions,
distinguishing all
photoelectric synonyms
of lachrymose
stimuli towards
glassy manipulations
of blood-fragranced sun.
Everything that is
sown in sweetened
textures of afterglow-soil,
always blossoms upon
decayed fossils of
frivolous fates, as
balanced bullets have
forever pierced
through the pulpy
sheaths of nature's
rainbow-blankets,
but their aged roots
always adorn nourishing
gemstones of
ephemeral healing,
to spread their wise
branches across earth's
mirrors, as the thin
veil disappears.
What is the raven-spade
-hearted impulse
without its nascent yet
succulently flowing
snow-white mist?
What if, reality speaks
of those skies smitten with
hypnotic illusions of
chess-shaped horizons?
Have yin and yang ever
repelled each other's
rusty-maroon notes
that they whisper in
immortal prelude?
We have remained
skillfully blindfolded to
the isles of inceptions,
swirling amidst ripples
of diamond-kismet
estuaries, washing away
consciences with
diplomatic dewdrops
of frosty maple fog.
Tending to forget that,
we are mere syzygy knights,
crawling along
slanting seesaws as
bioluminescent bishops.
Our schizophrenic
threads have been
tied to the aroma of
poisoned satin within
these final alphabets of
enchante´ epitaphs,
where life will be
the last organ grinder
of karma, playing
an evanescent checkmate
which shall ascend
every soulful spirit
beyond Persephone's
penumbral embrace.