Long Bristly Poems
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“Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia.
Its solemn swaying into this world isn't a fall,
From the ever-season-shifting earth, it's a call;
Yearning, seeking, searching for liberty within,
Cut from the umbilical code of fear; to win;
Flying, floating, freezing, fizzing, fleeing, freeing,
To go beyond settled foundations, far-seeing...!
The autumn leaf though happy with the gaudy ground,
Does it stay on, as a household slave, freedom bound?
Crawling, creeping, moving, merrying, flying far;
Movement, like the time, the leaf says, has no time bar;
Sometimes slow; sometimes fast; sometimes in mild tempo,
Often, it moves in breeze-race-bustle-like fair flow...!
Does the autumn leaf feel anger against the tree,
That cut it from his sap-filled trunk and let it flee?
Is it disgusted at the grim weather around,
Or the zeitgeist, for his existence, not so sound?
Does it feel frightened of the thistly bristly thorns,
That would pierce its heart and would yearn to hear its mourns...?
The leaf has made the act of flying its mission,
To link with leaves of the same vision ignition;
Flying beyond all feelings of joy and sadness,
Puzzles and riddles and reach zeniths of gladness;
As it knows this would be the only given chance,
Before it reaches its psycho-physical trance...!
Isn't an autumn leaf like a thirsty human soul,
That has taken its flight from the absolute whole?
Moving, merging, shifting, stirring midst silent stroll,
Comprehending incomprehensible bliss pole!
Pushed, pulled, torn, flown, thrown into many a chuckhole,
Attains, ultimately, its unending sole goal...!
23 December 2022
Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
Rhymes Checked in Rhyme Zone
Syllable Checked in How Many Syllables
This was written sometime back when a bird had built a nest on a bushy tree in my garden… I waited counting down days to see the eggs hatched. But what happened in the end was heart breaking!
A nest of intricate design
a piece of art unmatched in decor
built amid the dark verdure of clustered leaves-
the gay habitat of a robin and her brood.
How suddenly it erupts into a clatter of sounds,
as the mother bird comes diving in
with a wee bit of a wriggling worm
discreetly borne in her tiny beak.
Thrusting it into the gaping mouths,
she departs and comes again
and again, comes with something
a whirring insect or a twisting thing.
Nothing can appease her ravenous horde
and on she goes ferreting about.
At night fall she alights abrupt
from what infinite heights, God alone knows
darting into her nest as she hovers,
the din subsides.....
first into a fizzle, then into sharp silence
Bundled in her warmth, the little ones
sleep till the first flutter of dawn
From my window, I enjoy this diurnal scene
repeating itself in methodical precision
until someday, into heaven’s insurmountable heights
the young ones take off on tiny wings!
A sight so accustomed, cheery and gleeful,
my eyes would soon be deprived of
and the thought makes me ill at ease.
A wonder it is, the young ones
inexperienced though, thrives so well
on catapulted suddenly into an eerie world!
What husbandry in nature!
What Godly solicitude!
The next morn, my heart missed a beat
at what I espied through my open window.
On the ground lay the swallow’s nest
ripped, broken and blown to pieces
like a heap of rubble after a tremor.
By its side lay a few downy feathers-
the sad reminder of a stark felony!
In an instant flashed past
the grim image of the black Tom cat
that prowls my courtyard in the dark
with glowing eyes and bristly whiskers.
Damning that accursed thing,
I picked up that wreckage,
my mind violently mutinying over
the ‘insolent might’!!
What is love? Love is a portrait of art and love is precious.
Love is amazing poetry, simple imagery of alluring beauty,
Love is wonderful presentation filled with nice surprises,
Love is the first duel in the field to conquer honour and duty.
Love comes at dawn with welcome arms full of charm.
Love lives in the land of glory, by bristly heroic sacrifices,
Love is a language the conscious noun use of genres from,
Love is a life light until our soul eclipses the eternal skies.
Before pall bears, shadows fall smouldering ashes in a fire,
Love is the vows we make and the vows that we will shun,
Requiem powers of the dead lend strength to the survivor,
Love is in colours of the rainbow that glows for every nation,
Love is the scroll on which romantics wrote symphony of notes,
Love is the road on which they walk towards elusive goal,
Love is the boat on which they serenade carnival floats,
Love is in the air on streets of gold catching snow and windfall.
Love is many laughs and as many cries, we treasured most,
Love is risk and adventures floundering in the sleepless night,
In a chasm of abyss leap the soul above incarceration mist,
Clasped the fantasy that yearns for passion in secret delight.
Love is a cloud on which birth surprisingly thrives on earth,
In time, our emotions tear down the walls on which it stood,
Until we go back in reincarnation blur along the same path.
And consume the hearts splitting off into tiny pieces of good.
Love is a mixture hidden deep in faith, of belief small or great,
Unhinged the carriage driven by mortals in athleticism flame,
The contagious nectar of taste refined more palatable than hate,
In rhapsody of human glory, the acumen brings no shame.
If you had love? Would you give it away or keep it as a gift?
Finding ways through prison bars up the stairs and into the stars,
Love is too costly to waste scratching your head tearing at yourself,
From the almighty plan, it is our needful breath of joy and tears.
All puffed up, ducks, swans and goose
fluffed feathers on the loose,
afterfeathers clinging to open flagged wings
strutting as they move and sing.
Smaller birds hang back and low
un-intimidting, gentle, calm, slow,
little barbs rising from the contoured body
ready to rise, the ease of flight embodied.
Iridescent delicate tipped quills
bounce and float at will,
boldly embracing the cold wind breeze
downy fluff and stuff set free.
Ruffled remiges, covert retrices marked
by circannual monitorings embarked
the seasons bristly gatherers on the fly
all puffed up, winged avengers of the sky.
Circling and scraping.
Bristly and comforting.
When I brush my teeth.
It’s never that bad.
But getting out of bed is the hard part.
I find myself wishing someone would bring me my toothbrush.
I could brush my teeth in my sleep.
Instead, I’m lonely.
I’m late so I spring out of bed, suddenly.
Circling the room, anxiously.
The carpet scraping my feet.
Fearful that my toothbrush will somehow hurt me.
I have to leave soon.
I don’t have time to brush, so I cry instead.
I daydream all day,
About going home to brush my teeth over and over…
Alone, brushing my teeth.
Until everything is clean and fresh.
But when I get home, it’s never like that.
I’m tired so I brush my teeth meekly and hopelessly.
Circling and scraping.
Bristly and comforting.
I don’t really brush my teeth enough these days.
Absence or presence felt like anniversary
Bonding dipped on honey or roasted like rotisserie
Cameras capturing candid moments of silence and victory
Detonating memories of bliss, struggle and gallantry
Every smile incinerates dejection and melancholy
Family or with nobody, molded like an infantry
Gentle ways you move as a whole over bristly fences
Hardened, unwittingly brittle you fall in many pieces
In and out breathing so free, beliguered by birds and beasts of hums
Jackhammered by toils, plagued by conundrums
Kayaking on clear and colored waters, flowing and never end
Life in your story beeps, commend and bend
Memories of everybody in a canvass
Now and forever, etched on walls that will never pass
On and off you charge your cellphone
Powering, vimming your daily routine without a drone
Questioning why life is bred with more tears, not laughter
Roaring like thunder, having no brother or sister
Smile and never surrender while you're still awake
The night or day after may not come again with a birthday cake
Under any condition or situation, be grateful for having YOU
Value your time, your life and people around you
Weeks and passing years will be seen and felt in your own body
Your life in a story, short or long, is a biography
Zany it will always be, your life in a microscope -- a movie in trilogy!
Undersized or measured as a miniature...
Your creation is magnified as a beautiful caricature!
(Prosebite)
Once upon a time, Rumple
Stein sat by the glowing fire
and called the children close.
"Tonight," he whispered with
a wicked smile, "I will tell you
about the Dust- Gnasher."
This creature has skin like old
parchment and razor- sharp fingers
long enough to wrap around the
mattress.
It waits in absolute silence,
completely flattered beneath
your dark bed frame all night
long.
The moment the bedroom
lights click off, its yellow eyes
pop open in the shadows.
It listens for the sound of
deep breathing to know you
are finally fast asleep.
Then, it slowly slides out to
sniff the air, looking for tiny
bare feet hanging off the edge.
If you leave a toe uncovered,
it's cold, bristly tongue will
give it a tiny bite.
It loves to steal loose socks
and chew on plastic toys with
its full, clicking teeth.
"So tuck your blankets tightly
tonight," Rumple chuckled,
"because it is listening right
now."
Charlotte
You were smiling at me
As you were looking right
Through him
Or were you
Looking right through me
As you were smiling at him?
False subtleties
From dew to dust
From dawn to dusk
All the things that you have to weave
I’m sure didn’t mean to deceive
Well I never really had a doubt
After all the things I found out
I can’t get out
Charlotte
Too caught up in the web you wove
In the lies you told
Head first for you I really dove
The web you spun
Right here where it all began
As I sing along
The cricket’s song
Just as I realized
Summertime can’t last forever
AsI hang onto something
a little tighter
I wondered if I
Should hold on to nothing
A little bit longer?
Your hourglass body
The bristly patch I crave
Too many things on my mind
So many past better left behind
That also told my woes to you
That is all I can do
No one can ever take your place
In my heart
Blood thirsty
Looking pretty
That’s all you do
Charlotte
I’d still like to believe
That you really
Didn't mean to deceive.
Look! Can you see? Out of the window?
Snowflakes are falling, white blankets are forming.
Patience, little one,
Soon it will be quilted and quiet.
Not far away, three small mammals are doing their sleeping:
The dormouse, pipistrel and the solitary hedgehog -
Mystical prickled pig of the hedgerow.
Ssh, she's away with the fairies.
Snug in her nest, may her slumbers be blessed.
One in a million,
She's a spherical urchin
Curled tight on a cushion of twigs.
Hedgehog is dreaming, snuffling,
To chobble on tanklements of millipede and earwig.
No, no, no!
No mediaeval harbinger of doom -
She's a bristly broom,
Self-anointed by toad skin and poo,
She brushes in spring anew.
And in the half-lit, moonlit summers,
Her little donnies will write spells -
Not ‘ills’, with her quills,
As trails of silvered cursive script
In the glistening ink of snails -
Near nanny’s pots and pails on the patio.
Later, little one,
Her thorny needles will stitch cobwebs of autumn
Between the railings on the hill,
Knitting together a tapestry of seasons.
Shapeshifting.
Bewitching.
We copulated
in front of the TV ...
Every scream of yours,
a goal of mine ... and the fans
crazed applauded ...
We copulated,
in front of a canary ...
Every trine of yours,
every moan of mine,
mesmerized, and challenged
further was cracking the canary ...
We had sex,
in front of a shooting platoon ...
in our wince,
extra shivering ...
We'll be done soon
not to be
hit by the bullets ... and look, neither
we felt guilty ...
We had sex,
in front of a cat ...
Every moan of yours,
every howl of my ... the cat
meow all bristly ...
We didn't have sex
in front of Gioconda ...
But let's do it ...
for her to lose her pose,
to cut her protruding
gestural ...