Long Bursts Poems
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Barmy blacksmiths, forging Fate
Smack-dab, smashed and working late
Stuck deep in and wrenching wrists
Tattered skin on itchy fists
Spewing salty starless space
Into eyes and all over face
The wall and put your best foot on
A boxy board housing Spawn
Groggy gauges, clicking close
To the time the Boss had chose
Feeling funny, one Smith exits
Others watch him through their slits
Lined looking, between blades
Hanging hazards, shovels and spades
Their brother's bowel blows and boils
As life's liquid bursts and soils
Clothes clamped, stammered sound
Shrieking lumps, lurching around
Weapons washed, in red and green
The first, and last, blacksmith seen.
Trees still denuded but burgeoning with buds
Will soon be bedecked in the brightest of duds.
Small birds renew flitting amid bursts of bright song
While crocus heads from the soil shyly push up along.
Freshness and newness is what they declare
When brightness and music do fill the air
Hope and joy in simplicity blend
With which no other season can ever contend.
Summer's profusion ,autumn's decay,
Winter bleak, brightened but by Christmas Day
Yet spring with its simple and artless style
Young and old alike doth beguile.
Vivaldi's Four Seasons, a work of great art,
Depicts the cycle with humour and heart
But the princess of seasons stands merrily played
To leave the rest in its shy little shade.
“Faith in Nativity is faith in the Supreme Lord”
The poet
Written 7 December 2023
Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Christmas Faith
Let our faith in Nativity
Shine like the distant Northern Star
On this day of purity;
Let it brighten our soul afar
And with faith in God`s Only Son
Shine like the distant Northern Star;
Let love and grace greet this Season
With bursts of divine compassion
And with faith in God`s Only Son.
Let there be faith and fair reasons
To extend care to those in need
With bursts of divine compassion.
Let faith bless every heart, indeed,
On birthday of the Son of God
To extend care to those in need.
On Christmas day let`s thank the Lord
For assigning the Messiah
On birthday of the Son of God
As His shepherds` divine Saviour.
Joy, hope and kindness – let them reign!
Like the proverbial bluebird
of happiness, whose sweet refrain
of joy bursts forth, let it be heard!
With hope we’ll find the bluest sky.
Joy, hope and kindness – let them reign.
Hope is the lovely butterfly
that we see again and again.
Hope cannot be allowed to wane.
With joy’s bluebird, she leads the way.
Joy, hope and kindness – let them reign
and guide us to a brighter day.
Show forth your kindness with love,
so like the Son, you can attain
light like from His heaven above.
Joy, hope and kindness – let them reign!
Feb. 3, 2022
For Angela Tune's Joy, Hope And Kindness Poetry Contest
Written: August 25, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
Quote: “The words ‘I Am’ are powerful. Whatever you attach to them has the potential to become your reality.” By Wayne Dyer
***********
Line of inquiry:
“a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
***********
I am the pulse no hand of time can bind,
The lucid light that kindles from within;
Wild by beginnings, inviolate mind,
Where all genesis rise, and all begin.
I am the breath beneath zephyr of things,
The stillness from which every motion came;
No fetter holds the pinion of my wings,
No mortal epithet confines my name.
I am the aether where the stars are sown,
The fecund dark that flowers into flame;
The hidden source where every form is known,
A sacred fire no mortal hand can tame.
Before all words, will hummed in aether light,
Ouroboros, I am the deathless breath;
A fruitful cauldron kindled into sight,
I sunder every chain that leads to death.
Velleity—a wish too weak to climb,
I sustain saudade for a home unseen;
I doubt the dark, the light, the future time,
and long for what is gone, or might have been.
It waits, a delitescent, dormant seed,
I find the I AM in the kettle-song;
Then bursts to lucent noon—a sudden need,
In grass that lifts the stone and endures strong.
Let thanatopsis have its honest say:
We are caducity, we fall as leaves.
We meet the autumn on a shorter day,
So gold, so loud, yet nobody here grieves.
We sink to earth without a sigh or tear,
To sleep in peace and wait another year.
I awoke in a half dead state.
Senses crippled with no thoughts.
I lay alone, in an empty space.
The nothingness lasts until I peel open my eyes.
Without warning bursts of light pierce my soul as the colours in my world overflow.
That empty state was live and new, a brilliant sight that slowly grew.
I throw open my door, and my senses are assaulted with life.
A spectrum of sounds and a swirl of smells collide.
I can feel the world, as I stand in my doorway.
A bleak existence that now has meaning.
I can feel.
The warmth of the sun beats down.
The gentle touch of the wind exhilarates me.
I am lost in time, with no need to find my way.
I can see the leaves on the trees flitter.
The windows of the cars flicker with reflected light.
I dare myself, and close my eyes, leaving the beautiful sensations.
All I can do is breath, and now I feel alive.
I fall back, and land on the grass.
With eyes closed I feel the hundreds of blades, fresh, and new.
I can feel, and I am alive.
Alex Gladu
A Feeling of Hope
The in the momanon
Scratching at reality
as it bites
the head from time
Struggling yawns at insipid dawns
relevance bends and breaks
Front to ???q
uck says the f
defend the loose errs
Keep has been kept
Defy imagine nations
Diction orders the nary
Words twist into swords
lest we test the letters or just be settlers
Take my open hand
no hope and nowhere to land
control and condone the remotest controlled
Rolled and rocked
To a beat that doesn't follow
too morrow worms and tow two moor
Thin king or is it just an ink thing
any one an inkling
Can't follow then don't
Pb is led
All that glitters is not Au
Looking for Ag in the lining
Dread dead add ad a
Live lived veiled deviled and reviled
Knew knew new
Sympathy grows closer with an e
all of us junkies
made from drugs
electron bursts
in dreams of unknown hues
as i walk in deaths corroding shoes
I wasn't there again today
wonder what the man on the stair had to say
In the heart of an ancient city, where time whispers through the leaves,
Lies a garden where roses murmur, and the soul finds its reprieve.
Down in the rose garden, where shadows softly fall,
A harmony of color, enchanting one and all.
Crimson and carmine, petals silken and bright,
A fragrant feast for senses, a dazzling, sweet delight.
The sunbeams dance and shimmer, on leaves of emerald green,
Whispering secrets to the roses, in a world unseen.
Their petals, velvet soft, unfold with grace and ease,
A promise of beauty, whispered on the summer breeze.
Among the blooms, a single rose, its thorns a fearsome sight,
But in its heart, a hope resides, a beacon burning bright.
For though its beauty hides a sting, a pain with every touch,
It whispers of resilience, a lesson learned so much.
Each bud that bursts, a symbol, of life's enduring grace,
Though challenges may prick and wound, hope finds its rightful place.
And as the petals fall and fade, their scent still lingers near,
A memory of beauty, for those who hold it dear.
So, wander through the rose garden, let your senses be beguiled,
By colors, scents, and whispers, in this world so sweet and wild.
For in the heart of every bloom, a promise you will find,
That hope will bloom eternal, leaving beauty in its mind.
And there, among the roses, where time and beauty blend,
Lies a truth as old as time, on which our hearts depend.
For every thorn that guards the path to love's sweet, fragrant face,
Is but a guardian of the beauty that we all embrace.
In youth's full bloom or life's waning light,
The rose remains, a timeless sight.
So let us cherish every bloom, each thorn and velvet petal,
For in this garden, life's great lessons are met and then are settled.
With every step on paths of green,
We learn what it means to live, to love, to dream.
And as the day succumbs to night, and stars take their place in the sky,
The roses close, and in the quiet, a hush falls by and by.
But fear not, for with the dawn, their splendor will be reborn,
For in the rose garden, hope is never forlorn.
I met the man
Who has become
The man, my father
Fought so hard
To not become
To always be
That lyrical, selfless soul
Only out there
To rid the world
Of joyless, empty measures
Filled with pauses, rests and
Unintended notes
Rather
His motivation comes
In rushes, bursts and
Pure brazen moments
Ready to share
His love
To the sick and the slick
The blase pack of
Tepid luminaries
Each marshal of
Their own parade
And he conducts
Them
Honors their passion
For something
Other than
The driftless pith
Of the soured day's
Intentions
With his merriment
And simple brand
Of anguish-soothing
Feign-removing
Love.
(8/3/04)
Bursts Of Creativity...
Asper myself tend
to occur late at night,
or early morn 'o follow
wing day unbeknownst
despite acute insight
how, when, where, why...
ideas swarm and bite
inspiration doth alight
try as I might to
coax, anchor right,
burning candlebox at
both ends during midnight
oil, and pry open hermetically airtight
noggin, where my poetic
(side) juices glommed up tight
blew silly blackened, and barbed
as though cold anthracite
ash coal lest futile effort
fueling mental cogs synaps (snaps),
sans each axon and dendrite,
and damn pinwheeling frenzied
writer's block won't budge,
no matter intense aghast fright
regarding drawing nothing,
but blank screen, an unpleasant sight
which activates greater fright
concentration stoppers appetite
to satiate agile literary skill
invoked with all mum might
encountering severe
resistance along well worn
nicked, pitted, rutted...
central processing unit abysmal sight
core cratered tracks analogous trite
other places blasted as if by dynamite
nanobot size infrastructure blight
hmm... huff frayed
to admit fifty plus shades
of grey pock marked beltway abustle
with at least bajillion
self important cosmopolite
avast friggin buzzfeed contrasted with bevy
of heavily rowdy, yet polite
sumo wrestlers exuding
spongy dimpled cellulite,
nonetheless grueling effort experienced
with craven half starved diabolical spite
undermining, jackknifing,
dogging... literary endeavor to expedite
satisfactory pièce de résistance flight
of fancy, though challenged
every step of the way,
once ambition fired up...at twilight
as mortal passion
unstoppable to complete
crafting daily poem
kindled with emotional lignite!