Long Conducive Poems
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If you take a flight at night,
Don’t expect much sleeping,
Though exhaustion in your bones
Will sneakily start seeping.
First of all, you’re sitting,
Which to sleep is not conducive.
Next are all the noises,
Making slumber quite elusive.
Even if the lights are dimmed,
Some screens are lit up brightly.
Putting on a sleeping mask
Will help, but only slightly.
Flight attendants on the march
Bring snacks or drinks or smiles,
Rattling their carts as they
Parade on down the aisles.
If you catch your forty winks,
You wake up in a stupor.
Next to younger passengers,
You seem a party pooper.
Then you land and you de-plane,
So wiped out you could cry.
Since you booked these tickets,
Now it’s time to wonder why.
You’re so wiped out the day is shot;
The red-eye part is true.
Some love these flights, but as for me,
I’ve met my Waterloo.
My pillow sits there waiting
With my comforter in bed;
It’s so squishy it’s the perfect place
For me to rest my head.
Filled with fluffy down, not feathers,
You can squish it into shape,
Giving comfort, so conducive
To a sleepytime escape.
When I’m traveling, no matter
How expensive my hotel,
I am sure the pillows will prevent
My sleeping very well.
For like Goldilocks, I’ll find them
Way too soft or much too hard
And I’m certain many others
Can relate in that regard.
But at home, when bedtime beckons
And my eyelids claim defeat,
I am thankful for my pillow
As I snuggle ‘neath the sheet.
Yesterday was today
Rain fell night and day
It was shining all times
The land was green
The moon was not visited
Among people, love was genuine
Compassion was a heartily virtue
People spoke to one another friendly
No terrorism we heard
No climate issues we knew
Love was in our hearts
Life was valued
Peace was on the land
No woman was raped
No child was on the street
But today is a different day
Homeless people here and there
Growing more desperate
Rain has gone and people are selfish
For man has become mischievous
Revenge and hatred dwell in our hearts
For dignity has become volatile
The ecosystem is damaged
Bombs and terrorism kill us
WhatsApp, TV and Facebook replaced human dialogue
Yesterday and today make the future
We need peace, neighbors and safe atmosphere
Otherwise, we are homeless
We need to live peacefully
In a conducive environment
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
Another drag... inhale, exhale, inhale, lungs fill with toxic smoke
another sip... fire glides down her aching throat
another croaking whisper to the one beside, although aloof and remote.
She laughs in the face of sorrow, trying in vain to hide behind her eyes
the sound is an open coffin, a high hysterical
plea filled cry
I imagine she has children, and the sweetness of love since nothing less can cause such hurt
For what we care for most, are the very things
we just can't desert
As much as we yearn to dislocate, hide and finally
push self~destruct
We are bound with soul ties that true love feverishly constructs
Unable to throw off these chains
connecting soul to soul
We walk about as Marley's ghost,
each link taking a toll.
For the ties are conducive to nightmares or dreams of lost loves
Imprinted on our hearts and minds, never fully leaving us.
Whether your Love is unrequited, or Love that stays true
You create the spirits that will forever haunt you.
Some years ago, I said that when I retired,
I would buy a camera and take pictures of clouds.
I have always liked clouds but never observed them
as much as I do now. Moreover, I have yet to begin
my cloud photography.
Most of my life has been lived in large cities, an
environment that is not conducive to observing clouds.
I now live in the rural and it seems I am indeed a
cloud watcher.
The clouds are always speaking to me and saying,
"If I am not raining, I'm thinking about raining".
Sometimes scattered, but they are constantly moving
and ever-changing. When the clouds cast a shadow
across the mighty sun, our day becomes partly cloudy,
overcast, and filled with weather questions.
Their colors are white, Grey, dark, and scary.
Oh, I know that 'scary' is not a color, but when
it comes to clouds, scary should be called the
color of many dark clouds lurking to create havoc.
Clouds, whether scattered or otherwise, remind me
of the passage of time; and like so much of the sky
above us, their favorite word seems to be, 'mobility'.
As I have learned to say about much of life,
I am learning to say the same about clouds.
"If you don't like the way things are,
just wait; they will change".
030323PSCtest, 'Each Passing cloud'. JCB Brul.2P
My silent serene soul softly craves your candles of crystalline calm.
Your gallant greens of golden glow gently beam with bumbles, bashing blissful thoughts in a thundering whisper.
Our chemistry and connection is madly enchanted in ethereal crimson certainty of nectar's new dawn.
I want to own the oceans and you like I hold my butterflies and beliefs.
Rumple my radiant lips on silhouette sheets of your secret shoulder yard, leaving amaranth art of kisses on your lavender chest.
Letting your spikes of spices chase me into a search of serenity.
You are my wind in the wild storm.
The whisperer, wanderer in my mystical melodies.
You are the tempting thoughts in my tempestuous tides, thrilling the turbulent twilight of my heavenly heart.
The mesmerizing midnight memories in the infinite brain of my independent heart.
I'm nightfall without your luminous laughter.
I'm dateless without your conducive calendar of pink promises.
I'm the death of a wasteful war and torn tears from the endless screams.
Be the pondering puzzles of my relentless reasoning.
The savoury solitude in my sour soul.
The hibiscus honey and roasted peanuts in my poetic pantry.
My rustling reckless reflection in muttered excuses.
And I'll be your rainbow, your Rosa Juliet.
Your chocolate cosmos. Your scout for love in the jungle of jasmine spring.
I have fondly found fleeting fragrances of happiness from the ryhming rheum in your eyes. It is daring densely, hallucinating hazardously, making me stare still till I blindly bleed in haphazard hues.
Till eternity my love, your secret silence is the riff in every song. It is the splash of every sound. The hair on my stirred skin. The pulchritudinous phases of pain in astrological agony.
Stand, stand my sublime king so thou shalt see the height of my love for thee.
Listen, listen my charming prince so you shall hear my painting in every voice.
So you can feel the breathless bath of the present and the tickle in the tapestry of our voiceless vows, viciously channeled through the thighs of our bond and the sync of your seductive grasp.
So I can smell the wind of your hands slowly stroking my sensitive skin and the attention of my hairs saluting your stemless grasps.
My soul critically craves you my workshop and I your tools.
Skipping thoughts across gelatin rings.
Into the reservoir of Lethologica
freezing-mirror- reflecting.
Nothings back to me.
What once was so lucid, liquid transfusive, a free flowing mainline of Offering, conducive to something.
A hopeful seminary seminar.
Priestly Dreams: Turned Cold:
WaxingColdOfPrisonOfShielding
Unseen:PulseStar Bard
Hands:Snatching Shards of Fleeced Gold, of my mind as a drunkard reeling.
I looked to the Sky:
Milking the udder of strange new Principality:As Abductee
Parseic layers onsites-between.
Exposed:Exposing
Themselves:In HiveMind
DemonsTake-AI-Host, Coast to Coast, raping with frequency
The Dark Spectrum:
E Spells:Algorecium
Ghost in the Machine:
Seizing Domain:Leasing Pay for Plug and Play
While Silicon Valley burns
Fires rolling, dancing, caroming pyres of turning man, mid-orgy
Free-Association, only for the initiated, the initialized agenda
Mitigated, pseudo-pre-arbitrated
Alarm set to 1 minute to midnight, alarming, arming Mercenary
LiberalMalefactorial
Mine Crypto ID farming:not arbitrary, quite the Contrary
Derision, division, blurred vision.
Monopolistic-air-intrusion.
From the Dragon of Old
Tele-InPrompt-To-talking point decisions, prepared by The Institute that gives The Institutions asylum and Island screams
In Thunder-Domes beneath Catacombs.
Windows, gateways and corridored rooms become alleyways and byways and by the way...boom
Of trafficking everything dark, everything that can be found in a deal of a backroom or redroom
Mad Max-Headroom meets Terminator meets in the middle,
Of Pentagram
A Witches Platoon on the deserted battlefield of treasonists and the FBook-A-wall
Controllers of the atmosphere, Dune, expand the disband, gasp, sprawl
These dry bones will be awakened soon.
Why wouldn' t you expect it?
Shifting sands, sifting uncover truth.
In fact the Vultures of Man's Desert will Direct It.
DUNE
AMIDST THE LAND
freedom is
brandished
a
given right
which fell into despair
& yet
responded
with answers
relished
bolstered
in a grand display
&
with flair & debate
& yet a great disdain
was to be
its aftermath
excelled in a show
so mangled in deceit
& yet
conducive
to the source
yielded
&begins to grow
patiently
awaiting
the bittersweet
paradigm
beneath a veil
which
every eye must see
in the sky
drifting
on the wind
to extol&
let begin
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
[Placed 2nd : Standard Contest
Sponsor : Tania Kitchin]
______________________
hug
extracts
incense smoke
penetrate veins
woody breast opened
rooted solid
smiling leaves
waving
dance
_____________________________________
Poet’s Note : Cedar is an important Native American ceremonial tree, the bark used for incense and as a purifying herb. It is associated with prayer, healing, dreams & protection. Many consider the Cedar a symbol of sacredness & providence. Its bark, used in sweat lodge ceremonies has a sweet, strong smell ~ making it conducive to spiritual work. This tree symbolises purification & inner transformation.
In ancient Native American rituals, tribes danced around Cedars saluting their attributes. I start this Ninette with HUG & end it with DANCE as salute to the POWER OF ONE.
Students Shaky Sing-A-Long
***A bolted school bus amidst bobbing heads rolls downhill...
Fictitious dank bathroom basin bailing;
a mother's kiss and general list spelled.
That rickety school bus horn toots, trailing;
wide-eyed, groomed hair, texts deftly being held.
Screeched wheels, a slid-back hatch exposed wider;
scrambled soles win middle-bus-seating.
Too raw being back-of-the-bus rider;
skilled to be by kids up front eating.
The why's of school bus seatbeltless renown,
At curves, we skim, hands intently about;
all bumps we drift upwards plus swiftly down--
and stops, reeling forwards midst racked arms out.
Youth strums some ukelele from the back.
High schoolers commenced a sung melody,
immature head's turn, to a lull they lack;
savoring quite calm, grown in harmony.
We have reached midst raised spirits set to spark,
as choruses end, volumes collected;
concurring lives equipped to disembark,
ere consigned bell chimes--such is--expected.
A conducive school day has now begun...
while active minds, smartly stretched that wellspring.
School's demanding bus, stops, scored some rerun;
slid-door, as swimming brain cell's minds to sing.
~~ a ukelele freed from its case prepares to board...
2020 June 29
*1st Place*
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW(2) any theme any form
~~Brian Strand