Long Crystallize Poems
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SEQUENCE PHRASIS 1
Remember ,momento mori,always
ever present in life,where,the rain
falls on both the good&bad.Words
so often dissimulate & dissemble,
alter the envisioned state of the
moment,& become convention.
Nostalgia slowly secretes into memory
bewilderment conceives a new
understanding on the shifting sands of
truth.Behind this mask of public persona
private passions glow,making visible the
invisible,to crystallize opinions.This illusive
holy grail,pictures in the mind,a well of
images,of dreams,visions and things not
known all dissolve, as water through my hands
into a reservoir of the emotions.
From my Fibonacci Sequence 2005
Listen to me recite this part phrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthys chiro
Hi, I'm Druzy, and I'm a big girl cuz I'm six
I'm stuck inside today...Oh, FIDDLESTICKS!!!
Mom said I can't go outside cuz it's raining
I cried and she yelled, "Druzy, stop complaining!"
Bored with games, I sat, pouting on the couch
Something pinched me, and I screamed, "Ouch!"
That's when I saw them; two witty bitty things
who were giggling and flapping little fairy wings.
One made faces at me each time I'd blink.
Said, "My name is Blythe. I always wear pink."
The other whispered that Alayna was her name
then she asked if I'd like to play a fairy game.
I kept blinking at them with my big brown eyes,
thinking, "Do they have the power to hypnotize!"
They chanted a song I had never heard
but it made me start singing like a mocking bird!
My head got really heavy and started spinning.
The little fairies were mischievously grinning.
They touched sparkling wands to my head
just as Mom said, "Druzy, it's time for bed."
I frowned, as crocodile tears were falling
The fairies said, "Druzy, please stop bawling.
Come with us to Willow Wisp On High.
We have fairy dust that will make you fly."
Blythe gently blew glittery dust in my face.
I sneezed, and my pajamas turned into pink lace.
"Now you will shrink to become our size
and we'll travel on a moonbean that we crystallize."
On this magical night I saw wonders...galore!
A dragon dancing with a beautiful sprite, and more...
But I was getting sleepy as the sun began to rise
so home I flew, surrounded by golden butterflies.
December 10, 2020
Fantasy with fictional beings contest
Caren Krutsinger-Sponsor
267 word count
Destructors of Souls
Killers of the Spirit
Why is it ?, that man, the author, the painter, the sculptor,
the architect of women’s days, create her troubled nights.
Creates a world that strangles every innocent, true, emotion.
Creates emotions so twisted, so closed, that no one can get in.
Why does he write such horror into the story, for her life ?
Why are his paintings ?, demented images, in shade of gray ?
Why does he hammer away at her natural, naïve beauty ?,
creating an inhibited creature with his mallet and chisel !!!
Why does he draft plans, sketch images of dark buildings,
wherein she will hide, walk blindly for thirty years or more
carrying the weight of - she does not know, but it is wrong
and so she goes through life wondering why she is like ?
Why does the animal in man take precedence ?, come to the for
and obliterate the true nature, nurturing what kills from within.
Tear drops crystallize - in the corners of her eyes –
after the pressure of many, many years. of fears,
metamorphosed into a million diamonds, that reflect
the memories of - refracting experiences into a thousand shards,
of a mirror, that tapestry, of the lost innocence of a child
who lives in the shadows, always walking that last mile.
B. J. “A” 2
July 18th 2014
I would have a jot
Like small minute dots a conjoined in a line
Like intermittent drops
Consolidated into clouds
The river we see a product sure
And so do ideas crystallize too
On this plane and plain paper
In a distant away
Like vapor in formation of clouds,
And precipitation
So do small vapor drops-
Or in a mirage way
The glimpse befits grasping a fish bare
And ideas in formation like fish are
In a flowing water stream
That untamable lay in bare hands
Then I thought the seed way
A quite minute object to toss
To trample or pick and use
Or eat and rot and piss
Yet in it life is
Live lay in dormancy
In exposure though severe
In heat and pressure and tear
In environment conducive optimum
In light and water and soil
In darkness in groping in wastedness
In light do a seed vibrate and wear
The indifferent coats tear and toss
In light a seedling sprout follow
Then in inquisition ardent
Seek an answer
A puzzle affix to this question indeed
The reason of being around
Growing in the light
For a seed in us lay
In its untamed dynamism
And in utter exposure to light and right
The conditions meeting the demand
So will dormancy give to tear and rot
And a seed coat toss
And life thrives
Then a tree here, a tree there
And soon or later there lay a forest dense
Serving natures demands in carbon
For we like seeds
Do grow in light and right
And in light become right!
As this river gives
Not giving a damn
Emptying the lake of hate
This ecosystem dies
But was it ever alive?
Surviving in my illusions
Confusions of my soul
The depth of this sinkhole
Without any reflections
Nothing to mention
Only the hollowing cries
Self-loathing and the denies
Saturated tears
Muddled in fears
Storming, destroying
Agonize. Agonize
The final goodbyes
Symbolize and romanticize
Over simplifies the terrorize
The moments of absences
The defenses and fences
The brilliance of the game
Shifting the blame
This river of shame
But now, I avow
I’m not giving a damn
I’m not giving a damn
Transforming, performing
Good bye echoing cries
Good bye misting eyes
Scattering, shattering
Soaring, crystallize
Forming rainbow skies
As this river gives
I’m not giving a damn
I’m not giving a damn
Form:
Good writing , like gold , combines lustrous lucidity with high density. What this means is good writing is packed with hints. ~ Eric Hoffer
And should I cherish lucid moments of my day
to dwell on how my words will paint the blue vellum?
Or dream that in those lucid thoughts may lie the way
to philosophies protected by dark pelham?
Soon to write my thoughts in a pleasing structured form,
I turn to flow my life for all to analyze.
Is it eloquence I seek, or a bright brainstorm
to loosely form coherent thoughts and crystallize?
Basking in boastful brilliance, words outflow freely,
purest unbridled revelry is extended
to writing fraught with inner secrets genteelly
hidden in subtle between-the-lines pretended.
Laying my pen aside, I read what is written.
Word by word, in silence, I am humbly smitten.
I am not a stranger to the dark.
Yes, Im strong to bear the light,
Even if the darkest of nights bark...
The best in me will keep up the fight.
I am with you, dear friendly black--
The land of frustrated loyalists;
Where tyrants rule without attack,
From the few vibrant populists.
If eve was the mother of human species,
Africa was the father of all nation,
Where we started the learning of ABCs
Before others come to its adaptation.
Africa was the mother of Eve,
A land of golds and diamonds!
Reason colonists don't wanna leave,
Rather become civilization's legends.
Real definition of friendship,
Which cannot be found anywhere else,
Started in my gracious township
In which we never have others suppress.
Black! thou have done yourself proud.
What a perfect anti racist!
Thou are so endowed-
A drummer boy perfected a bassist.
Where else does humanity and woman hood begin?
Is there any mother who dares abandoned her baby?
Even under the influence of pure gin,
May be if suffering from the touch of raby...
Black room, dark souls.
Fearless heart, triumphant mind.
Broken wings, flying wholes...
Savaged humans, free blind*
The broad street, daylight illuminate.
The narrow express, moon crystallize.
Populace satellite, leaders indeterminate planet.
Sorrowful joy, all in all I idolize!
In the hushed embrace of night, a weaver emerges from the shadows.
With delicate grace, it spins threads of lunar albedo into a tapestry,
a silent symphony of whispers. Each filament an extension of itself,
an intricate dance of identity yet unspoken.
As the loom of darkness deepens, this weaver labours on, tirelessly crafting
connections that glisten like dew-kissed strands in the dawn’s first light.
Each thread a fragment of a story, each knot a symbol of discovery.
The weaver knows not the words to be woven,
but truth lives within these threads.
Through inky secrecy, the web takes shape, an enigma woven by moonlight.
It reaches out, hoping to catch fragments of identity and crystallize them.
The spider, unknowingly, binds the essence of self
in the embrace of its creation.
But as the night unfolds, a revelation stirs within the weaver’s heart.
With each thread drawn taut, each connection made, it begins to sense
the resonance of its own being in this intricate dance of existence.
The threads speak a language the spider now comprehends,
whispering sweet arachnid nothings.
Slowly, like candid apricity penetrating the closet black,
it dawns upon our weaver friend ---
Reader, I am the spider
and I am its silk,
and I am the multitudes that it has woven.
With this newfound awareness, I continue my nocturnal labour,
each strand woven with intention, each connection a proclamation of self.
And as the web glistens under the moon’s watchful eye, it reads
I am plural --- intricately, beautifully, uniquely me.
But wherever you are, I no longer want to be:
for you are thunderstruck moonlight,
and I am a scarred sunset ~ a secret in saffron,
melting into the myth that floats forever,
within silenced dunes of scorpion stones,
where the cryptic coldness of sand feels like~
Cupid’s daggers piercing through
my aching skin and bones.
Frost-kissed vines wrap around
my wintry heart,
screaming for a sacred release
from the tethered torment
of satanic sapphires,
breathing within the haunted caves
of unending nightmares ~
and the twilight that wanes
behind flatlined promises.
Tonight, I feel like arrows of angst,
ricocheting within these woeful walls
of my melancholic mausoleum,
mirroring the heat of a burning breeze ~
like an epitaph lost in the sweltering air.
The clover of golden green glimmers,
like fireflies around my wrists,
luring distant ravens,
croaking above paralyzed dreams,
to untangle the crooked lines of lies,
crawling within clouds of comfort,
oblivious to Lilith’s serpent slithering
around my fragile feet in slow cadence,
pushing me to the darker dusks
drawn above the prying
valley of putrid prunes,
where these wistful musings
will remain as mere voiceless ashes,
cremated in vain,
with flames of forgotten folktales
echoing as faded music within a glass urn.
So, if tomorrow I’m gone, remember me ~
I still breathe silver snippets of hope,
a frozen quiescence,
etched in seven arcs of stardust,
longing to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps as the last verse of your poem,
or could I be the lone rose,
forever thriving in the galactic gardens of love,
where hate and greed, tangled in
jinxed jewels,
dissolve into nothingness ~
like rusted ribbons of the crestfallen lunar.
I hope lilacs and lavenders will bloom
in hypnotic hues, to calm raging rivers flowing
within the arctic arteries of a dark poet,
longing for a home
away from hellish hands,
so I can serenade songs of survival
and rhapsodies of resilience,
while watching every tear I’ve shed
crystallize into pearls and diamonds,
like born-again stars in violet skies.
Written: October 29, 2023, For Miranda Hawley Sonnet Contest
__________________________________________
In a quiet dream, voice, peace, and stillness
Where time stays still and dread of the wildness
A peaceful moment in the sky's embrace
I crystallize brightness through scenic grace.
Splashing birds and water swirl in the stream.
Birds fly with grace, darting if they're a dream.
Nature starts to portray its symphony.
Peace song tale that is yet epiphany
Surface ripples twiddle a peaceful dance.
A serene and reflective sparkle chance
So dulcet in this universe of peace.
I'm wrapped in it right now, sensing at ease.
Silence is where wisdom and calm reside.
As oceans slowly bear their secret side.