Long Domes Poems
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Life's so abundant with misery,
nature's practicing metamorphosis,
generously tense and uptight, lifts
no lightness, steady with its frost.
Gray is the Sun, trenchant clouds,
rustles of trees reveal the night,
entering but dispossessed. I hear
strange voices cry, shadows cross the path
close press us unaware, a silhouette
salutes the eye, its curtain drawn.
Let there be darkness, darkness illuminating
darkness, we cannot aid or mitigate, ask
no beauty to intercede. This cramped moment
is not mine to give, though far apart from
worshiper's time, Spring's spirit. Still
is the time, its folded garment by no motion
stirred, fabricated remnants fled to sky,
no thunder peels through the absence,
life was once so abundant, sustained
in open fortitude, spirit flowing, hopes flying,
the raindrops loitering like domes of pink and purple,
their buffet gone, fraught with pain, quicker than
breath indrawn. Spirit alone can regenerate a
safe haven, lessen the convolutions vast,
lift up again hope's incapacitated body, reeling
under the torrent.
So swiftly now, so much of change;
Time yields endow, time feels so strange.
So quickly here, so change feels strange;
The times brought cheer, the feel of change.
It seems a flash, a brilliant blur;
The spiral dash, an affluent spur.
The new shapes bare the facelift here;
A bright fringe wears a surreal cheer.
First the world view, then the climax;
Watch plays on cue, let style attract.
Let charm and grace show off finesse;
Cash funds this place with stylish bash.
Two fruity domes speak of culture;
Cues can find home in proud gestures.
This Esplanade like durian thorns
Wears a facade to greet new haunts.
Once upon then, the sea felt near;
Now we know when aplomb can steer.
Age catches up to one and all;
An empty cup fills sad recall.
Days and nights here are like elsewhere;
Live for good cheer, live here or there.
So much of change can feel crazy;
Accept the strange, work out easy.
So much of thought can dye meaning;
Our ample lots drive our shoutings.
So here we meet at life's crossroads;
We laugh and greet despite harsh loads.
Leon Enriquez
08 December 2014
Singapore
In a world where chaos roams,
The human howl shook the domes.
Lissome and slender, with grace to spare,
A vision of beauty beyond compare
Her demesnes are poetry, dancing on air,
With each step she bears, it is a mesmerizing affair.
Her body, so lithe and so effortlessly appease
As if she's been kissed by the breeze.
Her limbs flow such a river's stream,
In each motion, a graceful dream
Her presence, a beacon that draws the eye,
In a world of chaos, she makes chaos shy.
She glides amid the frenzy, her grace untamed.
A creature so rare, no one can be blamed,
For falling under her enchanting spell,
In her presence, all troubles dwell.
She carries a strength that is not easily seen.
A resilience that keeps her serene.
Through the chaos, she remains steadfast.
A symbol of hope that will forever last.
In her presence, chaos never subsides.
Replacing fear with the hope that resides
A beacon of light, a reminder of what could be,
In a world where chaos roams free.
Her beauty is not just skin deep.
But as a reflection of her soul, she keeps
Within her lissome form,
Holds a soul that is ever-welcoming and warm.
1st place contest winner
As spoken by the Voice of Wisdom
O House of Israel,
Heed the sound of the wind that carries ancient truth across the sands of time.
Once you wandered through deserts and kingdoms,
Once you suffered at the hands of empires and tyrants,
And the world wept for you—
So great was your sorrow that even your enemies offered you a home among strangers.
In the year of man, 1948,
Your banner rose among nations, a fig tree reborn.
You were embraced not with steel,
But with sympathy,
Not with fire,
But with the open palms of those who knew grief.
Palestine did not draw sword at your arrival—
The people opened their gates.
Arab hearts, once warm, extended olive branches,
Their tongues tasting of hospitality, not hatred.
The children of Ishmael made room for the children of Jacob.
But tell me, O Israel,
Where has your wisdom gone?
Have you not read the Psalms of David?
Did Moses not teach you the weight of the stranger’s tears?
You were welcomed, yet you conquered.
You were protected, yet you occupied.
You turned the promise of sanctuary
Into an empire of watchtowers and blockades.
Your defense turned into offense,
Your wall of safety became a prison for others.
The same anguish you once endured,
You have now inflicted.
And now behold—
The desert echoes with bitterness,
The blood of children calls from the soil of Gaza,
And the ancient prophets tremble in their graves.
The nations, once silent, begin to whisper.
The Middle East, 473 million strong,
Watches and waits, wounded and awakened.
Will seven million stand against the tide of centuries?
The covenant you had with justice—
You have traded for iron domes.
But remember, O Israel:
Peace was your greatest weapon,
Wisdom your strongest shield.
But you drew the sword, and now the sword returns.
Do not say you were not warned.
For as the African proverb says,
"The hyena called the ants, and the ants beat him to death."
O land of Abraham,
You still have time to choose the path of peace.
Not all gates are yet closed.
The Lion and the Lamb may still lie together.
But know this—if pride be your compass,
Then desolation shall be your inheritance.
The future does not belong to those who conquer,
But to those who reconcile.
Let wisdom return to Jerusalem,
Lest Jerusalem fall again.
If we are to discover what is out there
we must board the Holy Ghost,
cleave the winds of time
into gods and tridents,
count the star clusters within us.
Under seeking skulls: those white domes,
antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
helping us to adjust
to the future.
Some seekers turn a grooved infinity sprocket,
some paint cave paintings on the arching
bones of craniums.
Spirit (that invisible violin),
is the prime element
in these spiritual machines,
some of which gaze into darkness,
some that can push behind the past
into a freely radical moment
unmolested by thought.
The secondary element
is the whistling tinker man
or any god we choose to name.
The tertiary element
is the rattle of his pots and kettles
upon his moving caravan.
We hear those tympanic chords,
then like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.
Mirror mirror on the wall
Please tell me why I always fall
When I try to do something that will build me up
Then suddenly lose motivation and zeal for it all
So many pursuits were met halfway
I tried to learn skills but procrastination domes my way
Or suddenly I'm swamped with other responsibilities
And when I'm ready to go back, people have already gone far
When I look at my reflection what I see
Is a failing hypocrite starting back at me
People think I'm so smart and so put together
They don't know what burns underneath my sweater
I wish I could be easier on myself
And take things one step at a time
But with the way things are going
I can only feel peace with God by my side
The Sea of Tranquility gives rise to a parasitic plague,
Colonizing mechanical machines grinding,
Robotic arms frantically fabricating an inhospitable habitat.
Plumes of blackened smoke drift off into zero gravity—
A profuse profanity birthing intergalactic implosions.
Forfeited steel domes replace a once-pristine satellite,
Whilst humanity, like vultures, journeys to their new paradise,
Foaming at the mouth to exploit the dark side of the moon.
Looking outside the frosted rocket's windows,
Earth's decaying corpse is nothing but a mere memento mori in the rearview window.
Atlantic City has many a stately pleasure dome.
Will your money go to the tables or the machines?
Either way, there will be losing scenes.
It seems like your money has no home.
Down to Atlantic City you will always go.
You place frivolous bets in the casino.
Your money dissipates just like the sea foam.
With every seven out or dealer’s twenty-one,
your money just goes. That isn’t fun.
You will never win a race in that hippodrome.
You lose your money, and you lose it fast.
Good luck is a fickle thing. It will not last.
To the nearby pawn shop you frequently roam.
You constantly put up your things for a loan.
They have just about everything you own.
Atlantic City has many a stately pleasure dome.
It seems like your money has no home.
Your money dissipates just like the sea foam.
You will never win a race in that hippodrome.
To the nearby pawn shop you frequently roam.
With purpose her steps project pearlescent elegance
Finely cut fabric falls from her waist, embellishes
Weightless momentum, legs timed as ballroom
bustle musical march beside busy suburban thrum
Range Rover overgrown zebras meander, hands free
Inhabit hair salon adjacent spots, to emerge panthers
Claws comb plumb neat pelt on gym angular shoulders
Watched white teeth greet crimped cappuccino domes
From rotting fence, cluttered sunroom mottled streets
Feral hedges blend shed dilapidation with neighbours
Pearl recalls the rural run-down houses, howling low hope
Chimneys emitting messages to status never received
Mauve smoke drifts to city monotonous nonchalance
Eleventh level sky view squares share trove of eventide
Tang in coveted ticket operas from atop lavish lifestyle
High rise residents' glinted sun sets show mirrors only
20th March 2021
Written for Contest : Eight Word Bard
Sponsor : John Hamilton
Words of necessary inclusion are:
pearlescent, thrum, plumb, crimped,
feral, howling, eventide, tang
The key, for me, must be those onion domes.
Concentric skins, like Russian dolls, contain:
they don’t obtrude. Defensive rings explain
the posture. Let’s not bother Sherlock Holmes
with this one. Save Bill Bailey’s fine-tooth combs.
They feared for Minsk, like others fear for Maine.
The Wall was there, so brains would cease to drain
towards those tail-fins, all decked out in chrome.
They tried to build a comely comfort-zone,
a space to place a hundred home-grown flowers.
We couldn’t wait to see it overthrown
(Archangel, Wayne, Polaris, Gary Powers,
Capone, Stallone, Cohns, drones and Sharon Stone).
They wanted only to be left alone.