Long Droning Poems
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My three-year-old son stood next to me
as I watered our garden of flowers
The zinnias nodded their blossoms
As if grateful for garden hose showers
A firework array, was that garden display
Of pinks, yellows, orange,
Purple, red
When my son asked the cutest of
Questions to me
In the darlingest way ever said
As he eyed that large bumbling bee
That he found alarmingly too close to me
Not quite in fear, as its buzzing drew near
And it sampled of pollens so dear
But at his first sight of that yellow bright fuzz
And the loud droning volume of that giant bee's buzz
He just needed to know all was right
He asked
"Mommy? Do humming bee's bite?"
Through the highlands, you can hear the pipes drone.
Every note, riding on a crisp, morning breeze.
In-between, the piped notes; you hear the drum beats.
I go to bed each night, completely beat.
But, I’m often kept awake by the cricket songs and bullfrog drones.
Though the stream’s not close; their music’s carried on a breeze.
I do wish falling asleep, despite their music, were a breeze.
Old bullfrog won’t stop his throaty beats.
His voice, like the pipes, a loud, baritone drone.
Droning notes on a summer breeze,
need good timing like drum beats.
Bring green barges for the winching,
heft a portage of willowy thrones
for the wind thrummers,
gild each gap with dewy vines.
A droning in the leaf shelters,
all the humming skimmers
grown beyond their husks.
Gather the garner to be had
sift and share.
Time to haul-in Lady flaxen hair
her goldenrods dancing.
We have windows, behind them
volant dragons glitter
and whisk.
We see her serpent forms
in the airy whim.
We have lashes on ox-eye buds,
honeycombed fodder
in the silky sap,
tidings leap,
utter bright on every tongue.
It is the rivering. The Spring awakening
and the rioters are weaving sunlight
everywhere.
See all of the buds upon the trees
watch closely as slowly one unfurls
each tiny weeny leaf stretching out
one by one peeling away from the buds
Turning their faces up to the sun
some sticky buds much longer taking
all sorts of shapes and different sizes
as they grow and cast their dappled shade
On the tender plants hiding below
shade lovers of stunning colours
scarlet red Hostas amidst bluebells
the trumpets waving on their long stems
All the sun lovers blooms open wide
drinking in the heat beaming down
tulips bright with merry stripes
all the colours of the rainbow
Swaying gentle in noon heat
tall hollyhocks stately bend
the early promise of a rose
scents abound flooding senses
So easy to lay back and drift off
sun shining down heats the skin
bees droning gathering nectar
such an idyllic place to rest awhile
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Elder jays roam the tainted winds in herds,
Alighting upstream like most holy birds
Into the threshold of an inky night,
And journey forth with brave rafters, onwards
For lofty a view, their sweet rest’s delight.
Although clouds withdraw from a hued backdrop
This avian route, dismal, nary a flop
Under bloodstained gust surviving a dodge;
Before piteous age taints life , non-stop
With hopes to reach their own destiny’s lodge.
Yet, the valiant flock abandons a cry
Invoking hymns droning a lullaby
Through morn hours, the conception of new birth
Sends angel wings on gates of heaven’s sky…
Enshrining old jays’ flight with endless mirth!
................................
Rhyme Time With 5 Contest: For Laura Loo
10/6/2017
Checked via howmanysyllables.com, rhymezone.com
“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills,
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien
_____________________________
Place of Redemption is Darkness
unpetalling - - solace space unfolding
I sail drowsy dim seas without boat
or oars, conversing with walrus, whales
treading liquid tar silent, unseen
in distance a dog barks as I empty
bladder into ocean
underwater cables run fire
Darkness, Cloak of Protection
alchemy distilling gross, grime, goo
a thousand fingers unfelt sew broken
pieces of Life, loosen hooks, nooses
Angels of Death appear, wings
midnight blue, gathering loose threads
snapped nerves, false cues
I hear a night ‘plane flying passion
Here Crow visits sea darkly shining
untouching cast charming spells with
silent cymbals, unscathed holds sound
I covet cup of cold black coffee, unsmelt
swarthy, spilling on night waters —
hiding eels, oysters find their feeds
blankets have no feel, weave
unraveling, I perceive spindles
Coelacanth swim inquisitive incognito
individuated spirits shine poking
examine my tired flesh, as velvet
phantoms we attune to F o r e v e r
black cat runs sky, corrugated quarks
shatter moon smiles, its rock tumbling
rays on rippling nipples, navel upturned
circles spiral gene keys like piano notes
Place of Attunement is Darkness
no stagnation or pothole sidles, earthling placards, test tubes or empathy labels
shimmering umbra behind stars fall
dust upon midnight water smooth
gloom to-fro about unpaid karma
prison cell was scribbled with charcoal
I shout my name, nobody hears or cares
Humming, droning, buzzing black
holes beckon like blackboards with
light language — I recognise Cosmic
sound activating Heart, fall deeper into
b l a c k o u t __>>>
alpha kisses omega as breath leaves
returning in baby gurgles upon a
Bermuda Triangle ~ dog sniffs backyard
Darkness ignites laughter untasted
observing I pay Tolkien tribute, tinkling
___________________________________
GOLD Placement Poem : Allpoetry
May 26 : Prompt :
What may you find in Darkness |
Confirm no AI
Third Placement: Premier
Sponsor : Seth Pina : May : Your Favourite
Late afternoon October 15th, 2022
a spring like day
witnessed nature in surround sound,
whereby reflection spurred
reminiscence about similar weather
a few years ago when...
Serious intent to read
latest issue of TIME magazine
found attention pleasantly distracted,
when I became keenly aware
of flora and fauna bursting,
blooming, buzzing, and twittering
oblivious to yours truly sitting stock still
in folding lawn chair
marveling at each budding
natural born architect and engineer
each respective constituent
living organism engrossed
delicate as deft potters crafting chinaware
observing good and
plenti hive nesting reverential species
trumpeting suave and donning debonair
without any pretentious fanfare
merely obedient to genetic coded wear,
exclusive domain glorified, ordained,
and sanctified by divine imprimatur
contemplating if despair
experienced by coterie of biosphere
not including *****sapiens,
and/or aghast that their extinction
dooms them to disappear,
which undeserved fate unfair
for innocent animals and plants
critically contributing as
unique vital gadgeteer
linkedin to significant role
evolution indiscriminately licensed
met with preserved concord, versus mutineer
extant among bipedal hominids
each and every simian forebear
generally recent primate ancestors,
whose short lifespans predated medicare,
but more particularly modern man/woman,
who flagrantly extracted precious
minerals, plundered mountains,
usurped possibly, sans sadling muleteer
and/or forced chaingang extruded
raw materials to concoct wear
able, munitions, disposable,
and most importantly
deadly ordnance for bloody warfare,
never quenching thirst for mortal Kombat,
nor scooping up riches galore,
no matter wealthy status equals bajillionaire!
Two masks or not two masks?*
Is that a question.
Whether it is better to kneel,
to bow in silent supplication,
or show your teeth in anger’s
grimaced rebellion.
To walk at perfumes edge
denied the scent of love’s
soft fingered summons
erase a moment’s touch
in antiseptic angst.
Oh, but to once ignore
the droning voices
shouts of a falling sky
an ever present doom,
hanging, guillotine like,
o’er the heads of all.
To run, wind threshing
from your face
the dust of quarantine
the tears of dying’s dying.
To laugh, to shout, to sing
without rebuttal’s response
challenge the weights
of “fingered” scales
question the veracity
of vacillating voices.
Two masks or not two masks?
(*with apologies to the bard)
John G. Lawless
©5/11/2021
Charles and my predawn jog was a sweat-athon and as the sun rose, a heat-dome brightness tattooed crisp shadows in every corner. Any lingering coolness was burned off - evaporated.
It was 94°f, 3 hours later, when I walked to campus - why don’t we use parasols anymore? Drag on, radiant afternoon heat, please.
That was 100 proof sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell.
Hot days seem to drag-on slowly, like waiting for a microwave or a droning, liturgy. It wasn’t in the forecast but I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear, “Today’s forecast is slow, really slow.”
Let’s start an Internet theory that the atmosphere is thinning or we’re just ants under a magnifying glass.
The finally setting sun left a blood red line under the falling blue dark, like a gash of wound in the skin of young-night.
Once my nightly obligations are done (classes, homework, reading), the silence can seem oppressive. I’m used to the never ending hustle, boiling drama and noise of seven suitemates - so there’s that.
On now empty nights, I’m tortured by the high-beating pulse of youth, and I pace my empty apartment, like someone restlessly waiting for their venti-mocha-latte at a Starbucks.
Can anyone suffer like a young woman left all alone?
Why, oh whomever, must I sip from this deep, bitter, undrinkably salty sea of solitude?
In this, my prime season, why do I only manage to exist?
My needs are in a shameful state of decay.
.
.
Cruel Summer by Bananarama
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox [E]
All That I Need by Ebony Loren, Matthew Ifield & Sebastian Kamae
Walking down stark white corridors, the stench of bleach burns my nostrils.
With every step, I can feel sorrow lump in my quivering throat.
Looking down at the wrinkles on my shirt, I quickly smooth them over with sweaty palms.
The P.A. speaker crackles some incoherent name in the distance.
Bathed in yellowish-white illumination,
The droning of fluorescent lights singes my corneas.
Reading the room numbers, I’m almost at my destination.
The ticking of clocks seems to slow to my melancholy.
One room away, I can faintly hear your weakened voice.
Opening a sterile door, your hollowed-out face turns to me.
Biting my tongue, I hold back a flood of tears.
Leaning over to hug your fragile body, I can feel the drastic weight loss.
Your once-beautiful auburn hair has become a tangled nest.
So I grab my bag, pull out my tools, and get to work.
Gingerly, I separate strands of hair with a pick comb—
One by one, with an undying love, until I get down to the last knot.
Unsalvageable, I grab worn stainless steel scissors—
The ones you used on me since childhood.
I cut out the intrusive knot and grab your pale pink brush.
Gently, I stroke your hair, now shining under the overhead light.
Pushing the button on the side of the hospital bed, you raise up more.
Sitting behind your delicate state, I start the French braid.
It doesn’t have the same length now, but it still has the feeling of home.
Lying you back down, I kiss your forehead.
Whisper, “Hush now—you look like yourself again.”
Everything is as it should be when you close your eyes one final time.