Long Fickle Poems
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Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Wood
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I) Sojourn of the Alabaster Mind
I careen through a world of chatoyant light,
Each step is a mirror of halcyon lore.
The pavonine sky and a chimera flight,
Projects sage shadows on an Elysian shore.
A clamor of atlas, a ductile tickle
Elixir of wonder, still need to fickle—
To pursue the penumbra, to not be blind,
And a sojourn for the alabaster mind.
II) The Necrotic Hour
I maunder across the clangor of despair,
A stertorous breath in the stygian gloom.
No nepenthe soothes within egregious snare,
Each cough is a pyrrhic echo in my room.
The airhead mocks my once-mellifluous breath
My Oculus dims in sudden fever death.
No eloquence lives in this loathsome abyss—
My nemesis: the sickness can't be sheer bliss.
Mama's Hands
My Mama's hands will never grow old,
No matter the twisted, fickle years.
They've held the brightest gems of joy
And softly dried my childish tears.
My Mama's hands raise the glorious sun
And set the restless stars in the evening sky.
Filled with grace and sultry passion,
Their luminous beauty is quiet and shy.
They danced across the crinkled pages
Of my young and thoughtless life;
Taught me fearless love for children,
And how to be a strong and faithful wife.
With the magic of creative stroke,
With each caring touch and soft caress,
They sowed the seeds of grace and poise
Into each stitch she made in every dress.
The music of their movements
Will forever play across my mind.
And, now that I am a woman
I'm not surprised to find...
All her words and thoughtful actions
Spun my life's web of lovely strands,
And her love was always measured
By the gentle touch of Mama's hands.
Copyright © Chula Fleming | Year Posted 2012
Destiny any, there’s a common thread
in the unique journey of every soul,
going through life, playing their ordained role,
attachments gripping fickle heart in dread.
False is the narrative which we’ve been fed,
ego the villain, who inner light stole,
veiling soul’s sheen with thoughts as black as coal,
negating heart’s love by living in head.
Melding head with heart, we exit the maze,
making in staid silence, our eye single,
whereupon by shifting into the void,
our inner presence wakes up from its daze,
rapture heightening as bliss spasms tingle,
revealing our Self, pure and unalloyed.
Against wild dogma and feathery wit,
Shall your sound idioms and wisdom
Outshine fickle folios of mortal sages;
Proving verity in its irrepressible form.
Your arresting dictums shall outshine
Obtuse hallowed tomes devoid of life,
Which erudition’s minions kissing die;
Sepulchered beneath self-spun strife.
Each revivifying line a failsafe dose,
Curing the unquestioning pupil soul;
Which heeding its fathomless force,
Glowing dims deified sky-high stars.
Those fibs-shaming adages of yore
Shall diffuse war’s menacing nukes,
Neutering gory ciphers spelling awe;
Turning brawls into inviolable peace.
“Tread softly because you tread on my dreams” By William Butler Yeats
Cause My Son!
Life is like a fickle lover, with it's capricious behavior.
And this everyone of us have to learn.
When things go wrong,
As they always will,
When the trail you traipse on
seems all uphill,
When you want to smile but you end up in a cry ,
When defeat shoves you down,
Rest if you must,
But Son don't you Quit!
Many a failure turns around,
And you might have won,
Had you smacked it out!
Don't give up!
Though the pace may be slow,
But you would succeed before another blow!
Success is failure turned inside out,
And you never know how close you are to it,
May be near when it seems so far,
So hold on to the fight when you are hardest hit,
It's when things seems worst,
That you must not Quit!
Don't fall now,
And just believe in yourself!
As I reside in there as your belief and strength!
©Chitra Arun
For two years, I've woven verses like threads of gold,
Yet in the shadows, my unfinished research whispers,
A ghost from the past, beckoning me to mend the frayed edges,
Now and then, I stumble into a fog, yearning to complete the tapestry left undone.
The research demands ten hours, six days a week,
A relentless tide that pulls me under,
If fortune smiles, perhaps a pearl of wisdom will surface in months,
Success is a fickle companion, but the quest is my steadfast companion,
No riches or renown await me, just the quiet reward for a curious mind.
Poetry, on the other hand, flows like a river of emotions,
Crafted with the brushstrokes of my soul,
No coins clink in my pocket here,
My father would chuckle, calling it a venture in folly.
Yet, whether I reap gold or not,
If these creations ignite joy within my heart,
They gift me a sense of triumph, a balm for my restless spirit.
Bliss throb rising, our form enveloping
Unbound is joy, in dance of innocence
Delighting benign currents cascading
Mindful cognisance of subtle nuance
Inner balance, invokes divine cadence
Nodes within aligning, love caressing
Grace essence felt by inner sentience
Bliss throb rising, our form enveloping
Heart inviting, magnetism delighting
Egos penance, this carefree dalliance
All embracing, smiling child so playing
Unbound is joy, in dance of innocence
Heavenly fragrance, fortifies patience
Accepting our life force slowly ebbing
Erect stance reveals its luminescence
Delighting benign currents cascading
No doing needed, on earth journeying
Save stillness and silence continuance
Fickle fears ceasing, fearlessly flowing
Mindful cognisance of subtle nuance
Divine effervescence, our quintessence
We are here for loving, giving, growing
Lower mind urges, keep at a distance
Trusting Gods touch, allowing enabling
Bliss throb rising
03-July-2021
The Republican Establishment
By Franklin Price
10/14/2016
The Republican establishment
Is a sorry sight to see
Their candidate for president
Is outspoken Donald T
He went through the selection
Came out above them all
Now many won't support him
They would rather see him fall
Did not have to let him run
If they did not want him there
He was voted by the people
Establishment just doesn't care
Who do the people think they are
They're about as dumb as dirt
Voting for a man who fondles
Women's breasts beneath their shirts
The fickle flock of red Repubs
When the Dems released this news
Denied the Trump almost at once
Did not want themselves to lose
Trump's too controversial
To take a chance on him
They know he must be guilty
For sure he's not a gem
They'll off their nose to spite their face
The Republican Party line
Will not admit they didn't vet him
But to deny him's more than fine
Out of the darkness she moves unseen;
her feline silhouette against
the full moon.
She raises her nose
and looks up to the lit night sky,
switching her tail left to right ,
she strolls across the fence not shy,
prowling into the thickening night.
The fickle moon so bold
masquerading as a pumpkin
with a wicked glowering grin
hovers above the autumn trees turn red and gold.
Wind violently howls showing
its wrath, tailing a fleeting
wizard's unforgettable black hood
stalking the night woods
floating and flowing
out of your dark side.
Beware to be lured outside
if you dare, feast your eyes.
10/18/2017
Contest Name: Could You, Please
Sponsored By: Broken Wings
you say you
love the moon
but it’s the stars
you gaze at,
as you stretch
your petal-like fingers
to flaunt magical phrases
across nocturnal nights~
stealing their
fragrant florescence
within forsaken
liquified lights,
to make them an
unseen reality
worth reading,
as your charming words
woven with
wisteria wishes
protect them
from invisible ink,
that has been
burning empty pages
from fiery flames,
oblivious to the
tangerine truth
not every twinkling gem
can grant your wishes
to flicker caramel gold…
perhaps, you should
see the sacred
scriptures in silver
within lunar spheres,
how she carries
perfumed pain,
whilst remaining faithfully
as a fairy goddess;
beacon of hyacinth hope
when you were
in your
island of ignorance,
speaking the
lyrical language
of dimmed dreams in
sentimental silence
so don’t question her
wounded skin reflecting
confined absence~
nor blame the
sizzling sapphires
with her name sewn,
in vibrant violet
within the crystalline
cage beneath
crooning seas
she was never guilty
of lethal love
nor were her
emerald emotions
manipulative games
designed for
ephemeral pleasures~
she, was in
need of a
sublime rhyme
that can set her
healing heart ablaze,
reignite reasons to relive
promises made amidst
inevitable distance
but if pain prompted
a voice
you’ll feel her
bleeding soul
and her aching sight;
she’s seen so much
of what the dying
leaves and
falling season
could do,
yet, the wind
never revealed
secrets of the
sunflower crescent,
for her tale was never
meant to be
told to the weak~
trees with torn twigs,
too afraid to translate
heartbroken hymns
and eager to place
lambent labels
on wilted weeds
and faded flowers,
unaware of the raven runes
flowing in fickle flares
within their
stone cold skin.