Long Flecked Poems
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How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
I search for words
To describe this feeling...
After you told me
You hate me...
I remember when
I went swimming in the ocean
One day in January...
Ice was curled in elaborate design
Of wind-blown swirls on the sand...
Snowflakes mixed with grains of sand
And bitter wind blew both into my face-
Sea foam blew across the beach
Like stray, sodden mushroom clouds
And the ocean waves were dark
And angry...
It was so cold, this January...
But I wasn't scared.
That day, I had I thought of
The ocean in autumn;
When I swam last in autumn,
It was October, and the
Wind was harsh and strong;
Waves were wild with
The fresh memory of stormclouds,
So they crested high and broke hard
On the beach...
The sun hadn't shone that day either.
The water, when I dove into it,
Was cold, but warmer than the air-
Vicious to look at,
But under the surface of the waves
Still gentle as summer...
Familiar...
I had gone back in more than once
Just because I loved the feel,
The pull of the current, the raw energy
Of the water against my skin,
And I dove through waves again
And again...
I knew it would be worse this time,
A few months later
And so many degrees colder...
I almost decided not to do it
When I peeled off my coat,
My shirt, my boots, pants, and socks...
The wind bit my skin hard, tearing
Into my warm body, and the gound,
Icy, was like bared teeth against the soles
Of my feet...
Too late to back out now.
So I ran, barefoot, over ice-ringed
Puddles of seawater and snow-flecked sand...
I reached the water, the first soft waves...
I was slowed by the foamy surf,
Which, only knee-deep, was a strong deterrent,
But then I was past it, and I dove...
That first, frigid, smack in the face
As the water closed over my head
Stole all heat, all memory of heat,
From my body all in an instant...
I surfaced gasping in shock,
Heart about to either stop or burst-
I'm still not sure which,
All I could think of was the cold...
It was so cold...
Colder than anything I've ever known...
I retreated clumsily-
I should have recoiled from the ground,
Stepping quickly and lightly
Over cruelly sharp grains of
Equally mixed ice and sand,
But I could no longer feel the cold...
I could feel nothing...
Could think nothing...
When you told me you hate me...
It felt like that.
Regardless of the ever slow and piercing passage of more than two centuries, her sapphire eyes still remain encrusted in my memory, like precious gems on an ancient fallen crown.
Only fractures and scars remain of the come-and-go parades of fabricated love, which served only as the ground to sow the seeds of my own desolation.
Like a hand grasping thorns, is the stigma of knowing the punishment of her absence has not yet ended, and that I again, will not have in this life her guidance, her light and presence.
Images flecked with dust twirl in my mind, to the rhythm of the arrhythmia of my eternally consternated heart.
As if conspiring, time managed to abrogate all its forgiving powers and magical healing, although I admit that the constant remembering of her love, like a refreshing ever flowing brook, has always been the very best of every day in each life, briefly relieving my withered and shattered spirit.
Losing myself in the memory of the thousand details of her Venus like beauty, gives me life, flares up my senses and wafts me through the swirling smoke of hours burnt.
Clinging on passionately and frantically to the memory of the essence of her loving way, I am momentarily able to perceive this empty world, as paradise.
I miss the way her soul breathed, and how every time it gently approached mine, I´d be engulfed by the violet halo of her auric light, taking me to heaven here on earth.
I remember the glory embodied in her poised grin, as she realized how I became bewitched when she described with her mellifluous voice, details of the impossible love she felt for me.
I miss her intriguing yearning for the science of the pneuma, and the amazing knowledge she possessed about the laws that rule the merging of souls. She taught me that love conceived thus, is the only force that governs and transcends the infinite, inheriting the power to enrich life wherever it may be.
I miss her intense urge to make me a better person, despite knowing just how difficult it would be.
An unforgivable mistake from my part, left her without option, forcing her to remove me from the magnificence of her life, leaving me adrift between the jaws of the three mysteries of time, and into the hands of living death.
I riff flecked about thee august
Autumn Equinox 2018,
this polymath learned why,
September Equinox
will be at 9:54 PM,
which spoiler alert thy
learned (courtesy Google),
when Or Sun Wells
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sky
above Earth's Equator
from north to south), a quiet rye
hit moment occurs
Saturday September 22nd, 2018
(at 9:54 PM Eastern
Time) marks onset
of apple cider
and pumpkin pie
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside
eyesore fissured gash - wide
cleft wound, where hide
ding away from
global abuse decried
as feeble effort
ignoring doth decide
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
where precious resources espied
snubbing, and thumbing nose
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
(falling on deaf ears) plea chide
dismissively mocking (bird
den some) prophesying,
whence creator cried
alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
scathing tragic miss guide
did exploitative testament,
where survival of fittest tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
of *****sapiens)
as Mother Nature dost allied
flora and fauna espied
comprising vibrant biosphere
each betrothed nsync, and guide
ding generic hominids shrugging
(Atlas sized fountain head)
off beholden hide
bound wedded bliss
to the other,
this observer awestruck,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorns terra firmae analogous,
qua expectant wedded bride
named Gaia – resplendent
raiment adorned playfully chide,
when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon
legatee - time ran
out for *****sapiens meaning...
salvation to late for human
knit tee, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar cross bones
numb skull pay fealty.
Written: May 12, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: “Set yourself on fire and seek those who fan your flame.” By Rumi
**********************************
I sliced through the strings
that thawed my dreams in shadow,
tossing them into the time tiara
of celestial orbs and supple styles.
Periwinkle-plum dawns defy time;
Bright blooms grow in cosmic cracks.
Dusk falls on barren land, esoteric embers;
With an aching heart, I walk alone,
serenading with blue lotus meteors.
The wand of Kismet gleams akin to stone,
as cinnamon-glazed magic unravels.
Each shift is a fascinating fight—
light-flecked drape, lyrical elixir, elegies;
curling mulberry-leaf marrow fades.
After the kernel, I strive for clarity
without crash or catharsis, without pain.
A lovely wind touches my smile—
In the pulse of erased promise.
An impending divorce is stipulated.
In echoes of exquisite and ubiquitous,
lavender-sequined crystals of shift,
I sail beyond the rhyming reefs to embrace divorce.
Cut wistful strings, salty lines, diving into rhapsody...
Torn uncanny links below heavy waves,
free to explore unmet routes
amid vanilla plankton tears.
May I find solace in every crooked teal smile.
O, if sepia pearls and reverie state a split,
I release and love what is not meant to stay.
Even with moon megalomania, using past wisdom,
the plants wide wings amid the warm sky
and herbs flexed with a deceased breeze of joy.
I sip in the glorious, gold-and-cherry air,
Clouds of bewilderment have dissipated.
In a captivating cosmos, clarity clings.
Hunger, turmeric-tinted roses follow an idyllic climb,
and whispers shout boldly—unafraid, Nix!
Ominous night glows appear as we fly across the sky.
We claim our position under brilliant beams
and the rose-glazed moon,
while myths merge across endless twilight.
Heartbroken after its fateful odyssey,
among the stars, free from a fixed kismet.
I will sleep calmly, wishing for plum rings
to create a pearlescent paradise.
The Estuary of Esoteric Embers
laces my home with soul-searching chimes,
whistling away in flavors of forgiveness.
Explain to me the language of your body,
Assure to me its ulterior meaning,
Pure like an angel's wing, or else,
Perhaps,
Let me discover
The ghosts of its meaning, something more akin to the
Fleeting flecks of the flowers in our irises, or
The fatal hints of the Siren's whispers,
Where words meet their end and slowly becomes a barrage of
Touches—meaning finds itself more comfortable in
The oils of our skin than the notes of our tongue.
The burnt pink tips of my fingers brushes across fields of purple wheat, who's
Edges are scorched a soft brown, like a frothy nebulae...
It asks:
How is your hair like the wheats of the English?
How are your lips like the kiss of the Italians?
Your eyes like the glances of the Arabic?
A pink summer,
Duly fitted around the pale azure of your oceanic figure,
and softly beckons to the oval
Leaves that were left,
Bled from decaying trees...
You love me,
I want to assume.
For what other reason
Would anemic sunlight be weaved into you
Hair that's speckled with mourning dew? And lately the walls have been
green with some Festering memories from
Yesterday but
The faint and sweet smell of sugar is enough to
Convince me otherwise of oblivion.
How are your eyes like the cosmic s c a r s,
Laced with an ardent yellow between an all-consuming purple and
Flecked here and there with
Pollocks of white and blue, streaked with
Light orange along the dark celestial rip a charcoal black…?
I love you,
Perhaps…
But can a door compose its candor without rusty hinges?
Perhaps…
Silver moonlight dappled the forbidden fruit of Eden’s boughs
even as songbirds roosted alongside the serpent’s beguiling tongue.
His whispers echoed angelic refrains, lulling the forgetful.
Agency is power; granted only to gods, and choice is choice above all.
One juicy bite, deliciously self-empowering, changed everything.
The potency of a moment is found in the consequence of an impulse.
The power of time’s march is realized in throes of loss remembered.
Yet a clap of thunder bears tardy warning to one struck by a bolt,
and at my core, I am overwhelmed with the power granted me,
to alter, in small ways, the woven fabric of tomorrow’s reality.
So take my hand, and let us march together over that horizon.
May you, in hard times, support, encourage and remind me in my weakness
that our strength in darkness is found not in heaven, nor in ourselves,
but in remembrance of yesterday’s sunshine, and last night’s lullabies
which carried us peacefully through the unseen horrors of night.
From the mountain’s summit, as we gaze tomorrow by hopeful starlight,
watching the sky fall around us, swallowing up the remnants of today,
I beg pardon for my trembling soul, withering under the burden
to shake off the comfortable, and to forge anew the coming dawn
by force of will and careful expression of thoughtful introspection.
For it is potential, not reality, upon which heaven smiles eternally;
viewing through the lens of perfect-love our imperfections.
Even an hour before the devil fell, God thought him beautiful in Heaven,
yet in a moment, by agency, endowed in grace by God to his children,
a prince became a whispering serpent flecked with moonlight.
Might it be, that to fall from grace,
we need simply forget the weight of agency's burden?
Might it be, that to rise from a fall,
we need simply remember, and choose for ourselves a new reality?
Might it be, that God thinks the devil beautiful still?
2/20/16
Inspired by, but not written for, the contest, "Expand Arthur Miller's Thought," hosted by Julia Ward.
Ford score and...Chevy
five years ago,
my Model A strapping
handsome big bro,
(who sped like one
speeding Triumph font lee, crow),
wing, & swooping Thunderbird, with
bold face observers whistling Geronimo
(Holy Jeep), this meant war
whooping Comanche
decked out as armadillo
kicking up red feathery
colored dust devils
rivaling the fastest Alfa Romeo
(while choking, gagging, loo
sing russett sputum
flecked with true grit
mouthful size of Colorado)
easily mistaken for masked Zorro
speeding across rugged
terrain of Durango,
ah recall and reminisce,
and if cup ear just so
can still hear (albeit faintly),
a toy Yoda Echo
wing nsync with
Lake Woebegone prairie
home companion, the little known no
nonsense visiting drag queen racer
Noah N. Gin poe
cur face (born that way)
originally from Malibu, a beautiful
Corvair with Corsair, now resembling
groveling growling Gremlin, in slow-mo
what with his Smashface
ugly enough to scare Apollo
the ghost of David Buick,
a poor entrepreneur, who
never did make good profit re: Coupe,
and could not Dodge nor shoo
away, the Stealth fearsome curse
of Aries nibble Viper moo
ving fast as greased lightning,
(whereby an Eagle Talon
flashed like Spitfire akin too
Austin-Healey Sprite)
full Caprice out of the
(sir really yon) blue
celestial vault outer limits, hue
mans avoided only
brave Caravan Voyager Goo Goo
Doll dared (only fools rushed in,
ignoring, and dodging Fiat,
where angels feared to tread), a Motley Crue
shielded with Fisker Karma (credit),
no matter last payments way overdue
sought out (with Escort
in tow) - actually two
yup, that ever elusive Holy Grail,
thus needed to Focus with much ado
about nothing, while
brows scrunched – mad as Jew
pitter by Zeus snorting like
angry red Taurus bulls - do
tee fully kicking up Tempo
like nobody's business ready
to serve their Mazda at heart,
a Legacy Sub (burr rue)
tricked up as a gnu
that's all Volks-wagon
bidding adieu before
I Escalade from ridiculous
to the sublime.
Ford score and...Chevy
five years ago,
my Model A strapping
handsome big bro,
(who sped like one
speeding Triumph font lee, crow),
wing, & swooping Thunderbird, with
bold face observers whistling Geronimo
(Holy Jeep), this meant war
whooping Comanche
decked out as armadillo
kicking up red feathery colored dust devils
rivaling the fastest Alfa Romeo
(while choking, gagging, loo
sing russett sputum
flecked with true grit
mouthful size of Colorado)
easily mistaken for masked Zorro
speeding across rugged
terrain of Durango,
ah recall and reminisce,
and if cup ear just so
can still hear (albeit faintly),
a toy Yoda Echo
wing nsync with
Lake Woebegone prairie
home companion, the little known no
nonsense visiting drag queen racer
Noah N. Gin poe
cur face (born that way)
originally from Malibu, a beau
teaful Corvair with Corsair, now resembling
groveling growling Gremlin, in slow-mo
what with his Smashface
ugly enough to scare Apollo
the ghost of David Buick,
a poor entrepreneur, who
never did make good profit re: Coupe,
and could not Dodge nor shoo
away, the Stealth fearsome curse
of Aries nibble Viper moo
ving fast as greased lightning,
(whereby an Eagle Talon
flashed like Spitfire akin too
Austin-Healey Sprite)
full Caprice out of the
(sir really yon) blue
celestial vault outer limits, hue
mans avoided only
brave Caravan Voyager Goo Goo
Doll dared (only fools rushed in, ignoring Fiat,
where angels feared to tread), a Motley Crue
shielded with Fisker Karma (credit),
no matter last payments way overdue
sought out (with Escort
in tow) - actually two
yup, that ever elusive Holy Grail,
thus needed to Focus with much ado
about nothing, while
brows scrunched – mad as Jew
pitter by Zeus snorting like
angry red Taurus bulls - do
tee fully kicking up Tempo
like nobody's business ready
to serve their Mazda at heart,
a Legacy Sub (burr rue)
tricked up as a gnu!
Splendor of soft shoulders
caressed by sinking sun
Out my window the western slope
of the thick coated Rocky Mountains
Once upon a clear cold Colorado Chrstmas
purple brushed horizon flecked with gold
filled my picture window
Mesmerized I stood staring
at this huge canvas hung in the Louver
God's and goddesses swirling about
in a swath of psychedelic clouds
refracting the colors of slow dimming light
Mt. Olympus in my living room
I was seventeen living in a dream
high up in the sandstone cliffs
carved out by the west's Mississippi
Nature, sweet mother of mine, purging
my childhood nightmare with sunsets
mountains, rivers and springs
On the banks of that fat river below
I listened to nothing but hope
Even in the echo of crackling ice
Even when she froze everything still
she made life beautiful
Never ever did she
punish my anger
but kissed it away with her love
with forests, flowers, birds and trees
She gentled my soul when I held her hand
and took me back from the jails and hospitals
every time I ran
Seventeen, fresh from my last disaster
Christmas Eve eight hundred miles
from expulsion and friends I missed
my dreaded return to the last place I left
There she was…
… arms spread clear across the valley
to hug me… her renegade child
My mother, bless her heart--
--wasn't happy to see her headache return
But my "other" mother was.. yeah
I took refuge in the painted cliffs and canyons that surrounded me
and when I came down to the valley floor
I would stop before the bridge
and walk down to listen to the big water's mighty roar…
It never stopped rolling and never ran dry
despite all obstacles
and neither did I
My savior doesn't have a birthday
but I will celebrate my hope in "His"
Just that warm sun
slinking like a coyote
over the western horizon
that Christmas Eve
is all the hope I'll ever need