Long Fountains Poems
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A boy’s tears are distensible, like a brittle platter
embodying the face of rejection.
He collapses into the opposite of a child,
his hands in soot, trembling around a book.
Knowledge has no place in the mind of one who begs
to be fed, who escapes life like a skip button,
and bids his future into a refugee camp.
The quiet act of peace is the noise inside his dreams—
the raven’s voice telling him, Believe. Believe in today for tomorrow.
And by the wall where he hides to read, where he manifests freedom,
he clings to drawings, rehearsing his tracks back to a home
void of his name, its people, its purpose, its creation.
With his fingers, he traces humanity back to Eden,
to where water flowed without parting ways.
What do forgotten things know about justice?
If peace mutated the first time the sun hit Mars,
would the Earth still flutter?
Who passes rights onto a species?
Are we not all specimens walking into divagation,
laid on tumultuous eruptions, unable to see our toes
through our eyes?
If trees could water themselves, you think they would
dream of becoming fountains?
We have been reliving freedom like chickens birthing eggs—
endlessly, redundantly.
Until when will this wish be granted?
The boy knows grief as rebellion against his thoughts,
where bullets and bombs are not the only things
calling his death to nothingness.
For any living thing, to dream is grace.
And destiny, we know, malfunctions its way into adulteration.
So let him seek peace in the ways he wishes—
to free a bird from its cage,
to grasp in chaos and name it inspiration,
to be utterly mad and call it poetry.
Let him.
Sometimes I see you standing alone
Before the ruins of your past; you moan
For the withered leaves that were trodden
By you along the riverbanks, your mundane
And prosaic hours transforming into dream
Hand in hand, the soft woodland mist, the gleam
Of your crimson heart; the inevitable kiss
Opens up all the secret caves of bliss
A silent breeze caressing your careful tresses
Your sojourn to the domain of clouds that bless
All the magical fountains sprouting love
Dancing down through vales, the treasure-trove
You stand perplexed before the labyrinth of present
Where love’s fairy tale is shrouded in its end.
A child that you are
Is the man that you become
From years of struggle
Wearing the robes of hope,
And drinking from the fountains of freedom
Freedom from ignorance
Built on years of pursuit
Of science and commerce.
Freedom from poverty
Through hard work and handwork
In the scorching heat of the sun
And in the cold arms of the season
A child that you are;
One borne out of innocence
In a world of pretense,
Of love and hatred
And of war and peace.
And when the world becomes crazy
And those of your peer become lazy,
Put on your robes of hope
And remember the child that you are.
It’s not just Jesus who rose into grace with scars from nails and the cross
Trees grow new branches from knots like wounded soul’s blemish’s scars
A rainforest’s undergrowth thrives in the mist of weeping from heaven
Ebony needs ivory for harmony preferably with tusks attached to the rhino
An elephant under cover of the hat inside a boa constrictor pleases the Prince
Joaquin would write poetry had he not been swallowed by a black raven
On his shoulders and dogs that growl can bite fiercely with razor sharp fangs
Puncture marks empathize when they emphasize conjunction and junctures
A semicolon tattoo depicts the survivor from darkness shadows and light
No smoke without fire and his pen could not heal without fountains of sorrow
Juanita views wrinkles and stretch marks as cinnamon bark’s fine poise
Hides no longer self-harm lacerations with bracelets or covering bangles
Heals from a maze of disgraced projections owns grazes slashes and cuts
Paints a new canvas frames it with witch-hazel twigs leaves howling behind
Sounds all three pedals on forte’s piano has dampened onslaughts of fear
Joseph is a seer who had once lost his vision had dangled his ropes both sides
Of the sea saw but recovered the fulcrum of balance reads palm trees and palms
Life lines strife lines blisters blistering hardship hardened calluses’ resilience
Scars do not scare him as he places his faith into prayer gracing graces and hope
Tosses tussles meaning and harmony moulds silent retreat into flickering candles
‘Can’t put all your eggs into one basket no ominous pancakes without breakage’
What does not bend splinters and rages oozes and festers in foul purulent rage
Confusion needs contradictory feelings or one crosses Styx and Acheron too early
And the boatman needs both oars and currents to negotiate drift wood and pain
Any two master needs departure and destination roaring storms and calm respite
True ivory cannot be burnt and grace is a virtue but not without turning the table
21st April 2019
Into the cracks of a scripted mind
You will find what lies beyond
It's a collection of misguided thoughts
An a illusion of what was
A charted journey laid out by an unreachable goal
To be accepted for this accepted for me
This reflection of insecurities and unfortunate events
This play in my head
This opera of pain Still screams today
Where's the inspiration in all of this
Right here in my grasps
Less guarded now older still
I search for retribution to an unworthy cause
It takes me back to childhood dreams
Fountains of youth forever full
But yet still not calm
I freefall through my regrets
No solid landing ahead
I seem to be in mobile in a journey filled life
It's hard to comprehend all that I have done
To become this a shadow of what could be
Love is there love is ready but that anchor doesn't let my ship sail
I wish to be free of this worry
This realization that sometimes life can go on
If I just let myself doubt go
The wind knows the course
I just need to trust the direction.
Mischievous wee breezes blowing so wild.
Taunting sweet blosoms; dare you fly with me.
Petals so gentle, they play like a child.
Children blow bubbles then burst them with glee.
Bubbles ;are sky ships, sail kissing goodbye.
Floating on breezes they gleam in the sun.
Upwards and over those clouds in the sky.
Blossoms; confetti free falling each one.
Playing with children now jumping with joy.
To catch falling blossoms, scented bouquet.
Blossoms for maidens , when meeting a boy.
Bubbles in fountains, two coins name the day.
Bubbles small cuddles for two are one more.
Sweet blossoms, our scent buds, love and adore.
3/ 28/ 2015.
The bustle and tune of city,
Is composed by the Architects.
Eyes upward, not staring at feet,
Take in cornices, gargoyles and chimneys,
Building high notes reaching down - lifting up.
Harmonies are hummed by neighborhoods of,
Next-door musicians with whom to shoot-breeze.
Rhythm’s source is traffic of crowds,
A quarter rest on the park bench,
Crescendos in fountains and skylines,
Chords lie in store as markets implore,
Side trip timing from Clef library-museums,
Playgrounds emanate the jazz of joy,
In stadiums you hear Souza marches,
Love songs played in coffee houses,
Where I’m drinking cappuccino,
As my eyes listen and ears observe.
(c) Chaim Wilson
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
I'm flying on a Big Powerful bird
with Huge strong colored wings,
I'm flying Over the Rainbows,
Back down the glittered streams,
Up again, above Mountain peeks,
I'm flying to the Silver Waterfall,
I bathe with Swans ,in naked dreams.
I drink Raindrops,from cups made of leaves,
I fly to an Orchestra Of Dancing Fountains,
whilst the Sun reflects Warm beams.
I fly , On Wings of freedom,
Feeling the Wind On my skin,
Feeling the touch of the Breeze,
Feeling the Freshness within.
I Fly Up High, Free as can be,
Give me your Hand,Come fly with me.
Lets fly from Sunrise into the Night,
Luminious Fireflies,Our lanterne's light.
Charma
(Inspired by the song'Fly On the Wings Of Love'
By the, Olsen Brothers)
GENTLY MY MIND PORTRAYED
AN EMPTY SADNESS WHILE I'D CRADLED
THEE NESTLED THOUGHT
LEAVING THE INFAMOUS BONDARIES
AWAITING THE VIEWING
OF THOMAS MANN'S QUIET SETTING
BETWEEN THE SOLID STRUCTURES
OF STILL RUNNING WATER SEEPING
OVER THE GOTHIC STONERY
THAT CARRIED SILENT WISHES
BENEATH THE FOUNTAINS CORE
TRAVELING BEYOND VOSS SHORE
WHILE CRAVING TATTOOED SMILES
THE UNSEEN GESTURES OF MINES
THROUGHOUT THE GALLERIES
OF INDUSTRIAL SOLITUDE
WHY I'D BEGAN TO OPEN PACKAGES
OF MEMORIES SAFELY TUCKED AWAY
BESIDE HOPE AND CHARITY
WHY I FOLLOWED MADNESS
CREEPING THROUGH THE FOREST AGAIN
AWAKENING SUDDEN EMOTIONS
BOTTLED I SUPPOSE GRAVELY
DANCING TO THE TUNES OF BROKEN
FOLKLORES TALES WHISPERING
THE SONG OF POVERTY CATERING
TO BAYOUS OF HASTE
WHERE SACRED GROUND OPENS
EXPOSING THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES
MY SOUL HAD MASTERED A QUICKENING
BALANCE A MEANINGFUL GATHERING
HOLDING ON TO COPENHAGENS
SECRET TUNNELS WHERE KOFF
DESIGNED BLUE PRINTS AND PATTERNS
CAPTURING MY EMPTINESS OF REMEMBERING
THE WHITE LAB COATS THE CRYING LAMBS
WRITTEN BY
MRS YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
3/9/2013
FROM MY HOSPITAL BED
IN TAMPA HEART ATTACK