Long Garnet Poems
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early dawn cracks the wispy air
open , wandering around viscous spaces
like fairy shadows caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
taller than maple trees delicately rustling
the garnet of late Indian summer when
birds, orbits and urchins listen to
a single searching sun… when all else
is sprawled quiet, there comes this
certain fired imagination straying on
mouths of gentleness far beyond
nuptials of effervescent realms…
someone said morning becomes Electra,
that learning how to hear a pear or
grain unravel the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
unfurl its leaves far beyond unknowing a
heart’s need to be: the juice spills streams
waking new faces of time, bending the width
of life's rhyme through endless mystery...
a thousand times before and after, daybreak
and night twine... that in tints of all hues,
passing through fables of any season
is poetry's way of coming back to itself.
Justin Bordner's How Poetry Began Contest
by nette onclaud
Violet verse channel,
or swarovski conduit,
phrase on finger tips,
itchy inclination,
poetry a purl knit,
garment of expression,
for enigmatic inklings,
lambent latex lyrical,
garnet clad dwelling,
for weighty topic,
of metric tonne metier,
life questions welling up,
within sentient me,
once occluded,
I’d adumbrate in brief,
daily conversations,
then blithely omit,
in dizzying eddy,
whirlpool roundabout,
of clogged schedule,
one can self delude,
haul out trite fibs,
glib excuses,
such as swamped,
with chores unwieldy,
then a frail whisper,
exhorted earnestly,
“Write From The Heart,”
and other pristine prompts,
your skills now await,
without inane bragging,
stories, essays, tracts,
which in the past,
were wardrobe assets,
worn in taut scrutiny,
in arrant academia,
employed by me,
in chosen field of science,
where conceptual clarity,
in tests, exams, orals ,
ranked and reigned,
supreme,
gracious gumption plucker,
me embarked on,
poetic escapade extraordinaire,
poetry my fresh lease,
of life
War between mother and daughter
Queen Brahne of Alexandria shows certifiable behavior
Daughter Garnet is ready to take her down, and out if necessary
It may sound dark, but just part of a final fantasy that is begging to be released.
Mothers and daughters for centuries have been on similar quests,
annihilating each other, so they can both live independently.
Airships lie in wait for instructions, wondering which one will be ousted.
Will the daughter be imprisoned for life?
Will the mother’s sporadic behavior continue?
How far will each go to remain or become the queen?
The red eye of Gaia stays awake, to watch the war between nations.
Kyja and Necron must be defeated in order to begin.
Death and destruction toward the making of the Queen of Alexandria.
A mirage-etched boulevard I paved
to the realm of futile triviality
along the contorted contours
of the disguised desire of the beloved
where the intrepid roses bloomed
amidst the spiculed cactus,
the scent took me to the oasis of reverie.
In the motif of the morphed image
the lanced landscape turned
into a golden garden of glory.
The fringe of flying clouds
captured the halcyon hues of the horizon’s pallet,
the beguiled breeze conducted
the captivating concerto of the night
for the ruby moon to rise.
Under the seamless sky of satin sheen
the reflection of the moon held you afloat
on the passion waves of the stardust surge,
enticing me by the sequins of your charisma.
“I filled the night's chalice with knots of desire”
as you came with the argentine flair
in the ardent aurora of mesmeric moonbeam,
lifted the shroud of secrecy,
entered my forlorn abode,
where I dreamed I was the full moon in your sky.
After the night melted into diaphanous dawn
I found “it’s raining roses and love riots”
in your garnet garden,
sparkling as rare crystalline ecstasy
blooming my feeling of lingering longing,
but “I learned how to live unkissed until”
I saw the patina of the unfurled roses
shimmer in your lilac lips,
fused on mine, seemed like the melody
of serenading diamond dew resonating
in the flushing meadow of my yearning heart.
Your amethyst temptation stoked flaming desire,
turning my craving into radiant ember of love.
I tasted the luscious lust of the first kiss
amorously carved by its fervent flare.
The forest is my loyal friend, a Delphic shrine to me- Ralph Waldo Emerson
When fleeting feathers of ostrich ferns
swiftly unravel euphonious tunes,
I drown in musky memories~
reminiscing the nights, the musical moon in your silent skies,
held secluded stars flickering within my hurting heart.
For in the midst of crestfallen chrysanthemums,
as colours of life fade into forlorn fogs of frozen fairytales,
I find wings beneath shadows of my empty existence,
waltzing like sullen sunflowers
in the velvety wilderness of healing.
Sometimes, when acrobatic letters
scattered across clusters of cluttered calligraphy
reveal timber tales of unspoken truth,
I remember how thunder seemed lighter,
and heaviness of clouds seemed softer,
than the restless ripples ferrying roaring roses,
as the soulful forest of fireflies
now remain my compassionate confidant.
There, loneliness is a forgotten noun,
while I subtract expectations~
divide Delphic equations,
to multiply contentment with loyalty that lingers~
through symphonies of crooning nightingales,
comforting aching wind, swollen, surging with sorrowful sagas.
So let me find the topaz mirror to turquoise tranquility~
in the zestful breeze of petrichor peace.
I’ve always felt warm arms of nature
enveloping me like blissful blankets,
embellished with emerald empathy
in garnet gracefulness.
But if this was the last drop of my bleeding ink,
find me in the labyrinth of lavender lawns~
knitting diamond dreamcatchers from abandoned trees,
still blossoming with bougainvillea ballads.
Flood of anonymous agony
inundates the debris of hope,
weed-webbed wasteland
of receding reverie
erodes in delirium
within turbulent essence,
wreckage of life piles up,
unlived,
transforms rapture garden
into winter badland
of foreboding discontent,
perceived.
Future meadow waits
to be sauntered
sanguine,
invents fantasy alchemy,
making magical gold
from ferrous aspirations,
gilding rusted crust
of weathering present,
metamorphosed,
marigold ecstasy blooms
in the Midas-touched mind,
mesmerized.
Wrapped by golden rays
of garnet sun,
setting sublime
beyond the content ocean,
entranced mind rolls
in twilight zone
on sapphire life waves,
broken,
yearning psyche is drawn
within the anguish trough,
crashes on existential shore,
shaped by the shadow
of pearlescent past,
petrified
in the collapsed sandcastle
on the beleaguered beach
of the stilled time,
enfolding the blanched grains
of aureate dreams,
d i s i n t e g r a t e d…..
Let me conjure some mystical moonstone melodies
A symphony of sapphire strains and ruby rhapsodies
A harmony of hessonite hymns and pearlescent praises
A litany of lapis lazuli lullabies and limestone lyrics
Amethyst anthems join in chorus with beryl ballads
Carbuncle canticles rise up along with diamond ditties
An emerald euphony of jasper jingles and obsidian operas
A magical mix of turquoise tunes and aquamarine arias
A playlist of peridot poetry and rainbow-garnet rhymes
A musical medley that mesmerizes with its magnificent sparkle
A gleaming, glittering gem of a song
Moonstone melodies that meet a Maestoso finale
Isolated peat bog is a lonely place never more so than on a storm-driven night. It's a time when the banshee howls streaking across the land claiming midnight for her own. With hair streaming down her back and garnet eyes alight with malice the manifestation hovers watching and waiting for who knows what. Her age is timeless to all intent and purpose she is a prisoner of time itself.
795 AD
As the Viking longboat pushed its way up the narrow river the Norse warriors were on high alert. Carefully watching the landscape as it passed them by. All was green and fertile the fecundity obvious.
Thora was by this time a battle-hardened shield maiden who had earned her place among the warriors. Ragnar, her soulmate, had been killed during the last raid that took place at Lindisfarne it was a bloody slaughter long, long to be remembered.
As Ragnar lay dying Thora took his sword and made sure it was firmly in his hand Valhalla was assured. She looked forward to the day when they would be reunited. However, her first duty was to the unborn. She cherished the idea of Ragnar's child. It made her more fierce and determined than ever.
The story continues: Invasion Part-Two
Pixabay image Clker free image
Written: September 22, 2023
No 1242 New Poem Only Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Brian Strand
______________________________________________________________
Jewel
winks
bloom
in
womb
of
rubied
mystery
astral
ditties
waltz
through
moonlit
cobalt
nestled
on
wings
of
thunderbirds
strewing
drizzles
of
diamond
dust
dodge
argyle
tapestry
in
lyrical
luster
of
garnet
embers
on
summer
night
sky
NOTE::THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Lost in gravity’s pull, unleashing are iniquitous racing rot,
obscure entities rush through, connecting the dots
pilfering, extracting inventory, my intestines in knots
distant incense fumes a conscious canopy, petals wafting open-air,
I sense an antediluvian forest, aflame, circling there
Gazebo’s trapezoid holds captive, naked, probed and jarred
A sceptic- doubting Thomas vanishing, broken in shards
fragments of glass banishing, misfit mosaic alters as prey
Trembling colors my core stripping to bone greys,
stumbling over intercranial eddies, whispering “This is not an SOS fortess”
I lift my listless body from off the whitened Kalli bench rest,
mustering up brawn to leave this camouflaged spaceship
gaining is the exotic and final trip
escaping shades of jade and eschewing a repetitive rot
at last, rejoining the existing world’s ongoing ellipsis—living dot dot dot
Let me share with you a shrilling moment, one I dreaded most. 'Twas another beautiful summer day, and a visiting day, at the beach steps away, the Lake Shrine. The layout an inexplicable charm, monks in saffron and garnet tinted robes draping each body, had welcomed me. I must have been aligned with the stratospheric, a nefarious nebula inside the meditation gazebo, I thought inviting and safe. Past mistakes had laid heavy in this dome, this world a jungle, pent up nerves generated, nerves stretched taut. The line inked about intercranial eddies who seemed to have spoken to me, was most difficult to pen. As a child hungry for the opaque curtains of mystery to be drawn, in which 'lamplights strange to these eyes', within my late-night shadowy bedroom, appeared. As an adult I seek answers, therefore removing the line. I’ve always been entertained by mind's photograph, I reflect upon.
The Gazebo
I Am Anaya
2/22/26