Long In sync Poems
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You, me, seashore, one place, one earphone,
Coconut with two straws—one ice cream, two noses.
Cold winds, but your warmth wraps me whole,
Two souls in one sweater, hearts beating slow.
Sitting under the moon, watching him chase the clouds,
And that night, love, I realized how foolish I’ve been,
Calling you my moon in all my poems—
When he borrows his light, and you, you shine without a single shadow within.
Our legs sinking into the sand, always chasing the shore,
Waves kissing our toes as they meet once more.
I’ll show you the pictures—screenshots I took slowly,
Not the perfect ones, just the freaky, fuzzy shots where you’re you, wholly.
I lied when I said I was chasing butterflies in your hair,
You were between my legs, your spine pressed against my chest,
Wrapped in one jacket, sharing warmth, our breaths in sync.
The shore beneath us, waves whispering secrets at our feet.
I told you I was playing with a butterfly,
But really, I was setting your hair free from that clip that didn’t care.
I needed to feel your hair wild, untamed, falling like waves,
As it brushed against my face, soft strands dancing with the breeze,
Every lock sent chills down my spine,
Your scent filling the air, your hair wrapping around my fingers,
And the wind, like us, was making us one,
Your hair, in its messy perfection, said more than words could ever speak.
Your hair blowing, my eyes closing, breath aligning with the wind,
Like the universe itself was folding us together, as if it had planned it.
Let’s forget forever—just be with me tonight—
Until we count every star, holding on to each other tight.
No time, no crowd, just you and me, enough as we are,
I want to bury my ego in the sand, let it go,
In that moment, I’ll be mad, unfiltered,
The way I would be before my mother, no regrets left to show.
We’ll dream of a future, a life we’ve yet to write,
Maybe two passengers might join us—two little hands we’ll miss tonight.
And as our eyes grow heavy, as stars fade from the sky,
We’ll break the chains that hold us, love—eyes closed, we’ll fly.
Good morning, whenever we wake from that sleep so deep,
Now four hands and two rings—two hearts that forever keep.
The rest of the story, love, I’ll tell you in a language only we’ll know...
When we leave this seashore.
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
An Evil War
They walk the plains of sun-dried grass,
together in a row;
the mothers, with their young ones, pass
to search for food and go
for miles with thirst to find a drink;
as dry season appears.
They walk along, each one in sync,
alert with eyes and ears.
On different paths, the males walk too
to feed as they patrol,
and somehow they, with inner clue,
all find a water hole.
And peacefully they live their days,
adapt to nature's reign
that serves them well to drink and graze
and procreate their strain.
But space in their domain is less...
encroached by humankind,
uncaring of the crowding stress
they leave on them behind.
Still worse, they have become aware
of threats of crueler kind,
and learned to watch, to hide, beware
of horrors which they find.
So oft they see a sight disturbed...
sprawled out along their path;
a member of their precious herd...
they trumpet loud with wrath.
They stop and mourn like humans do,
stand vigil, shocked and chilled;
caress the faceless friend they knew...
who for his tusks...was killed.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Evil Is Everywhere
Sponsor: Brian Davey
Judged: 10/08/2016
BBC News: The War On Elephants: April 28, 2016
"Bloated and eerily upright the large adult elephant was still standing where it had been killed - just next to the stream - its face hacked off....It had been fleeing the carnage in the mud 100m or so away, where the remains of four other adults and one young elephant lay fallen and disfigured, their tusks and trunks all taken for ivory and meat. Like a macabre statue, this faceless animal stood as a landmark to the horrors of poaching, of the ivory trade, and of the mass slaughter of the last remaining elephants in central Africa...
“It's worth so much more than just the animals. It's about trying to stabilise a whole region which has been unstable for decades. It's about trying to basically build peace. And that is why we wake up every morning, why everyone fights this war, and why we try and save the elephants. It's about basically saving Congo. On 23 April 2016, three rangers were killed in a fresh clash with poachers. Park manager Erik Mararv and another ranger were badly injured."
In the whispering silence of a moonlit night,
where stars wink like old friends,
I drift along the river of my thoughts,
an unbound stream of consciousness,
Flowing through the landscapes of potential and purpose,
where dreams dwell like forgotten treasures.
Most of us,
shadows of our true selves,
live in shallow waters,
afraid to dive into the depths,
Creating busywork,
weaving webs of distraction,
as if afraid to face the stillness of our own souls.
Oh, how we toil, like ants in an endless march,
building castles in the sand,
Not because the work is urgent,
but because we do not know the art of being.
We are craftsmen of the banal,
architects of the mundane,
lost in the frenzy of doing,
When all we yearn for is to float,
weightless and free,
on the river of life,
to be carried by its gentle current.
Imagine a world where laziness is a virtue,
where idlers are the sages,
Where shaking off the chains of duty is a path to enlightenment,
To bask in the golden glow of a sunset,
to savor the sweetness of a moment unclaimed by time,
To relax into the embrace of existence,
to find joy in the art of simply being.
I do not preach a life of total inactivity,
for such would be a disservice to the soul,
But rather a life where each act is a dance,
each gesture a poem,
imbued with meaning and grace.
Let us not be prisoners of our own making,
bound by the chains of needless toil,
But the artists of our destiny,
painting with the colors of purpose and passion.
For in the quiet moments,
where the heart beats in sync with the cosmos,
We discover the true rhythm of life,
a melody that calls us to slow down,
to listen, to feel.
To be busy is not to live,
but to be alive is to flow,
to ebb and surge with the tides of meaning,
To find the balance between action and inaction,
to dance on the edge of potential and peace.
So let us embrace the wisdom of the river,
to be lazy in the pursuit of joy,
To be idlers in the garden of dreams,
to cultivate a life that blooms with significance.
For in this dance,
this flow of consciousness,
we find the essence of our being,
And though the world may rush around us,
we shall move with the grace of those who understand,
That the river of life carries us not to the shores of accomplishment,
But to the ocean of our own infinite potential.
Let me jump into your river run rich as Euphrates.
Let me lay in your tall grass valleys nestled between two hard black mountain peaks,
where I
Can drink up the sunrays.
And Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
Somewhere between them rolling black hills is where your thick bush hides the cool
crystal
streams.
I sip your fruit plants sweet cocoa milk and look up into your skies sunrays.
It ricochets off the smooth chocolate black trees that support your voluptuous magnolia
bloom
The wind blows and your flower bounces and quakes, fanning its sweet aroma through the
Atmosphere,
Sweeping those soft fluffy pedals across my face.
I smile
And you Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
In the arms of the soft black cavern, under the river’s waterfall, I make my home.
It’s a heart of paradise embracing me.
Inviting me in.
I hear the water passing over, throbbing and pulsing in sync with mine.
I suck berries at the foot of the open fields.
That sweet oil black juice dances down my mouth.
Every fluid filled bite overflows in my lips and runs down the side to drip slowly from
my chin.
I look up into your skies and stars look down and speak my name.
The moon moans. The womb of man is this woman
She alone can Black up my Brown and Brown up my Light.
Then ever so gently the leaves pull back and open up her vast and succulent fields
I slowly crawl into her pastures then firmly and stiffly begin to dig up her soil.
Turning over her rich black earth.
Toiling day and night tilling her meadows,
Unearthing her treasures buried below.
The constant pounding and packing up a full load;
Breaking into new ground.
Cracking the topsoil and penetrating her nutritious moist and sticky fertile turf.
Never has the earth been split like this to uncover her deepest mysteries.
Next I unpack my deepest confidence and my strongest statues.
Then with my tool, through the moist and milky mass, I scoop out a deep warm hole to plant
My dreams.
Packing and pushing it deep in the soggy substance, time and time again until….
The thunder cracks this empress’ tempest
The earth contracts. Fear collapsed.
And here and only here,
I Black up my Brown and Brown up my Life!
Form:
We ask
How would it be like to cheat with your soulmate
My love,we have passed with flying colors defeating all odds yet we still stand now in sync more than ever Completing each others sentences is a coin tossed long time ago
We are far beyond that now
We are an academic article only to be found in the deep web
We are an epiphany of a Buddhist monk about to set his whole body on fire We complete each others thoughts
I ask
If we were to paraphrase the story
Were a fairy brings a tale in stead of making a living out of teeth Were you on the other side are dating another guy lets say his name is Sabelo and I am dating Karabo Can I pick you to be my partner in this sin
Imagine the fun we could have knowing exactly there's more to what reality is feeding us for breakfast There is more to what meets the heart
Can we do this ? Can we perfect this art of cheating?
Can we rename each other's contact numbers on our phones
Can we be jumpy whenever our partners seem to be penetrating deep within the transcriptions of reading between the lines Can our emails be the last line of defense in our communication
Would you dare do for completeness ?
Would you live a glow in the dark life and be in the command center of what peeks your interests in being happy? In fact ,allow me to be an ass
Tell me about your day
Tell me about him,whats missing in his touch that made you gallop in my front door and choose to ooze in my touch ... I will tell you why I am here also,speaking paradise ....,deceiving.. I ask
Is deceiving a justification of a true act of love?
I read somewhere that when you love two people at the same time
Go for the second
Because if you truly loved the first one,you wouldn't have fallen for the second one in the first place I would find you in another lifetime and recognize you in a different language Darling ,it just happens in these timeline its called cheating a century from now Can we turn the tables around?
Can you sneak in my flat?
Leave in the early hours and blame it on your friend
Can Sabelo be a fool for us?
Can he not see whats going on here
Can I pass you walking with him,can I greet you guys? Shake his hand and only look at you once ... Can our hug in front of him be innocent?
We ask
How would it be like cheating with your soulmate?
Im half awake, and glaring at the sunrise
distant brilliance slowly eating at my dry eyes
squinted to best witness the aureate Apollo
refract off blades soaked through with dew
heaven's first blush, midsummer quiet, and coffee scent
cast clarity, light unveiling the burden
weighing down on every living being
clearest with the coming of the day
burning black holes into my brain's blank slate
sundering my soul 'till shatter state
fast approaches on the infinity of empty space
veiled out ahead of me
Restless with the lethargy of baring witness
I stir the pit, and catch flames leap up
from within carbon prints of gray matter
quelled embers lay suffocating beneath
ash dunes and smoldering phoenix feathers
matted and clumped by filmy deliquescence
spent of all but their will to rise again.
I grasp at the green broken glass
strewn about my feet like seeds
planted by last night's ignorance
and the sin of forced forgetting that
we all someday pay recompense
for our vice's and the gluttonous
way we all practice immoderation.
The world is quiet in lull
humanity lost to an illusion
breathing soft
and sleeping soundly
altogether
We exist
to want and rub against
the way the world turns on
a crooked axis, each moment less lucid
than those sunspots and dewdrops
coursing through dirt-clay veins and
branding the cracked dirt with morning
I cant shake loose the afterimage
imprinted on my blunted senses
experiencing everything I reach
is less than whole
understanding the universe
exists as fragments blackened in spite
of time's one plight forever pulling it apart
The sunset split the sky,
the fire danced and spit,
and the condensation clotted.
I seized eternity that morning
amidst the doldrums of sleeping masses
its truth intimate and calming.
I sense slumber cease and the suburbs rustle
the dreamers stumble about in waking
to shower away their sweat and dreamt delusion
start their cars, and drive away in sync
I listen closely to their heavy sighs
the shift of sagging shoulder plates,
bent under with Atlas tugging at the reins
kind's struggle never ceases to
echo off of terra firma, quaking
with each clanking of the chains
that bind our beating hearts to
alarm clocks, freeways, work weeks
and the torment of monotony
Form:
Written: April 10, 2024 For Edward Ebeh Contest
“Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”
— Rumi
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In society grasp, individuals fade,
As group dynamics falter, satiation wane.
Anomie is the state in which we reside,
Void of meaning, where shell may subside.
Man dwells in the domain of existence,
Longing for purpose—a tale to share once.
He pursues punter goals, a noble quest,
To descry his sanctuary, where he can rest.
Sans clear vision—a peculiar goal to pursue,
He wanders, devoid of any discernible clue.
A protocol to follow—a structure to defray,
He seeks a clear path to lead the way.
It is in the heights—that he finds his worth,
A divine connection, a sense of rebirth.
In a world of mayhem, where chaos reigns,
A sense of chaos and rebellion in our veins.
We're in an era of disorder and hopelessness,
Where a sense of alienation thrives with idleness.
Streets brimming with an air of dread and fear,
As the supremacy of law is starting to disappear.
A land ruled by untamed and careless,
Peace and order are baffling awareness.
Durkheim unveils a modern, cosmic community,
Where people or teams cease to have impunity,
Stuck in a condition of "anomie," they dwell,
Devoid of crucial social interactions, they tell.
An individual, adrift, follows a restless tide,
Planless self-empowerment with no guide.
An aimless existence, devoid of worth,
As delight lies in future, not in present berth.
One ought to consider their inevitable fate.
The insignificance and loneliness state.
He would undoubtedly elapse insane.
Or spirit might seek the numbing arcane.
Crisis and violence, madness untamed,
Revolution's fire, the world inflamed.
In sync with events of insignificance.
Unleashed automobility, a hedonistic dance,
Individualism allure, a tempting chance,
Grip of anomie and despair erodes at a glance.
Conspicuous consumption, a fleeting thrill,
Yet unsustainable, bear beyond, still.
In a sphere bereft of spirit light,
Where meaning fades—hope takes flight.
An oddity exists in trans-political time frame,
There is no repercussion for deviance claim.
I lie,
on my large comfort bed..
counting seconds,
syncing my heartbeat,
with the tick of the great white clock,
above my head.
What I'm thinking,
even I do not know..
Clouds have formed on my thoughts...
Fogs have scathed my vision,
hence, I cannot see beyond
the goose trail of old memory..
The wind whooshes in uninvited,,,
with a knowing air,
It tells me...
Oh.... I have forgotten..
I sit up.. and shake my head ruefully..
This blankness,, this emptiness..
This menace of internal unknowingness...
It eats me up...
I know something pegs at my unsettled mind.. But what??
Oh!!!! I remember now,,, only vaguely though..
The wind,, it had said something..
Something about sunshine..
Sunshine on a rainy day..
I stand up... No longer able to contain
the powerful synergy of energy..
Inside me, this surge occurs..
It jolts me, it jostles me here and there - So I walk
Up and down the entire bedroom..
I'm getting something..
Hazy formations,,, silhouettes,,, outlines....
Then, the first images appear..
Blurry at first, but..
as time passes... clearer they become..
I start to understand..
But....
Suddenly, I'm drawn back into the past...
I recall,,, I remember... The hindsight is too powerful for me..
I jump up!!!
And in a matter of seconds,,,
I find myself dancing..
This thing,
that boggled my pristine mind..
I finally know what it is..
But I do not have a name for it yet,,
It's,,, it's a tune,,, it starts with a rhythm..
A konga drum,,,, chimes,, gongs...
Then,,, larger, thicker, hide-drums...
Then... A beat,, syncopated and enthralling..
It's fast... Strong,,, daring...
Then...
Dancing steps..
Dancing...
A voice, raised from a variegated population...
Heart,, beating in sync..
I discern,,,,
Yes...
Sunshine on a rainy day..
Hmm...
My mind is full.. It's near breakpoint..
I am now eager to name this anonymous sensation..
I think...
I think...
Yes...
The name falls to my small ears....
It startles me... But,,, I receive it
with a heart full of dire hope..
I breathe a sigh and let the name out...
"Yuletide", I say..
And as I pant, recovering from the exhilaration,,,
A figure, in red and white
crosses my window...
Merry Christmas....