Long Incidentals Poems
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He kept a small room
he wasn’t in it very often
but it was there and he knew it
it was safe
for though life had opened roads
that needed to be trodden
and he was often far away
his room was
waiting for him
in it was his bookcase
teal blue stained wood
shelves of a life explored
childhood memories
books about dinosaurs and the moon
pictures and piggy banks
old record albums and
his Titanic collection
there were two hickory chairs
old world charm in light pink brocade
a gift of decades past
and his library desk, a rare find
and one to keep for its
mahogany leather embossed top
its drawers crammed with 50 years of
incidentals, papers and letters
and brochures
on its walls, his oils and watercolors
kept guard
his paintings from a long ceased dalliance
in art
he kept a small room
to visit
for though he believed that home
is where love is and can be anywhere
he also knew that a seed planted
can grow and grow
but its roots must survive
DISCONNECTIONS
harmony order
reason &
beauty
&
incidentals
severed
by
upheavals
cerebral &
austere
a purveyor of
dimensions
to catalogue
&measure reveals
the obsessive
elaborate
laboriously
constructed
tableaux
of
destruction
so instantly
recognisable in
impressive &
immaculate
artefacts
to
specifically
fire the imagination
&
concentrate
the interplay
of
reason in
perpetual motion
in grappling
&
conveying
the painstakingly
drumbeat
of
sensation
amid the melee
of the
orchestrated
ensembles
at a distance
the measured
mood
detached
artificial
yet in
symmetry
knitting
everything together
in
cool respect
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & 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.
No! not about pits
they’re removed
the fruit sliced.
ugly in effigy —
the air turns
their innards
burnt orange.
their rainier skin
scarred and pale —
tasty or not.
i’d rather them red
and plump, but
skinny enough
to fit into
the pitter
and for the pits
to shoot straight
out
not get stuck
like Winnie the Pooh
half in and out —
a honey of an incident,
embarrassing.
i gobble up
nature’s morsels
good for sleep
metabolism and
movements
which i
have a right
to let go.
Let’s not forget
the plastic covering
these incidentals
arrived in
and were shaken loose
from
into a collapsible colander
and given a sprinkling
shower; they shine
their famous; their mine
7/11/2020
Inside an old library of things uncountable;
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets.
The air is musty, thickly clothed,
muffled and club fingered.
Incidentals are listed
on the cuff of the half-remembered.
Mind dust wafts from one place to another;
a library in pieces.
A young librarian approaches,
behind her, books are falling off shelves
like rotting fruit.
“Dinna fash yersel,” she says,
an old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of things pecks and probes.
Outside, volumes are opening.
I perceive a book in every object,
thousands of pages contained in every mote and atom.
The sky begins to write, both an old and new testament,
it is editing every word into the vast simplicity of
I Am.
The Pentecostal Biblical Version
The Secular Version
Part of The Protestantism Christian Sect;
A Christian group of souls is gathering
Pentecostal Faith church group in prayer,
Prayer meeting of souls by a river,
Parting, spiritual from secular,
Parting, secular from spiritual,
Souls in His Grace with the Holy Spirit,
A river made full of incidentals,
A soul beseech the Holy Ghost, welcome,
A stone straddles midstream upon a rock,
The Holy Ghost and soul have become one,
A stone held posture states the obvious,
The soul falls under the Holy Spirit,
A stone falls into an active river,
The Holy Spirit empowers the soul,
A stone current in a tiding river,
The Holy Spirit Guiding the soul on,
A stone rolling, turning, always onward,
A revival-filled soul replenishes,
A stone settles in receding waters,
A soul keeping its unshakeable faith,
A stone resting on top of stable ground,
A soul renewed faith and answered prayers.
A stone on a shore, and dries in sunlight.
He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her;
she lived in the corner of his eye.
She passed-by, her face and form - tidal,
a tug on his shore.
Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice
for nomadic mitochondria
that carried her silks and perfumes,
salts to his earth
when flesh grew dry and dark?
He took a mind journey
within the coiling tendrils
of his pith and fiber.
Capillaries traced her imprints,
neuronal fingers tried to define her.
He'd gladly walk into her marrow,
metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes.
A camel-train of visions travels
his corded spine
bearing incidentals, trappings.
He plants glances among ganglia,
feeds on a returning musk,
until she walks among his thoughts.
She is no longer a fantasy, no longer
a salt lick of moth-threads and rain,
but what she is - he could not say.
Scar-like Healings
by Odin Roark
Scar laden perfections
Where life's training wheels balance
One's child-like trust
Adolescent-like daring
Adult-like intemperance
Scratches
Bruises
Broken bones
History's incidentals heal easily
While
Challenges of the heart
Stalemates of the mind
Failure of one's dreams
Make endurance the battle cry
Invisible damages the struggle
Protection of identity
One's survival instinct
The personified continuance
At all costs
How weary our consciousness becomes
For
Around the corner
Lurks the underworld of lesions
Trusting not the scars
For finite as healing might seem
There remains the lesson to be learned
Time-released torment to be resolved
One's fatal wounds burrow deep
Ignoring the façade of mending
Knowing all too well
What remains buried
Are teachings
Damage never dies
Anguish never vanishes
The chameleon of pain
Nullifies one's senses temporarily
Rendering transient peace
While fate prepares
Tomorrow's pin prick
Wishing one to live
Not languish believing
Scar-like healings
Are real
crown petals unfold for lofty Light
fontanelle gaping softly smile
Centre Point’s hole blazon mile
pineal connects as conical way
to galactic edenic binomial rays
loosens ovuliferous scales honed
thyroid equalises, tongue relaxes
cylinder opens larynx true blue
speech becomes intended hues
heart softens atria, ventricles
valves linking doors of paradise
protected golden it rhapsodises
coin-line verticle-horizontal spherical
solar plexus flowers monumental near
mystical super might no incidentals
feed flows smooth for tantric beats
sacral seat in creativity knowing heat
power is orange action satisfaction
rooted into Earth mooted primordial
authentic estate mirthful immemorial
aligned connection very refined
~~~~~~~~~~
"The forest is a sanctuary where you can grow to be you," ... by the Poet.
The passing of a torch, when Spring was announced,
was noted in the melting quarter of winter memories, as a sun climbs in
its forgiving rays; hoping its extent will favor the many listless foliage
that shy away the hours and that will soon purify vividly.
A forest is a sanctuary of admirable heights,
indelible spreads in the reach of golden beams.
The nurturing glow is a blessed welcoming, as glimmerings of first light,
and in its duration;
at the lower regions,
are duly usual reliance on root's deep hold of the earth
will stabilize their stature.
The lesser herbage of lowly pinnacles beneath shades of tree boughs
whereby the sun's light skips and winks a trace of them, is nevertheless
enriched with nutrients that will foster its growth.
These passionate plantings in harsh spotty sites amid forested trees are all
functions of the grand scheme of nature at its finest. Two, of the three
sanctuaries, the Flora, is known as the greater of the living greeneries.
The Funga is the lesser of the verdancy of the woods' life.
Then there are the incidentals of nature, and their animated interactions known as the third sanctuary; the Fauna. They soar, stride, slide, and swim.
Most move free of incidents, and others, not quite so. It's the
beast of the jungle that rules. They set them, and when broken,
there will be consequences. It is the pattern set by nature for the cycle of life.
One life dies as a gift for another to live. These are the rigid realities of the
woodlands, though not limited here,
but relevant beyond this sanctuary's realm.
The entrance of Spring seasons well the vibrancy of greens evolving greener.
Anticipative varieties of colorful flowers can survive the thick overhangs
of a forest.
Fauna, or animal life forms, infest these regions generously.
Spring here in the forested jungles is no different from the expressed lands
beyond its perimeters.
The Wicket of Spring has opened its forest sanctuary.
Inside an old library of things uncountable
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets.
‘things’
nothing can be
excluded
yes the air is musty, thickly clothed,
muffled and club fingered,
incidentals are listed
on the cuff of the half-remembered.
Mind dust wafts from one place to another.
Orts of loss, tittle, and trifles. A library
in pieces.
A fine looking woman approaches
she has an armful of books.
Maybe she works here
or maybe she works only
in this moment.
Behind her
things begin to fall off shelves.
“Don’t worry.”
She is Scottish and actually says
“dinna fash yersel.”
An old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of every-thing
pecks and probes.
She places more books
on the reading table.
The thought of a ‘reading table’
amuses.
Outside the library the world is simplifying.
A fresh sky begins to write
in a language only spoken of
in empty rooms.
It’s a braw uncluttered daylight
that greets awakening eyes.