Long Juxtaposing Poems
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Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star,
Red ones are juxtaposing lips when wrens are kissing;
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
They marvelously stand and hung on where they are,
In kaleidoscope of colors, they’re all glistening;
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star.
Their lasting freshness is a blessing from the altar
In orange, yellow, red and purple- they’re all amazing;
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
Their dazzling beauty is the sweetest song that soothes my scar
In its various colors, red with yellow is the best hymn I’ll sing
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star.
Ambling along an avenue of those flowers quite so far
As if leading into the vista of paradise –the most wonderful feeling
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
Bestowing its enchantment to someone may ward off war
Red gears for a blazing love , yellow for unwavering spirit of sharing
Birds of paradise bloom and fall like a shooting star
Brilliantly gliding from huge foliage seen from afar.
June 30, 2013 10.40pm
©2013by Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Fourth Place
Contest: Good Poems
Judged: 8/8/2013
Sponsor: Great Poet, Nathan A
I wish for a story of pain and pine for its precious work
But my prejudiced and entitled heart is not worthy
For I have been found guilty by reason of DNA
Even now your consternation percolates
Shields come up and default indictments formulated
The racist bastard is juxtaposing with reverse psychology
From a mile away you can smell my motives
You have been trained well to spot me behind every bush
I once pounded my chest in a busy place of concourse
I am the last of those who punish worlds unlike my own
Natural consequence has plagued ma vlast
This is how the Christian god made the world
Hate the sin but loathe the sinner
Know that your fathers sins will flush you out
Lest your children be found unclean
Pull the switch. Do it you righteous S.O.B.!
Euthanize me by reason of the prevailing wind
Exterminate me before I multiply again
Give me back your death. I deserve and desire it.
I am the last one standing with entitled blood in my veins
Innocent essence is spattered across my smelly white shirt
My beard is itchy from the powder of a good man’s bones
History indicts me. Perception is reality
When I am gone hate will be dead forever
Nobody will talk about this ever again
My last words upon the scaffold will be
We come from the same village
Sometimes I wake, at least believing I have,
but find that I'm wandering about,
perhaps dreaming while walking in a mist,
through empty halls where moonlight
doesn't stream through windows on walls.
I'm alone in lush jungles of canopied forests,
and bathing in pools behind waterfalls.
It's a strange realm of a juxtaposing existence
where my words and thoughts mingle,
trying to blend like slow-running river currents,
flowing into roiling tides of ocean waves.
It's the place where lost love lingers
and grief echoes its mourning call
trying in vain to heal in silence
and sobs are stifled throes of sorrow
as their cries are only heard by me
as they ricochet through my mind's tunnels.
In my poetry these corridors exist—
these hollow spaces and empty places
I create in journeys between sadness and joy,
hope and heartbreak,
life and death
and where with each breath I take
holds gasping ghosts of lost loves
as they hover, unheard but felt in the ruins
of what once was a lamplit rendezvous lieu,
now withered and cold, a cavern of darkness.
There's stark sadness some would label madness
found in dreams that leave my body and soul
aching and craving to come awake.
Whether I wander in a blossoming garden
in these reveries, remembering candlelight nights
of passionate kisses within love's arms—
they're only a worn tapestry of broken threads
from the many textured fabrics of my life.
Some became tangled and some unraveled,
others frayed and were pulled apart
that had to be stitched in the wounded places
with a patchwork of bloodied cloths to cover
the scars that form crossroads across my heart.
More often the dreams that find me in slumber
now take me to happier places where smiling faces
surround me and ease the pains I've borne.
Though time in those spaces flows too quickly,
like grains of hourglass sands sifting and shifting
like dunes formed by errant Zepher winds.
Now, as I walk in the warmth of sunlight's rays,
erased are the hovering ghostly shadows.
From those ruins where life was lived, I'm drifting
past the perished caverns from my yesteryears.
Again a Friday night approached,
With attending a gathering in the mosque
There was a discussion on a country
And there were refreshments too!
And the speaker mentioned,
For his war-torn country of Iraq
The proportion of a doctor and patients
precisely is 0.85:1000, to be exact.
There were delicious Iraqi dishes
I could not remember those names
Delighted we served our appetite
Returned home, quite full.
I saw a friend's post on the net,
about self -analyzing own symptoms
And treating on one's own, it's terrible I inferred.
And I realized, I am juxtaposing reality again, there.
The only viable solution, for now, maybe.
Winter tested my endurance with its sharp and burning cold and now the warm lavender evening, with its smells and sounds of spring seem like a gift. The breeze is warm, and even the broad zones of shadow contain an inviting warmth. The campus lamps should ignite soon but groups of students are milling, talking and laughing as if no one wants to let go of the day.
As Lisa enters the courtyard the campus lights flicker to life. As she approaches, she lets her book bag slide off her shoulder. Catching it by its strap a millisecond before it hits the ground as she reaches me - without looking - like a practiced trick.
Taking my hand in hers, she asks, head tilted slightly to see my eyes, “How’d the test go?”
I’m the first one in our squad to take a final - most are next week. “Cinchy,” I say with a grin and a flick of my free wrist, “not comprehensive - it just covered the last section.”
“Yea,” she says, “look at you go!” A warm breeze wells to obscure her face with her flaxen, cornsilk hair. She lets her bag fall the last inch, and ponytails it, two-handed, with smooth, practiced ease.
Finals existed, like ancient, cultural crucibles, long before our time, but these are ours, as if they’ve always been waiting - just for us.
Yale is still new to us, but we talk, juxtaposing experiences, challenging and comforting each other, even though we’re on slightly different paths. It seems that everyone is pumped up though, a little stressed maybe, but more than ready to hit it.
(our mutual horoscope)
We’re in Mercury retrograde
it’s a chance to reexamine your heart
expect some miscommunication
cause we’re outside of comfort zones
expect a flood of new emotions
situations can get out of control
you might lose some inhibition
so check your intuition
Mercury’s moving very slowly,
I advise you to do the same
see, mercury focuses on details
while pisces takes a more creative view
when you put the two together
the juxtaposing energy’s confusing
you can feel extreme nostalgia
which could swamp your boundaries
So seek the least amount of damage
let water be your sanctuary
question other people’s stressful projections
take a beat from irritations
and be careful around your exes
connect with people who have your back
protect the things you want to foster
cause this going to be exhausting
.
.
A song for this:
Bloom Baby Bloom by Wolf Alice [E]
The Whole of the Moon by The Waterboys
Autumn in splendor, weaves yellow, gold, red thread,
Into a tapestry of colors, bedspread.
But, how does the Fall compare to Spring's delight,
When blossoms bloom, and green buds renewed, burst bright?
In Spring, nature awakens from winter sleep,
With colors fresh, vibrant, with hope recharged deep.
The splendor of life revived in every bloom,
The promise of rebirth, in fragrant perfume.
Autumn's splendor is never a fall from grace,
It's a celebration, an end of year embrace.
A ticker-tape parade, with confetti thrown
Skyward, the last waltz a splendid epitome.
How does one begin to compare such splendors?
To juxtapose Spring and Fall as contenders
In a stills gallery art show, happenstance!
Alive, parted by time, they're no rivals in dance.
He stood still~
Eyes travel faster than a lightyear;
The many battles fought~
Still fresh in his mind~
The brilliance of his golden helmet
never fades~
Like the tenacity of his conviction
to fight and never surrender.
The man wearing the golden helmet
Must be also wearing a golden heart;
He must be a sweet husband
to his beloved..
and a protective father
to his only daughter..
He must be my father.
01.10.2021
Notes: (Credits to - © 1st-Art-Gallery.com 2003 - 2021 - All Rights Reserved)
The Man in this enduring canvas titled Man in a Golden Helmet by Rembrandt and dated 1650, is a particularly captivating and meditative rendering of a time-worn face beneath a majestic, almost juxtaposing, helmet. The contrast illuminates the painting with a profoundly moving sense of time having passed, at once both sentimental and sentient. Admired by the Impressionists and portrait artists throughout the centuries.
Actual aptitude and action almost always align aright.
Beautiful bliss, beastly belligerent behaviors: both burn bright.
Caringly convinced, cantankerous curmudgeons collapse, contrite.
Disdaining darkness, devoted disciples dig deep, discover delight.
Erudite, eager efforts encourage, energize, even excite.
For faithful few, fortitude, ferocious fight favors failed, feeble flight.
Gesticulating graders generate ghastly groans grinding graphite.
Happily, Horton has highly honed hearing; howler has humble height.
Invite ideas, ignite ingenuity, illumine insight.
Jaundiced jackboot juxtaposing "justice", jubilation: Jacobite.
Kindly koala kid keeps knitting knotted kaleidoscopic kites.
Levity lifts languishing leanings, leaves listeners luminous, light.
Mellifluously mild merriment mellows mad, malevolent might.
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Lol, this is an abecedarian monorhyme of alliterative monokus.
Not sure I'll get to the second half
The Wakening World
A new world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations unseen to the denizens of land, left in man’s wake.
From diatom, to whale, from single cell, to open hand
from sun, to star, to mushroom bomb, we have light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution;
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, throngs rise asking for hand-
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood ends as the predestined ouroboros wakes.
Death’s rattle subsides, as head eats the tail of depression.
Communication becomes the global antidepressant.
Aborigines in Australian huts and Inuit in igloos see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide, for hand in hand, cells wake.
No longer can knowledge be held. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the breast will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, tyrant and saint will be juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant contact scrapes the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of fingertip to keyboard or keypad depressed
sends ignorance fleeing, freeing the knowledge hungry;
showing the way out, the way up, the key. Light-heartedly
heads bow in prayer, the we will rock you will revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of nuclear rods depressed,
rods magnetized or charged with lightening
will energize the populous for we all hunger.
Evolution brings revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.