Long Molehill Poems
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Magnificent marauders masquerading magically might mean
Messy mollusks masticate marbled marigolds momentarily.
Maybe.
Moreover, momentous mosquitoes might make marvelous mini-muffins mixing marmalade momentarily.
Meanwhile
Minnie made monthly memories merely medicating masses
Mediocre men mysteriously manufactured man-made missals
Might mean
Millionaires mystify magical muggles’ meager melodies making
Magnifying, mollifying mortifying mind-blowing majestic missives.
Moreover,
Mummies, mammograms, mushrooms, minks, musicians,
Models, maestros, minions, muskrats, merry men
May
Momentarily medicate marvelously magnificent marauders.
Meanwhile
Mary May memorize multiplication minimizing
Mark’s Mother’s marmalade mini-muffin memory.
M might make momentous mountain-mincing molehill.
*Image of God Smiles by Pixabay.
The Table is Yours
I glide between spoons filled with surprises,
determined to make the best of my fill,
in this manner, I think claiming prizes.
So slight I take, before greed rob sizes,
breeds avarice, made by my tales, instill
I glide between spoons filled with surprises,
I treat my table for none, chastises,
scorn bugs cheer, I use, superior skill,
in this manner, I think claiming prizes.
My views are all mine, other surmises,
Live whole, die happy, and I am uphill,
I glide between spoons filled with surprises,
I chose my independence; it rises,
some ills my mood, nothing changes, free will,
in this manner, I think claiming prizes.
My metaphors used spell true life guises,
My mountain I fit into a molehill,
I glide between spoons filled with surprises,
in this manner, I think claiming prizes.
2022 August 03
Listen now
Your heart speaks
Soft whispers
Listen here
Your heart knows
Calm hints
A silence fills
Laughter and tears
Punctuate movement
A silence flows
Notice the gap
In between noise
The mind chatters
Unceasingly
Noise feels empty
The mind splinters
Mountain from molehill
Noise feeds ego
The soul sings
Music and magic
Rapture thrills
The soul plays
Wind through bamboo
Sighs in birdsong
The world twirls
Swirl of seasons
Devoid of reasons
The world seeks
Praise and plenty
Secure in empty
Time and space pun
Humour greets wit
Steer awkward fit
Time and space dance
Sorrow meets cheer
Sync with tact
Joy ever fades
Nothing much remains
Dust gathers
Joy even tempts
Offers nothing new
Dinosaur bones
Charm feeds
Empty charade
No escapade
Charm leaks
Messy tirade
Lament in loss
Words come
Echoes fling
Not much done
Words leave
Takeaway noise
Not much gain
Write in rhymes
Sign a song
Mind the glitch
Write in lines
Reason a poise
Mind the route
End game pulse
Matching
Point for point
End game tense
Cleaning up
Awkward feel
Leon Enriquez
25 Mar 2014
Singapore
I sit and watch
Contentment seizes --
Magic happens
Pathways within
An unseen mind --
Manipulates madness
Logic questions sense
Molehill reservations --
Rapture says nothing
Re-discover pulse
In tired ways --
Let zest escalate
Time comes and goes
Breezy as the zephyr --
Cool tonic water
Opinions stacked
Feedback confronted --
Cynic attending
Islands apart
Sun-tan lotion --
SPF 100
Conflict and pain
Raw nerves mangled --
Sanguine refrains
Word for word
Not much to say --
Only haphazard itch
Cross road signage
Beware of traffic --
In all directions!
Wet market scene
Buying and selling --
Brisk business attends
Sometimes
Life consigns each --
Unnoticed dash
Good book
In small hands --
Reading preferred
Small talk
Short quirky lines --
Brief salvation
Change of mind
Strange affair --
Rites of passage
Leon Enriquez
06 June 2014
Singapore
Why worry...?
Within the same breath
yukon catastrophize and
make mountain range
out of molehill mental material
impossible to scale
even with best Sherpa as guide.
Take advice from expert
what if...worse case scenario
time and again no fiasco
never makes cerebral showdown
most horrendous debacle
defies savviest soothsayer
subsequent anticipatory anxiety
exhausted body electric for naught.
Courtesy minecrafted psychosomatic zone
access information superhighway
exit ramp marked "Road closed"
inadequate infrastructure funds
against insurance policy
take life in hands
blithely ignore danger warning
emulate crash test dummy
ram thru barricade
torpedo comfort zone
gallantly ford cliff
behold avast airborne aerial view
traverse iter itineris
partake breathtaking view
quickly descend along skyline drive.
Downplay fear of dying
finally impossible mission
to dodge lifelong unlucky brakes
reassurance courtesy circling hawks
future ingestion feather bedded
good luck bon voyage
bid lugubriousness adieu
farewell to arms, legs, torso...
disc hover onset blissfulness
quickly accelerating toward dead end
automatically yields right of way
into...netherland analogous
to Dutch wonderland
monorail singular underground
freedom locomotive track,
otherwise traffic nonexistent
into eternal nesty plunge
steeping, kneading, enmeshing
fountainhead shrugging off atlast,
where well mapped
neurosis/ psychosis
dost no longer dwell.
Behold the mighty ego on two feet,
Whose brain is missing, though the suit is neat.
They walk around like kings of empty space,
With pride and panic painted on their face.
They talk for hours and say nothing new,
A one-person trash heap leaking out on cue.
Their grand ideas are small, absurd, and old,
Like yesterday’s stale soup left in the cold.
They open up their mouth to spin a tale,
Of how they fought a shark and rode a whale.
A walking billboard for a cheap brand name,
Where every minor errand wins them fame.
They brag of wealth they simply do not own,
And broadcast status from a cracked cell phone.
The room falls flat, the yawns begin to spread,
While they crown themselves inside their head.
They climb a molehill, screaming it’s Everest,
Convincing no one that they are the best.
A golden trophy made of painted tin,
All empty echo from their throat within.
I can only imagine how n'ice e-z floe...
Tubby in the calving throes
breaking free and clear
shepherding, milking, and honing
rambunctious as bovine bris
versus being stymied courtesy
cow - wordly bull aiming writer's block
for drought of creativity.
Asper this instance,
when a dearth of ideas
like a charred bait oven
finds me (a Brahms man) looking Bach
at drawing board and/or the clock
as if inspiration
can be found teasing out
whimsical child like spontaneity
recalling hickory dickory dock
rather than exacerbate
mental paralysis, akin
to an invisible vice grip,
which tension eventually
far worse than bill
lee esse ness, which former
grips with irony my chin,
I try release -
singsong restraint and chill,
ready to whip out power drill
not surprised finding sawdust,
viz of course after numbing skull
sticking head in deep freeze
or mounting temple
on dry ice, without
receiving nary a cavil
lack of creative noggin fill
intense concentration
invariably heats up "thinker"
as if being scalded,
skewered, sussed out
on a barbecue grill,
(which fixed attention),
never ever engenders
positive flow of ideas,
but absolutely ideal
for reducing a molehill
from a mountain dew,
nevertheless within ma mind,
before long prolonged
cessation to brainstorm induces ill
humor succumbing into
torturous mental state
(fall of the cider
house rules usher),
non poe whet
tick dark age,
whar ah felt jill
ted loom min hated
with panic ready to kill...
mice elf (cue Stuart Little),
cuz dem lil
cerebral cogs and wheels
malfunction for more'n a mill
yen times prompting
to scout graveyards
for fresh corpse, and lovely bones
if results rendered nill
jet over to Doctor Frankenstein,
even if aye gotta
hightail to Trans sill
vein ya, unless....
perhaps ye kind reader twill
donate yar viable gray matter tummy
(right after ya die) denny ya will
almost be him morte till!
as i began to understand Virginia Woolf
her voice from a room of her own
i realized i was upon a mountain
she had exposed the molehill it was
the dirt soon revealed a tunnel
entering it opened a new horizon
where i finally fully grasped the world
surrounding Jane Austen
in that moment the mist upon the horizon
disappeared and i could finally grasp
her words between the lines
denied a seat upon the Parthenon
forbidden attending The School of Athens
she displays the truth about her gender
that soft restraint we find in mother
its wisdom resplendent
in that hardened fist of reality
covered in a glove of soft lamb
we forgive ignorance
or become yet another in the mirror
who denies the freedom the world
breathes in every breath
the child's first cry
should echo, i am born free
deserving a room of my own
all warrant the miracle life is
nascent in the gratitude within
OKC 6/22
Our burdens are lifted—it’s spring break, after all.
Though ocean breezes, surf sounds, the smell of sunblock,
fresh tans and bottomless margaritas at the beach can be healing,
we decided to vacation on campus and find joy in small, everyday things.
Yesterday, we went to the farmer’s market, where one coffee vendor was making real cappuccinos and another was baking fresh breakfast pizzas. The combination reminded me of the 'Antico Forno Roscioli' cafe, near Campo de' Fiori, in Rome.
Then we hit the gym pool, climbed a rock wall (slowly) and played racquetball (rather poorly). We tried a dance & fitness class too—I thought I was in shape but ugg, it was hard to keep up. Peter (my 27-year-old bf) practically collapsed, but maybe he was angling for mouth-2-mouth.
Straight brag: Peter and I are getting new laptops today—MacBook Air M4s—mine’s baby blue, his is silver. So today seems like Christmas.
I don’t know if you people have computers, or use the Internet, but if you do, you’ll get it. I don’t know exactly when it’ll arrive, of course, so I’m pacing our suite.
I’ve always loved tech. My brother started teaching me about computers when I was 10—you know—hard drives, logic boards, power supplies, all of it. I remember it taking about two days to set one up and move all of the data. Today all I’ll have to do is set the new computer next to the old one and click migrate.
You gotta doff your hat to the tech wizards that came up with that, but the hours spent doing it the old way were fun.
“Something’s lost yet something's gained” - I think Joni Mitchell sang that.
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Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
Mountain or a Molehill by Kris Berry
"
" 7g mic"
Brown dirt on my head now
Soul done left this earth now
I guess I'm blessed and I don't deserve to be walking around its just a circus here
Well I keep my focus here.
I hope I get to speak with her
Maybe I will see her, maybe I will never see her its all the same to me.
I could never believe in more than what I lived in
I got treasure that's buried in heaven.
Where my heart is that's where my treasure is
God please make me a better man
I'm pouring out my soul and I'm trying to do better man every time I think about the letter
Man. that they 'll be sending me if I don't make it to
Hill County for the child support court.
They will find me,they will put my ass in jail just to remind me
They got the power Satan is behind them
They say we are under God but I can't find him and the legislature and the senators
All they do is try do is be my mentor.
And the president he's nothing but and excuse to Mr
Yeah he's black but he never used to be
When he was a kid he played with the white kids grew up
And thought he was still white still why do you think I'm white still
Why do you think I still fight still even when this Life is right still
And I'm waking up and walking on water, believing in more than just my daughter
Turning another mountain into a molehill