Long Monolithic Poems
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Electriconic connection
On a melting world
And my pain has completely lost her voice
Pajamas up since seven on the sofa now eleven
Where in abundance we can shiver the leaves and have our heads shake things out
Quarreling lovers are burrowing mothers are sorrowful daughters all terrible fathers we are
Pajama thirty now on the eleven-spot now “Zap-2-it” on-screen
I say all this because I love you and me though it's only because you love me that I love me
and know what love means
Can I paint broader strokes stepping out of the window of the house I am painting? Paint,
paint the colors of the paint?
Where were you when you were born: in a house or in a womb? On your mother or on the
ground?
Prefaces like precipices make modern living monolithic and rained on. Like how the flowers
need it.
I’m standing behind you now with your permission.
Hanging bow hanging bow
Bow bow bow
Hang bow hang
Let the rain wash the soiling regret
Make blood fill the veins of our roots
Blooming bloom blooming
Blooming asunder
Far away on the lonely hilltop
deep in the midst of the moor
a place often shrouded by mist
only deep silence there prevailed
The monolithic stones stand proud
so many things have they seen
watched as blood was spilled
in sacrifice, lust and murder
The chill of this place creeps in
utter desolation is in the very air
a circle built by man for worship
of the darkest kind taking of life
Bare earth surrounds these stones
here nothing grows not even a weed
at night you can hear the banshee
howl to the moon before he hunts
A circle they say shows continuation
here all it symbolises is bloody death
the restless souls within know no peace
this circle their prison from here to eternity
l
Form:
GLOW OF SILENCE
The edge of sky petrified at horizon, a somber slate,
as on the wings of surging storm nimbus clouds ride.
For the vermillion sun to go down they don’t wait,
unleashed, in rampant rage they gush out and glide.
The monolithic still sky is scared, shattered asunder,
flakes of grey void fall with molten deluge of torrent.
Opaque emptiness shocked by seismic like thunder
burns in forked flashes in fraction of time transient.
Blazing lines of lightning make cold motif of azure fire,
lazuli light leaves lingering sound to languish behind,
strikes me with deafening wave, rattling layers of air,
ashened by the flashes that make me almost blind.
The sound sinks in the silent depth of introspection,
the sapphire light shimmers in my serene essence.
The lilac lining of consumed clouds kindles my vision,
my soul flushes with bliss in the glow of golden silence.
January 27, 2019
Tritina (three tercets with one final line).
I will return as you taught me to read a god gifted total benign, even after nine
I will return as you taught me to see the specific Night of Knight M Shyamalan
I will return as you taught me to listen to the nitty gritty a lot, and the system
told the family sift an autistic family food, Trying dough for far too long in frame
They are class of mishaps, birds of the same feather and you are a linear secular
practice along one way, the other one is pedagogy of monolithic behavioral norm
I told time as I wrote once a power point key. Did commit a tavern charm
Time elapses and time begins, and time stamps the truest may, say so and so.
Time has her graceful heed to vilify the cover page elsewhere, to May to mow.
They blew the divine up, with the silentmost Neon light, landed, to reach for the show!
In a land beneath the sky that does not open with the daylight,
surrounded by the mountain peaks clutching the clouds of silence,
lies the hamlet of Barovia in mystique valley of perpetual twilight,
mantled at the vale’s edge by impenetrable wall of fog, the Mists.
The people live cautious lives in the shadow of monolithic misery
with faces bearing the expression of endurance shaped by suspicion.
They speak of bells that ring when no hand they see touch them,
in every conversation there’s the same unspoken topic, the castle.
Castle Ravenloft rises from its pillars of stone-like scars on the sky,
with the towers driven upward like charred ribs against the drifting fog.
Enclosed within its walls of malice the air is saturated with memories,
thoughts coil in corridors with footsteps echo even when no one walks.
Every stone of the castle is loyal to its master, Count Strahd von Zarovich,
who exists as a paradox, immortal yet decaying, powerful yet imprisoned,
moving through the castle like a steadfast notion that cannot be dismissed,
for shadows lengthen in his reverence, as if Ravenloft is his body, not home.
He is a polymath of cruelty, an epitome of endless pain that never wanes.
When he rides as the mist through the valley the Barovian hearts freeze,
and yet, he isn’t sustained by fear alone, at the core of his timeless longing
lies his love, Tatyana, who slipped through his fingers, to be a curse to the land.
Yet, Barovia endures the plight, as in secret moments fragile hope still flickers,
for the story remains unfinished, waiting at the edge of the day yet to dawn.
The tragedy of Barovia is in its replication, for every time a Tatyana is born,
a Strahd claims her, but the Mists take her away for the cycle to begin anew.
The baobab tree is a graceful giant
That races across the gray-blue desert moon
You stand firmly like an ancient monolithic stone of time
You sparkle in the radiant orange liquid sky
Swollen trunk as wide,
As a herd of elephants,
That rushes deep within thy soul
Your branches entangled, as these roots
Stretch down into the caverns of this earth
You are tall and magnificent, as the Greek Gods
Surrounded by the aquatic sounds of
The East African waters
You possess great beauty and wonder
Still, you are wiser
Than the sacred Juju medicine man
Longevity brings forth an amazing grace
This immovable soul, and impeccable fortitude,
Brings us to a quiet place that resonates
In this humble Madagascar village
I have nothing against the Cinderellas
of successful society.
Cinderella finds her opportunity for freedom
for love, hopefully,
goes for it,
and it works out for her
and all the Prince Charmings,
wherever they are hiding from my life.
Anyway, all good news
as far as this story goes.
But,
the plight of Ugly StepSisters and Brothers
deserves more compassionate empathy.
True,
they borrow too heavily from Evil StepMother's playbook,
her monocultural empty-empire building manual
"How to compete for passion and pleasure
natural wealth
without sufficient impassioned
spiritual health"
Still,
StepMom didn't write this manual alone.
This scripture is as old as lack of requited love
our severed selves.
And,
what are the karmic outcomes for these Sisters,
lacking grace
to invite Cinderellas to share their space?
A decade
a year
a month
a day,
an hour,
a minute,
a moment devoid of choosing integrity's warm possibility,
humor facing absurd lust for monolithic power,
blind hope to control healthy life
at least spirited enough to dull awareness
of inevitable natural dying alone,
results in living too much lonely
consuming absence of full loving life,
producing integrity of compassioned pleasure
Disassociated disrepair
eats and addicts acids of empire-defensive despair
until nutrients of isolation mature
into toxic self-disserving Evil StepSpinsters
and bully UnBrothers
Monsters spinning tragic runaway addictions
breeding chaotic anger,
fear of our darkness, our mortal trauma terror,
our lack and misery and loss,
hating our own unredemptive suffering.
Ugly StepSisters are stuck
in silos of their own discontent
echoing Evil StepMother's voice
foolishly demanding patriarchal satisfaction
with a closed RightHand dominant fist
when grace is hers and his to choose
by merely opening Her heart
to radically compassionate
co-empathic curiosity
and win/win pleasures
of unconditional warm hospitality
for all our Cinderellas,
Prince Charmings,
more oppositionally defiant StepSisters
and homophobic UnBrothers.
Written: May 31st, 2025, For contest: By Joseph May
********************
"The stars beckoned her song to reach the crescent moon."
A sonata spun in silver, diaphanous and light.
Carried by a midnight zephyr, an ambrosian tune,
Wriggling across the hushed empyreal night.
The moon, a velvety candle leaning up close,
Its smile was crescent-shaped and wide.
As echoes of her whispered melodies arose,
Riding a cosmic tide to carry them and slide.
The galaxies whirred their soporific refrain,
While celestial orbs danced in airy delight.
Her voice—a gossamer yarn in a monolithic domain,
Weaving melodies into the katabatic night.
Comets gyrated in glowing grace,
Dawdling garlands of smoldering flight.
With each glimmer, a vanishing trace,
A symphony streaked through the cyan night.
Nebulae blossomed in iridescent opal and gold,
Winks of wispy silver in twinkling glow.
Milky opals flowed in a zaffre, wispy fold,
Akin to jewels in tinselled rhapsodic flow.
The solar zephyr in a capricious swirl,
Canorous choirs filigreed, jewelled, in twilight.
Stars wove lyrical whispers on a weathered whirl,
Of songs nestling on a dogwood, a serene site.
Dawn rippled with refrains of silver melodic show,
A nymphic choir in June twilight, lilac—katydid.
Ripple as an aeolian harp in topaz of heat glow,
endless oracles, sighs of aches, lullaby—did.
Hello!
Hello in there?
Can you feel me yet?...
Welcome to the United States of America!
The U-nited States began as an incubation site
for humane freedom and justice,
although our elders were a bit ahead of
non-violent communication therapy,
mind/body communion therapy,
so we have run into some long-term monoculturing problems
with linking up our justice walk
with our multicultural peace talk.
You have chosen to seed in what was our global hope
for incubating ecological economics.
I so hope you develop neither surprised nor disappointed
in the U.S. rebranding project,
now providing global laundry and enculturation services
for other would-be sub-optimizers
perpetually fascinated,
and distractedly entertained,
with anthro-centric adolescence,
devoid of sufficient ecological heart
to assure healthy root systems
for EarthTribe's potential grandchildren.
This U-benighted States of perpetual anthroprivileged greed
and monolithic egohubris,
now aspires to become Earth's monopolistic
Monocultural Laundry Service,
divesting of polycultural natural enrichment
to thoroughly trash the exciting high risk market
in anthro-centric extract-and-burn entitlements.
If you thought you had landed
within smooth warm womb
of old school not Zero-Sum
Win-Win Golden Rule Skin
in a Permacultural Game Theory
of regenerative life outcomes...
well,
good luck being born a polypathic alien
in this Oppositional Disordered political and racing-apart economic monoculture,
this DisUniting whitewashed policing State
of fear we could never have or become enough,
out to save the globe with arms of might
now that we have proven
how great we are with shooting down each other,
in our homes and on our streets.
Welcome, baby,
it's a not-so-brave old world
in our UBeNighted State.
The edge of sky engraved in horizon, a somber slate,
as on the wings of surging storm nimbus clouds ride.
For the spent golden sun to go down they don’t wait,
unleashed, in rampant rage they well up and glide.
The mute monolithic sky is shaken, shattered asunder,
peels of ebon pile descend in molten deluge of torrent.
Encompassing emptiness quaked by seismic like thunder,
flames in forked flashes in a fraction of time transient.
Cracking lightning blazes in the cold motif of azure fire,
lazuli light leaves the lingering sound to languish behind,
strikes me with deafening wave, rattling the layers of air,
burnt to ashes by the flashes that make me almost blind.
The sound sinks in the quietude of deep introspection,
the sapphire light shimmers within my serene essence.
The lilac lining of consumed clouds kindles my vision,
my soul immerses in cosmic bliss in the stream of silence.
____________
August 2, 2022
For A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest