Long Moths Poems
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Written: September 26, 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 39 Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
“However authentic the feelings of love, the dalliance was only ever meant to be a beautiful fiction” - Esther Perel.
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Dot dabbles during dangerous dalliance
As souls are enticed by seductive affiance.
A narrative about forbidden temptation.
Shine smolders sway—a sensuous sensation.
A cynosure silver shimmer under the moon.
Flickers of fantastical fantasy foster flow foon.
Two spirits intertwined in a pointless game.
They are fettered by—an overwhelming tame
A vortex of enthusiasm is sparked at first sight.
They can't defy the diaphanous magnetic excite.
Akin to how moths are lured to a perilous flame.
Prance frolicking on the cusp of a lethal game.
Dalliance, desire, ecstasy, and temptation.
For flirtation as feuds on frame of foundation.
Consider consequences and clashes with zeal.
And yet—the flames are often fanned by feel
In the gloominess, they sneak a sparkling touch.
Nimble hearts are trapped in a harmful slouch.
Bootlegged, beleaguered blaze both breaths.
As they succumb to love's intoxicating depth.
Demure whispers of wariness swirl in the air.
But elixir zeal evolves with each stolen stare.
They cognize the danger—the risk they convey,
Yet they cannot resist the love they display.
Emollient hearts hid, akin to vines in the night.
Igniting an afire that smolders ever so bright
Their bodies entwined—they pranced in the gloom.
Strayed sprightliness that swaddles to assume
Realizing sequels and the agony they trigger
But they cannot outlast this forbidden rigor.
They breathe on the edge—with hearts ablaze.
In a world where forbidden temptation plays
But time is a lousy tutor—it can't be denied.
And soon their dalliance will no longer hide.
The world will decry their ephemeral affair.
And their felicity will be furtive, beyond repair.
Into the Night
As I drift into a peaceful night slumber..
Sounds owned by the night, enter my chamber.
Crickets chirp a tune to share..
From the corners of the dusk; filling the night air.
The moon peers through the window, sprawling to the floor.
Making slight shadows, for creating a frightening folklore.
I hear little feet scurrying across the room.
It was a mouse, I think; escaping his foredoom.
Leaves from branches brush across the window screen.
The night was proving to be more then it seemed.
Moths flutter aloft a lighted street post.
A slight breeze ascends the curtains, simulating a ghost!
In the near distance, came the sound of a drummer.
Then out of nowhere, a flash splits the darkness asunder!
Rain patters down steadily on the worn rooftop.
Then the night went placid leaving a picturesque backdrop.
The smell of the rain renders me soporific.
Slipping into a dream, I ponder on tomorrow nights frolics!
If a cat could talk
Would he bark
If a bird could meow
Should he fly?
Man am I hungry
If a mouse ate pizza
Would it be topped with anchovies
I dunno No I like my fish raw with milk
Yeah, still am hungry
If a dog had 2 tales (tails)
One for waging and one for lying
Would he be the devil's dog
And why is this squirrel steady laughing
Rabbits are cackling
Sparrows are dancing
Robin's has got nosebleeds
Man am I hungry
Moths offering a handkerchief
Robin says thank you please
Why is the squirrel steady laughing
Chickens hatching guess wit my raw fish, dish
I'm gonna have milk, rabbits and sparrow stew
Yeah, I am hungry
Yeah, all this and yet guess what
I just realize I'm a vegetarian
That's why the squirrel steady laughing ha ha ha ha Haha ha
2/11/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2021
Its sundown, the day’s been reduced to a crack of lavender and fiery pinks along the Massif des Maures mountains. This evening we’re sipping cocktails at “Les Toits,” the Hôtel de Paris’ rooftop restaurant. The French would call this a lounge.
Les toits translates as ‘the roofs’ and its stunning view overlooks the provincial rooftops that slope down the foothills to the gulf of Saint-Tropez and it’s world-famous beaches. The well lit boats are settling down and dropping anchor for the night as we complete our orders and get our second round of drinks.
This has been the best vacation. I think we’ve all reclaimed our calm after a tense freshman year. We’ve been at the beach for 10 days. Leong and Sunny are actually tan, Lisa and my hair are half a tone lighter and Bili’s black skin has taken on gorgeous, purple-ish highlights.
I’ve known Lisa now for ten months, but we share a deep connection that seems older. Lisa’s lovely, brazen, and naturally flashy, without trying. Unfortunately, though, Lisa draws men like a keig-light draws moths - whether she’s looking for them or not - I don’t envy her that. Young men, middle aged men, old men.
Lisa said it started when she was 13. She’d be in a store or restaurant with her mom or dad and a lady would introduce herself, “Hi, I’m with the Ford, or Elite, or IMG, or DNA modeling agency, has your daughter done any modeling?” And another business card would be wasted. Her mom nodded as she recalled this sordid past.
Attention just shifts to her, the party comes to her, she can’t seem to avoid it. About every 30 minutes some man comes over and introduces himself to us (to her). This man owns a local night club, would we (she) be his guest? (He’s looking at her like desert) This guy owns a yacht - “that one, there,” he points it out, in his Russian oligarch voice - he clicks a fob on his keychain and the lights blink. Oh, sure, join a strange foreign man on his yacht, what could go wrong?
There are 8 of us girls at the table with Charles, our escort and confidant. He’s a 50-ish, red headed ex-NYC-cop who just sits there quietly and sips his drink like James Bond. He seldom says anything. I lean in to him and say, “Maybe they think you're her pimp?!” Leong coughs in her drink and Charles gives me the same, serious, “behave yourself” look I’ve gotten since I was 9.
We each sacrifice chronic lives and critical moments,
plotting against those we must become engaged with,
like moths enlightened by burning bushes
rooted in hypnotic holy compost,
watered by fears and laughing tears,
inviting redemption's mutual sacrifice of ego
to balance eco-lateral economic life.
Earth's meaningful
radically inclusive
vocation.
Take off our shoes!
Shields of harsh and hard immunity,
blocking intuitive holonic light-eternal
icons of time's spreading revolution.
Free ourselves from bondage
to competitive economics,
irrationally unbalanced
rush-away ego-competitions.
Slow down this inhumane trauma
to catch up with healing ourselves,
with where we all came from,
with how we all optimally
and ultimately share global polyculturing
smooth-souled orthopraxis,
redeeming our future win/win investments
inherited from diverse Elder progenitors'
eyes and hearts and lungs
inhaling this slower
kinder
cooperative economy,
mindful,
compassionately interdependent
networking trees
of well-shaded life.
Sankofa!
Go back through spacetime to retrieve
nourishing power-enculturing riches
through shaman's natural systemic lens
of wise peace and cooperative justice,
healthy love and wealthy faith,
hope through positive being,
becoming fully incarnate,
fully alive,
Eden's Climax Community,
unfolding within each coincidental moment,
each economic subsidiary life,
each evolving Earth element,
each resonantly reverberating
eco-logical paradigm.
Owl wisely reverses her bilateral receptors,
reminding
rewinding nature's spirited tao systems
of fine-feathered diametric regeneration.
The clock gnaws marrow from the bone,
Its hands are wolves in a quiet room.
I pace the halls of books like a penitent,
Collecting alphabets, equations, broken hymns—
Each one a splinter of fire to brand my palms.
Learning is a lantern, I tell myself,
But it burns both the pupil and the page.
Still, I drink the poison of knowledge,
Measure each drop with trembling fingers,
Because power without mercy is a blade in the dark.
Let the evil ones be caught in their own traps,
Sealed in jars, their whispers locked
Like moths in a museum drawer.
The good should hammer the lid shut—
And yet the shadows leak, they stain the air.
I scavenge disciplines the way crows hoard silver:
Philosophy, astronomy, anatomy,
A perpetual ladder built skyward, rung by rung.
The body sours, but the mind must not sleep,
Not while questions are hissing in the grass.
Don’t hate the players, hate the game—
But I see the board stained with red squares,
Pawns split open, queens reduced to ash.
Still, I move my piece forward.
Still, I mouth the rules until they cut my tongue.
Why are our lives so short?
Because the brain is a storm,
And storms cannot be persuaded to last.
'Tis nineseventeenPM!
On the balcony, in a rocking chair
In full twilight surrender
Savoring this wonderous time capsule
This moment of captivating tranquility
So soothing I wish It would freeze in time
Sweet nineseventeenPM!
Not quite my bedtime
But I know Morpheus will soon come calling
The wind out here whispering inconceivable secrets
To trees darker than the night sky
Crickets are chirping beneath the moon
Magical nineseventeenPM!
I wish for many more moments like this
Moths are darting about the lightbulb above me
Oh, what a night! I wish Asteria would appear before me
And strum her lyre under this twinkling
Canopy of innumerous twilight stars
So long, nineseventeenPM!
The nightjar that sings for me has flown away
I feel the arms of Morpheus enfolding me now
I don't want to fight my sleepy eyes
I intend to revisit you again at nineseventeenPM tomorrow
Glory the sky with even more stars!
Submitted for...
BRIAN'S SELECT B, Any Form, Any Theme Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 06/11/2020
nineseventeenPM Poetry Contest/Winner(6th Place)
Sponsored by: John Lawless
Date written and posted: 06/24/2018
Her heart was
whirling,
swirling,
twirling
inside the eye
of a
whirlwind,
so I
weaved words
to calm her rage,
because,
like an empathic eagle,
a poet is a
storm chaser,
unafraid of
human hurricanes.
A wordsmith word weaves
against windstorms,
decorating nebulous skies
with rainbow bridges,
kissing the warm balmy
neon glow of the sun,
softly soothing,
vivid vexations
through
intimate intrinsic artistry,
because,
a cloudless day
is a bandage wrapped...
Too tight.
Only a bard can
affectionately alliterate
the grip of grief,
as poetry can be the cure
to calm tempested trauma.
Ink is the mistress
to butterfly sentiments.
I will not stop the moths
from devouring you,
as long as they feed
on toxic thoughts.
I have made a home on the moon,
where stardust scribbles carry us to freedom.
Once again
the strength to rise early, escapes in fleeting suns.
The muscles
ache and flinch in pain as the humidity of the day breathes heavy.
The breaths
are an anguished struggle overcoming the fog of the mind.
The garden
still calls, reaching out to the very senses that imagined it in spring.
Chipmunks, rabbits, squirrels,
sparrows, cardinals, chickadees,titmouse, wrens and blue jays -
each come to visit, even an occasional hummingbird wings in,
and caterpillars and cabbage moths flutter by.
Life abounds
as August summer nears its end
like all of life
the living pace slows, less desperate, more willing and accepting.
These lonely years
reflect on what is now remembering what was then.
The years begin approaching winter
clinging only for a moment summer's end, inevitablility of autumn's fall.
We are not immortals
bodies succumbing to the wear and tare of time.
Some are given less
completing the tasks of life melded into the living journies.
Others take longer
needing to see, to hear, to learn the lessons of being here.
One day though
each and everyone must step through the door,
We move beyong this now
that encompassed every moment, every action, thought and heartbeat.
It is the soul
slipping through years of time anxious and longing to return home.
As August's summer comes
sweep away the memory of spring gathering in autumn's harvest
Winter waits.
A Certain Kind of Perfection
David J Walker
Unexpectedly
A certain kind of perfection
Lights the room
The kind of light that makes us
Lesser’s look like moths
Crashing into its fatal
burning surface
Unable
To fly away
Unable and Unstable
In thought and what to say
So you say the wrong thing anyway
And fly into the light
A certain kind of perfection
Appears only once in life
And goes away
Disappearing like a magnificent trick
Played out in Time Square
For everyone to see
Like New Year’s Eve
And everyone has come to
Watch the ball fall far
Away into a new year
And you are not there
To catch it
A certain kind of perfection
Is a fable
For those unable to live it
For those unable to be it
Unable to see it
Appearing once
Then fade away
Leaving you in awe of
A light that slipped though
Your fingers on
A day that will pass into the night