Long Powdery Poems
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Do you beleive in: Horsorima?
Why are you speaking this to me?
Huh-huh: do the Gods of Heremes
frighten you: or have your religous
zealoity find you beyond such mortal
myths? Speak your words might they be
spoken: who's to say whether they have fallen on deaf ears or not.
Yesterday in the city of Groafpain a woman was standing with her husband
in the front of a bridal shop: waiting for both future bride and groom
to finsh there goown and tuexdo fitting. When they were about to eave the store
a dark powdery myst formed behind the father
and in a snap of the finger he and the black myst disappeared.
He was sitting on the couch when the family arrived home. TV cameras caught the hold ordeal.
It's beleived he is a shapeshifter from Hoboaira. It is beleived that men who have lusted after
certain women develop this condiition.
They are proned to changing there shapes and telleportation.It is a curse for marring under certain signs. So they would have you to beleive. I on the other hand no the truth of why they are shapeshifters.They are from Mars. They are ancesters to
the germs bought back from Mars during the Martian Sample Retrieval. It is believed that they infected the guts and intestates of humans. And were worms in stool. They became wasp-like creatures. and infected people and used there dna to clone themselves into human like beings.
When we awoke at 4:30 this morning to a cool 52 degrees.
We needed to get an early start for the drive to Lake Louise.
If you listen you can hear the echoes of the indigenous people
because still floating on the breeze are their dreams, their hopes, their wishes…
and you can hear their voices echoing the name they gave this water…
’Ho-run-num-nay’…which means Lake of the little fishes.
I’ve no doubt those little fishes were important to their survival
their existence…to their life…
So iI find it sad the Governor General of Canada named this lake Louise
after Queen Victoria’s 4th daughter…who also happened to be his wife.
Still…we knew form everything we’ve read…and from what our friends have told us too
we had to visit Lake Louise…to experience her hues of green and blue.
And it was everything we heard it would be…from all those who came before.
From the minute we turned our attention to the lake…it was everything…and more.
We arrived in time to see the sun rise…a truly magical scene..
As we watched the sun slowly paint her mountains
while turning her lake from blue to green.
You see…the glacier on the mountain crushes rock into a powdery flour
some of it is deposited on the bottom…some is still floating in between
and as those particles are absorbed by the sun it changes the lake from blue to green.
As you watch this bit of nature’s magic…you’re in for a surprise…
because this transformation is taking place right before your eyes!.
I wish they’d kept the name Lake of The Little Fishes
I think it has more meaning…more symbolism…more symmetry…
but knowing this Lake of the little fishes…
by any other name…
It is still a beautiful sight to see
Nestling upon the snow, puss peeks over the soft
dusty snow, as sparkling snowflake spiral and fall
upon her long fur sending her spirits aloft.
She has the most expressive face and yet so small,
her bright emerald eyes look up while the wind whipped
dusty snow, as sparkling snowflake spiral and fall.
Puss white downy fur was hard to see as she dipped
a labyrinth path around the powdery fluff,
her bright emerald eyes look up while the wind whipped.
Puss breasted the numbing air with breath of white puffs.
Wind swooshes through with an intent chill as it jests
a labyrinth path around the powdery fluff.
Thrilled of first falling snow she frolics in more quests.
Trailing behind a thread of white from bush and tree
wind swooshes through with an intent chill as it jests.
Puss dashes out to the backyard so she may see.
Nestling upon the snow, puss peeks over the soft
trailing behind a thread of white from bush and tree
upon her long fur sending her spirits aloft.
11/21/2017
12 syllable count
It's Friday, yay! The final weekday of my academic immurement.
On Friday nights we go out - we’re up late - so late that it’s early,
but it’s ok, we’re young and dumb.
But if you think you’ll find me sleeping in on a Saturday morning - you’d be wrong.
On the weekends, the richest part of Paris mornings involve neighborhood street-life - which are invitations to sensory abundance - and it all happens before lunchtime.
The sensorial joys of the “sun-south” flower market stalls, overflowing with fresh lavender, peonies and powdery-sweet Violet blooms - tulips from Holland and roses from Kenya - that cool the air with fresh fragrances compete and mingle with savory baking aromas from local boulangeries (bakeries).
The dueling scents define mornings in the Marais (ivy-clad streets) or along the Seine.
Hit the snooze button and you can miss it (and trust me, napping later can be fun).
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
under the milky way by the church
It was a dark hole
into an Aladdin's cave of old tools.
A small window
gave the only light and fell
on a rough sawn bench wearing
scars inflicted by years of use.
Saw cuts, drill holes
and the miscued gouges
of chisels had crusted to
dark scabs. Oil stains blotched
the surface like age spots.
Reclaimed tin beaten flat
on an anvil length of railway line
covered the walls in a mosaic
of odd shapes glazed
in powdery rust. The floor
was hardened clay compacted
over decades by a pair
of shuffling boots.
It seemed almost a holy place,
a grotto cut into a life to house
precious things a man valued
back then. Tools bore a sanctity,
a purity of purpose,
the blessed instruments
of a craftsman kept
and looked after for life.
Some were venerated relics
passed down by generations.
I closed the door,
leaving the cobweb draped
silence intact.
Soon to be demolished,
its contents will be thrown
into bargain boxes
at the local trash and treasure.
Sad how the age bundles up
and dumps the holy
to feed an empty core.
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
Oh, how I love staring up at the ethereal radiance of the moon,
resting against the endless onyx-black sky.
Her magical and mystical pearlescent glow is cast upon me,
I am delivered from my darkness—
I am shielded from my shadows.
The moon‘s celestial veil captivates me,
enticing me with her enchanting aura;
Her enigmatic beauty and powerful magnetism mesmerizes me.
When she is in her full-phase, so large and luminous, she appears nearby,
as if there is only a short distance keeping her and I apart.
Oh, how I wish it was possible to journey to the moon,
and walk lingeringly among the cratered rocky debris and gray powdery dust.
I would cherish the utter silence and serenity of space around me,
while forgetting all the desolation and ruination of the world I had left behind.
a blindingly foggy day,
powdery wind blowing it's whistle
without cease.
out in the blizzard,
a man in his vehicle,
immobile in the deep snow.
he's plucked out
of the brutal mercy
of the winter storm.
seeking refuge
in a good samaritan's garage;
teeth chattering,
body trembling,
frequently shaking
frost-bitten hands;
hurricane of anguish
churning
at the pit of his stomach.
he's sipping hot cocoa
ah, relief!
Winter Storm Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
Date written: 1/4/2023
More poppies grow along the asphalt road
Where mankind once came then went away
Flowers don’t remember men because
Orange colored petals form like cups of tea
Primal stems built thick to hold the system up
Containing powdery pistils erect in solid black
Anther/filament merge to form perfection
Soft to the touch dressed up in wonder
Standing tall to nourish bees with nectar
So there are no thoughts worth thinking of again
Winds come gentle to make beauty genuflect
Thick and flexible they bend the knee today
Sunny days know no boundaries to life’s effect
To the sometimes comings and goings to death
But poppies forget everything once again
When they fall into a bed of roses fast asleep
The sun goes down, forgets to turn off the lights
Nature is not perfect but well worth the time it spent
With poppies when you come to think of it
Winter
Freezing winter nights
Falling, whirling white powdery delight
Falling from the dark night sky
A carpet of glistening sparkling white
Lovely forest dark and deep whirling pleasure
Dancing around the evergreens
I breathe crisp winter day
My breath rises in visible puffs
My eyes marveled at the dazzling whiteness
Falling snowflakes kiss my rosy cheeks
Bringing joy to my heart
Sigh ... As I sit around the fireplace
Cozy and warm sipping on steaming hot chocolate
Listening to the crackling fire
While
Outside
The sound of the wind and downy flakes dance and prance in the cold air
Falling, whirling white powdery delight
Falling from the dark night sky
11/14/2015