Long Sedately Poems
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My Bicycle of Imagination
The day and I are hand in hand,
brimming with a zippety-whippity-do.
I sit atop my saddle, my bicycle, my hill;
the morning mist is ragged like candy floss
on barbed wire, waggled fences.
Below a liquorice-tarmacked road
elbows through a mosaicked landscape;
churned fields sitting either side,
serrated into channels of earth;
suited and rooted in browned corduroy.
Then further on and along,
the sky sits sedately on the sea,
resting on a blue, rippled settee,
just out of close reach
of a mustard scarf of a beach.
Clouds rear - wild, white stallions;
they settle, then away at a gallop,
racing, chasing the prize in
the finishing line, the horizon.
Watch out, speedy swallow,
now, it’s my time to follow!!
I sense my bicycle’s stalled frustration,
so my body engine sets it free;
muscles tighten, pedals spin,
it’s time to fly, time to check in.
Off we go…wind pushing at my heels,
sunlight splashing off the wheels
down I swoop, a dance of balance;
the bike glides, the road slides.
Watch me come, watch me go
connecting, perfecting with nature’s flow;
sky, land and sea…………WEEEEEEEEEEE!
For me you’re designed, mesmeric scarred moon,
grace gleams in the convolute cradle of cyan night,
slithers in the silken sky I create for you,
a turquoise trail you trace in my heart incised.
Thunder cloud surges from the edge of stained night,
the debris of the splintered sky swathes me.
You retreat in the glare of anguish lightning,
searing the slivers of my fissured essence.
I travel in the tempest of strife,
serenade the broken notes of an unsung song,
in sync with the symphony of flawed passion,
making untuned melody in the snapped string of memory.
In the blemished visage of the veiled sun,
I paint on the scraped sensual canvas
your frail face with fragmentary fervor,
sedately smiling eyes sparkle my deranged dream.
On the charismatic canvas cracked,
my failing longing lingers in your effervescent eyes.
Etched in the invented lattice of patterned splendor,
your unsplit smile shimmers unspoilt.
Tea with Gran,her muffins supreme,
Bath and change and hair brylcreamed.
into town to the pub in the square,
our gang always met there.
Checking the football scores
in the Oxford 'green un'.
Trad jazz with Donegan,Bilk or Collier
or maybe the ballroom bacchanalia.
Skip,hip-hop or jive or more sedately
to the Friday Five.
A swift half of cider in the Bodega bar
sadlynone of us could afford a car.
Dropping a shilling in the snug juke
box,Haley and Elvis,then unorthodox.
Bought tickets for the coming live shows,
Cochrane,Cliff and Shadows.
Later, at the dance the last waltz about
to begin,if you were fancied ,it
showed in her coy grin.
Requesting a date took a little courage,
so glad my choice that day,led
to marriage.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
I could have danced all night!
We would have been a sight!
Rocking in the rocking chair room.
Across the room,
Almost out the door,
Keep on rocking,
There's always more!
As we sat in the rocking chair room.
No one knows the fun it is,
To sneak out at noon,
And spend an hour in the rocking chair room.
The women that watch us are out of sight,
Gone to lunch for a bite.
No one is near us,
In the rocking chair room.
Now we are sedately settling down.
The women who watch us,
Are all back from town.
Fire and ice
Paradoxes combine.
A battle. Fought tooth for tooth.
A truce held.
But still holds no truth.
A prisoner. Of pain and gore.
Of royal birth. But imprisoned by woe.
Satisfaction.a dire necessity,
Of the cruel and crude
Mundane mockery.
The jury. She decides.
Her majesty .So sedately revived.
Beauty. So invigorating.
Ravaged. And so very beaten.
Presumptuously, we surround and capture
Her copious territory,
In all its glory, almost divine.
Killing, mass murdering, and stabbing her.
Asphyxiated. She struggles to survive.
Serendipity .Such a marvelous delicacy.
So rare. And undefined.
Exquisitely .so gracefully.
She leads her mate. Amour in hand,
As she dances so playfully with venomous destiny.
A battle of blood, wit and more.
Tired, she wakes. Tired, she soars.
Through the sea of hate, malevolence and pain,
Through the bloody field,
Walking through hordes of heads, feet and stacked bones.
Nature, as violent as she may seem,
Neutral, loving...breathing pure felicity.
Ragged, and broken, torn and distraught,
With fervor she retreats,
And with fervor, shall she retort.
by
Amanda M Miller
Form:
Apocalypse Beans
Sometimes it seems
your chest is about to cave in.
You try to catch a breath but
your heart flutters like a dry leaf;
Just more suburban undulations;
Dressed down for a slow blues song.
Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire.
Life has such trying interludes,
when it seems you can’t go further.
You are so tired and scared,
you can hardly urinate at dawn.
Your mind begins to see
air movies of the dead ascending;
Crawling out of cracked tombs
dressed sedately for the soirée.
A million funerals go by with
skeleton girls sucking on pixy stix.
Madness angels in garters pass over
sleeping streets searching for blood trees.
Stallion-dressed men-dogs chase down
old octogenarians for bones and wisdom teeth.
Fear worms from hell come slinking,
Oozing out of a million eye sockets,
Sucking blood and brains sifting
through transparent wires attached
to rubber-hosed machines in musty rooms.
A million funerals moan inside the old graveyard
adjacent the First Methodist confines.
Gum-chewing embalmers gather
to sing a torch song to the driveling and the dying.
Sometimes it seems
I can hear the female choirs singing,
their high-pitched Latin refrains again.
They stand erect in the choir loft fingering missals.
The young girls up there,
wear choir togs and slithering plaid beanies.
They read the notes and eye the glowing boys below.
Jesus and the stained glass ghosts look up from earth.
Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire.
Their cackle reamed with burning forget-me-nots.
Morning Gradually Gives Voice
The morning has woken sedately,
soft as a whisper, it tiptoes around
the tall, narrow waisted house,
encouraging a slight slip of a breeze
to tease and giggle in trying to push it over.
Above, the polished porcelain sky
appears delighted with its early spring clean
while the sun swims nonchalantly into position.
Near at hand, the clinging, coastal road
has been brush stroked onto the landscape
and now tape measures itself into the distance;
there outlying hills appear to have been dug up overnight,
reimagined, they shyly cloak themselves in purpled heather.
In the garden, shivering trees stand like coat hooks
set at different heights, awaiting spring's green foliage
while sprouting flowers huddle in friendship groups
knowing their colours will soon be switched on.
Big Boss, the large oak, overlooks each and every,
standing eloquently in its settled silence.
All feel its presence radiating reliability;
strength of heart, truthfulness of trunk.
The morning gradually gives voice,
birds scribbling their melodic morning songs
to drift through an obliging crack of window.
Unfortunately, mondain thoughts knock at my door
and sadly…. they find me at home!
I crustily rise and move towards the window,
stepping back as a slate tumbles from the roof,
turning into a pigeon, off on a food flight
while in the dappled distance,
a train stretches for a destination;
a marriage of carriages chattering along
forcing a hare to panic the long weave of grass,
bulleting its energy into the embracive vista.
Ian Souter
You were the mesmeric moon for me,
gleaming in the cradle of the argentine night,
slithered in the silken sky I called mine,
a turquoise trail you traced in my heart.
Thunder clouds surged from the edge of night,
the debris of the splintered sky swathed me.
I saw you retreat through the glare of anguish lightning,
searing the strewn fragments of my cracked heart.
In the resplendent hours of the rising sun,
I painted with fervent fervor,
on the blank canvas of my mind, your flushing face,
sedately smiling, the eyes sparkling with my dream.
I travelled through the tempest of tough times,
that destroyed everything I made,
but arose from the ruins, retrieved the painting
from the recess of the mangled memory.
Your unsplit smile was saved with all its splendor,
my yearning shined in your eyes as ever,
devoid of ravaging sign the stroke of time inflicts,
although I found the canvas cracked.
_______________
March 6, 2023
Contest : Cracked
Sponsored by : Anthony Biaanco
Ain't nothin' like a steamin' cup o' coffee to greet the early morn.
It'll calm yer nerves and git you goin' just as sure as you wuz born!
With mixin's added to suit yer taste, it must be scaldin' hot,
Decaf, regular, chicory-strong or mild, it really matters not!
Some folks prefer a styrofoam cup, others a massive mug,
But those proffer an indelicate way to down a gulpin' slug.
Others, a dainty cup and saucer, pinkie sedately bent,
Sippin' delicately so social faux pas one is sure to prevent!
I hear it ain't acceptable to dunk a donut in yer mug o' java,
Or pour coffee in a saucer to cool, tho' it's hot as flowin' lava.
But I ain't concerned about it bein' a great big social blunder,
As folks disdainfully stare at me as if I wuz some alien wonder!
Docs debate the merits of caffeine, whether it's healthy or not.
Let 'em bicker, I'll decide what to percolate in my coffee pot!
My dear old Dad had his daily caffeine fix, livin' 'til ninety-four.
I've done the same fer years and I'm approachin' nigh four-score!
Nowadays, fancy concoctions are brewed for the discernin' taste;
Expresso, mocha, cappuccino, even Irish whiskey laced!
Such exotic ambrosia to others I'll graciously defer.
I'll keep on slurpin' an ordinary cop 'o joe, which I much prefer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
o beau papillon
~ o beautiful butterfly,
Have you whilom explored the inselberg,
To descry its allure,
And its rillets surge,
To see the coruscating sun,
And the meadows hushed afar,
The zephyr whisking leisurely,
Or the bodach with his old guitar,
Have you at all espy the sapphire sky,
And the clouds that move sedately,
Peered inside the fathomless dale,
And discovered the linn falling indistinctly,
O beautiful butterfly,
Have you at all seen the winsome nature,
And felt totally satisfied,
To realise that life is just an unforeseen adventure.