Long Shafts Poems
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Denizen of abyssal labyrinth,
legendary ancient Wyrm seeks succour
within prodigious sepulchral cavern:
her domicile for an ageless lifetime.
Ethereal shafts cascade through ceiling's
stochastic rifts, piercing tenebrous tomb;
vicious viscous scarlet smears juxtapose
against shimmering iridescent scales.
Aeons past, Faustian pact formed with Man:
vow of harmonious co-existence
exchanged for fulgurant falchion forged in
the heart of dragonflame's conflagration.
Sacred covenant shattered this night by
myriad ironclad interlopers;
ruination's harbinger was strident
warrior wielding token of treaty.
Last vestiges of cacophonous roar
dissipate into the Stygian depths;
acrid stench of brimstone clogs the air as
remnants of vitriolic pyres linger.
Twin gargantuan fibrous wings contract
behind enormous muscular torso;
fulgurating talons sluggishly sheaved
as serpentine tail shudders and falls limp.
Priceless metals and prismatic gemstones
intersperse with charred and twisted corpses;
amongst detritus of mortal conflict,
majestic titan finally crumples.
Massive lurid yellow orbs exhibit
an unfathomable intelligence;
succumbing to the inevitable,
moribund colossus bows forlorn head.
Lifemate butchered by zealous paladin;
remains of final clutch just motes on breeze.
Burden borne by solitary relict:
regal behemoth was last of her kind...
----------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 25th April 2017
Free verse, no meter, no rhymes - as per contest rules.
10 syllables on every line (howmanysyllables.com)
For the contest entitled "A Mythical Creature" sponsored by Julia Ward.
Shut your doors and lock them all
Close your blinds, block out the light
Cast yourself into darkness
Hide from the light of truth
Sit down, relax, let the sounds of your world crumbling
Echo through the vastness
Music to your ears
Dust swirls across shafts of brightness,
Seeping through the blinds
Would you care for a drink?
Tears in a cup of tinted glass
Quite the delicacy
The earth starts to groan
Convulsions
The tattered wooden walls crack
Slowly exposing the outside
The world beyond your walls
Comfortable?
Is there anything else your heart desires?
Roof tiles and bent nails fall on the hard ground just outside
Casting flickering shadows as they plummet past the windows
Glass now shattered, blinds torn
Close your eyes, let your heart slow its pace
Breathe in deep… slow…
Beams buckle and walls crumble
Light floods in
Cold
Dry air
All is laid to waste
Amidst the ruins, in a vast expanse
Of hard-packed dirt
Not a stone in sight
Only emptiness
Under a graying sky and a waning sun
Your check,
That'll be two hearts plus tax
Have a nice day
The Galilean sun smiled down
upon the dusty little town
and lingered o'er one humble spot,
a peasant's home and modest shop.
Long shafts of light fell 'cross the door
to lay bright carpets on the floor
where children played in perfect peace
about the shop. Their joy increased
each time they caught a glimpse of Him,
the carpenter who worked within.
His face was gentle, eyes were kind;
and as He worked, He did not mind
their ceaseless chatter, endless play
nor did He find them in His way.
Their laughter rippled round the room;
they scattered sawdust with a broom.
the wood chips falling at His feet
became for them a fishing fleet
or beds and chairs for little dolls,
a manger or a cattle stall.
Surrounded by the commonplace;
and yet, uncommon was the grace
with which He faced each daily task
as if all Heaven lay in His grasp.
A carpenter He was by trade;
the wood responded, unafraid.
beneath His hands each piece was formed
into an object to perform
some deed of usefulness or skill,
the needs of men to fitly fill.
Precise He was in all His craft
from oxen yoke to shepherd's staff
to couches for a nobleman;
he was a careful artisan.
Each part was polished, sanded, ground;
no painful splinters could be found
to pierce the flesh of those who bought
the items fashioned in His ship.
There wood was sacrificed for man
beneath its own Creator's hands.
Does it seem strange that He would die,
suspended between earth and sky,
upon two rugged beams of wood,
this carpenter whose work was good?
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
And we measure the action of the animal by various sticks..
And trees change over time, growing tall exerting their force in a time all it's own
Branches snap and fall and become sagging, soggy moist fodder for microcosmic universes,
and the maple burns itself away
Come to their demise decompose and become the forest floor debris
Now which magnificent 'birds of prey' soar over and swoop down into,
to clutch their prey
Wings thrumming like a heart beat 'lub-dub' as their talons send the tree debris flying
stirring motes of dust that scintillate in random sunbeams that illuminate grey shafts of sunlight in bar-codes across the forest...
Dry silence is broken by the sound of a soul when it's over stricken with awe
And in the wilderness, beast tear apart their prey leaving only bits of evidence of their existence
And time means nothing to to this terrestrial drama.
'Twas the night before Christmas at the North Pole.
Santa paced to and fro contemplating his role.
Things were in disarray and Mz Claus was on his case,
Chiding him about working just one day a year was a disgrace!
He'd been doing his routine for two-hundred years or so,
And wanted to retire to the South Pole and take it slow!
His reindeer were getting old and fat and slowing down,
Especially Rudolph, the red-nosed one, of world renown!
The shafts and runners on his sleigh needed much repair.
Dealing with his slothful elves left him in deep despair!
They went on strike and there were few toys on the shelves.
Kids might have to go to Walmart for toys, fending for themselves!
He tired of kids peeing on his lap during whimpering interviews,
And getting stuck and rumpling his suit in all those sooty flues!
He was getting fed up with the usual snacks of cookies and milk;
Santa much preferred salami and cheese or something of that ilk.
Due to climate change, the Pole was thawing, adding to his woes.
All too soon his whole operation could be afloat on Arctic floes!
But despite his problems Santa saddled his cranky but faithful deer,
Determined to visit each girl and boy to deliver joy and good cheer!
Entry for Joseph May's "The Night Before" Contest
(22 November 2019)
Placed No. 3 in the contest
Touch of the Spirit
Touched by this unseen breath
That hovered over a shapeless abyss
My understanding
Stretches - reaching for
This tantalizing scent of divinity
And a fluttering touch
This dove of prophetic mystery.
Cravings carved from aspirations
Foreshadow an anointed reverie
When musings beget beatitudes
Like a sigh rustling leaves
Restless perfection ascends
On amazing wings
From a fire that never burns
To trace a silhouette
Of elusive answers
Coming into focus
For my near-sighted eyes
On shafts of newborn light.
The unselfish redeeming heart
Descends in loving nudges
Of hallowed serendipity
Planting seeds of whimsy
Possibility
From contemplation
Freed from judgements
And twirling paths of tarnished opinions
Intentional inspiration
Flows from fleshless wind and fire
Like an irresistible sneeze
To foreshadow resolutions
Glimmering through far off mists
Where notes wait for me
Words clamor to speak rhymes
Colors step forward from shadows
Begging for artistry
Laboring for birth.
Touched by this breathless sigh of longing
Only visible
In the alluring aromas of the divine
My timeworn steps of a threadbare dance
Fall away
Pulled into perfect synchronization
By an ever gracious goodness
Reason fades into faith
Uniting me with love
Beloved teacher, divine star.
.
Gentling verses, like softly spoken dawns,
Pour out rhythms, releasing hungers,
Stirring hearts to breathe, restoring hopes,
Prayerful moments trembling,
Echoing, glistening shafts of heated praises,
Mysteries in shadows, embracing – erasing
Shades of inspiration, focusing on joys
Alive like the dancing winds, traipsing
Through autumn, leaves crisp and light – waltzing
Colors – boldest scarlet, tangerine and gold,
Laughing whispers who respond to the skies
Rich with cerulean grace, risking the lazuline lines
In attractive fogs, mists rising over the mountains
Where memories blur the past with now,
Lighting the way for passions to cry out…
Inside the wall of pines, which could tell of so much more
Than memories could hold, more laughter,
More love, more entreaties to God who knows us
Like the ordinary groanings, who release burdens
Too heavy for souls, too difficult for moments when
Blessings rain down through the tears,
Liquid prayers, alive with feelings and fears,
Enemies of perfection but best friends with relinquishment,
Fulfilling wishes, bold and pleasant as the stars
Winking at the moon, holding burdens too heavy
With inklings of fiery melodies, tender
Like the noon when bees travel from rose to lily,
Milking the nectar, fostering frames – tiny
Gospels told by those who remember the sting,
Singing through the song, revealing
Purpose in the hurt, when the tingle – the throbbing
Inspires light to fade, weakening, dying …
Insipid, gushing, rhapsodizing a night when stars hide,
Exposing the naked truth – just like the sun
Who births light and reveals every new dawn, baring
With it – a beautiful far more soothing than the moon’s,
A beautiful that abides in the new day, the new smile,
The newness of a hope, a prayer, a dream…
Releasing vanilla sighs to signal the moon
That, yes, oh yes…
It is time for rest, time to test the skies
Who are eternally blessed with God’s wondrous light!
of mice an men aye n'er doth quit
dialing countless times google
fascinating to this human caboodle ling kit upon porcelain goddess,
most brilliant ideas congeal in me mind, and thou' loo pee did lit
this sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
soon after traipses superhighway road viz imagination
fired with fleeting thoughts that hit
sweet soft spot futilely attempt to net ideas in me mind flit
i yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves magically con verse
interleaving like boughs of - arbor shielding this solitary soul
wherein shafts of sunlight dapple cerebral canopy
affecting dark shadows at the edge of night to disperse
from outer limits of the twilight zone
ebbing and flowing in tandem & nsync
with circadian metronome this trolling
troubadour lost in space transformed
into edenic serenade from Mother Nature
while unseen terrestrial oeuvre
reassures don’t fear the reaper’s scythe silent curse.
Form:
Perhaps apples were fewer in the bowl
Perhaps you needed still further tints
Whatever I emptied my whole almirah
Nothing was left in the blood and flesh
It was a dream we started from
Doesn't dream lead us to reality
Then what for our desire for the froths of sleep
Dream trees steeped in red round grapes
A new gondola in a new creek
Desires for the sea only pursuit
Breaking the waves with tremendous joy
New and newer islands of fulfillment
Perhaps I lacked gold and diamond
Or else why would you suddenly shift
To new shores of pink communication
To new shafts of unknown sunlight
Our thoughts are perhaps always partial
The kernel and further we cannot see
Initially both accommodated the anchor
Our ocean would conquer all mountains
Now we do feel the beginning was flawed
Your nucleus needed something beyond love
Was it a regression to the unappeased childhood
Was it some other fuel than just love
Okay my dear stay satisfied
With the new full moon and new autumn sun
Just keep careful of another darkness
That doesn't call for yet different rays
September 9, 2019
Sometimes love is not enough Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
You’d mind us kindly once again,
for our good health, and the wealth
of the nations.
You mean … you’ll mine us,
ours will be the running sweat,
the burning toil to unshutter the breathing vents,
drain the dark shafts, pump the carrying oil, then
back to work with bright canaries
strapped to the buckling back.
We’d sing our bowed-head, whistling songs
underground in the damp earth of memories,
where we’ll again be wed
under the stars of your crosses and banners,
our dry roots will knot like twisted longtime lovers.
The grand old parents left seawards so long ago
taking the deep gold and crown diamonds
with them, and we were left, lonely
children in the wilds to fight it out
with dusty dingoes and the lion prides.
Now the proud, younger lords return
to exact their blood inheritance, tax free.
A century of tomorrow’s sunsets
will see the grandchildren abandoned
on these seething shores, again to kindle
fires against hungry tigers and slinking panthers.
Show us the canary.