Long Sidles Poems
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END TIMES : TWO
End time dramas continue
to unfold as foretold
tribes of Judah and
Gad united in ether
descending conspiring
to pull Matrix strings
across rooms boom
death Will hidden
documents forged
a trigger activates
illicit action
Centre remains perfection
resurrection
Claim no marriage for
money honeyed
both are paper thin
dust speckled dragonflies
glide into geraniums cry
Truth mourns
hen-chicken ferns
hush murky tears
car ignition fear
burns
Pain has nowhere to
pulse but deep within
stealth sidles sleep
jealousies bleep
forever laced in viral
lanced cellular haste
Antares and Arcturus
watch spiritual warriors
discuss hush actions
gush
Clothed in black head
to toe racing an Audi
making it glow, split
second disappearance
Light sees ass twitch
seeking protection from
words rained in past
reflections
Outgrown forms collapse
to usher in cycles of
initiatory synapse
What is this past anyway ?
Another man’s download
in a desert of dialectic
redemption fast
These end times hold
keys to Uruz strength
so wrenching deep
mouldy ceilings weep
glass teapot aches
growth changes rune
stone answers fake
Passages of Dark part
once again decay
death fertilization
gestation rebirth
this is progression
as mirth
Then Melchedzidek spoke
in cloak to Sham’s Forty
Rules of Love inked across
my marked forehead
mint plant pegged
ancient fern atop torn
garden statue stern
Who will take the
Leap of Faith leaving
to proclaim missions
without a fission
Spiritual warriors know
their inner laws when
writ in cursive upon
open doors
they care not when
orders to leave
fly thick and fast
not cheap
Miners died in vain cold
digging for gold sold to
adorn Draco throats torn
glistening gloat
forms dying disguised
as boss lost tossed
we know no collapse
will not be flossed
our timing spot
on glossed
We live life potent
respected radical
transition
seize a moment
seen the vision !
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2025
A young woman sits alone
silently weeping on the bus
like a flower
prettily wilted
against the windowpane
So he sidles over
in that funny way he has
so British and proper
buttoned up tight
sits next to her, leaning over
and confidingly says
“I’m sittin’ next
to the Most Beautiful
girl in the world!”
No pickup or come-on here
only innocent opinion
stated matter-of-fact
like a little child
“Not like” she mutters
and instantly regrets it
without looking she can feel
the bewildered hurt
upon his face
So they sit in silence
the rest of the ride
side by side
hot shame flowing down her face
calm confusion clouding his
Some time later
he steals her hand
insistently says- “I am!”
And swallowing hard
she squeezes his hand
wordlessly leaving
the Most Beautiful man
“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills,
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien
_____________________________
Place of Redemption is Darkness
unpetalling - - solace space unfolding
I sail drowsy dim seas without boat
or oars, conversing with walrus, whales
treading liquid tar silent, unseen
in distance a dog barks as I empty
bladder into ocean
underwater cables run fire
Darkness, Cloak of Protection
alchemy distilling gross, grime, goo
a thousand fingers unfelt sew broken
pieces of Life, loosen hooks, nooses
Angels of Death appear, wings
midnight blue, gathering loose threads
snapped nerves, false cues
I hear a night ‘plane flying passion
Here Crow visits sea darkly shining
untouching cast charming spells with
silent cymbals, unscathed holds sound
I covet cup of cold black coffee, unsmelt
swarthy, spilling on night waters —
hiding eels, oysters find their feeds
blankets have no feel, weave
unraveling, I perceive spindles
Coelacanth swim inquisitive incognito
individuated spirits shine poking
examine my tired flesh, as velvet
phantoms we attune to F o r e v e r
black cat runs sky, corrugated quarks
shatter moon smiles, its rock tumbling
rays on rippling nipples, navel upturned
circles spiral gene keys like piano notes
Place of Attunement is Darkness
no stagnation or pothole sidles, earthling placards, test tubes or empathy labels
shimmering umbra behind stars fall
dust upon midnight water smooth
gloom to-fro about unpaid karma
prison cell was scribbled with charcoal
I shout my name, nobody hears or cares
Humming, droning, buzzing black
holes beckon like blackboards with
light language — I recognise Cosmic
sound activating Heart, fall deeper into
b l a c k o u t __>>>
alpha kisses omega as breath leaves
returning in baby gurgles upon a
Bermuda Triangle ~ dog sniffs backyard
Darkness ignites laughter untasted
observing I pay Tolkien tribute, tinkling
___________________________________
GOLD Placement Poem : Allpoetry
May 26 : Prompt :
What may you find in Darkness |
Confirm no AI
Third Placement: Premier
Sponsor : Seth Pina : May : Your Favourite
Ecology, Humanity, Me, & Tea
A fox at the altar.
Bee nests to seek before light.
A rabbit where the fox’d trot.
(Foxes have only ever trot. Perhaps fast, or nimbly, or slow - they do not walk.
They do not run.)
Morning flies...
And the sun is slow to rise.
The clouds are only a smidge more awake than I.
Sleep-rolling by.
A duck flies, no tumbles, no whazzles past.
No more gainly than when waddling on sod.
Morning hawks take to the barest of first updrafts;
rising like mists on the lake where dragonflys slowly
flex their diaphanous gemstone wings. The ones who
keep as captor the rainbows from the last day’s thunderstorm.
A frog {Maybe toad. [Probably frog.]} somewhere in the pottery.
Awaiting the repottery of potted plants, themselves awaiting the
heat of day and breeze’s gift of sway. Hiding in the repository of pottery;
perhaps in rainwater held in temporary reservoir - a feast for frog, a womb
for gnats...this believing squeak-croaking, near-whistling frog calls out in love -
or something very much like it. From the dark. Not near at all to kindred souls.
At even the odd hours I hear it call. Her call? His call? The call we all...make.
Know.
Offer.
Await.
The barn cat, asleep, misses it all.
And misses none of it.
Soon he sidles up.
In need of scritches and time with.
The tea cools, the leaves unfurl.
The tannins dye.
The world wakes.
The lupine at the altar try their hand at purple.
No goose today.
The sibling blue pines put one in minds...
of poetry. And work awaiting.
Written: August 4, 2026 for a contest by Silent One
Quote: "All opposites unite, All that is profane becomes sacred again." By Rumi.
******************
I move through the dusk
where the air feels half-holy, half-feral—
a thin-veined shimmer
trembling between grace and grit.
Some nights, the mind cleaves
like a slow-burn seedpod,
one part stretching skyward,
one part anchoring in dark loam
where old impulses hush and hear.
A drumbeat in that place—
A firm, orotund thrum
like aureole tracing archaeology of rust
like a breath caught
at the threshold of ardor and augury
I've felt the infinite in finite foofaraw
a faint flare of a fancy
that flouts all fetters
the way a memory falters
and still summons song.
the way serendipity sidles sunward
And sails, steers by secret stars
And I've peered past the profane.
in the pellucid, pearl-lit moments:
a misshaped munificence of misery
a molded by mourning mercy,
a trembling truth that teeters
but never topples.
Both breathe beneath—
the balm and the bruise
the straight line and the stumble,
the silence and the thunder.
I walk with them
as if they were twin shadows
weaving at my heels,
each whispering
its untamed vision
of what I might become.
Boosted immunity is an aim for us all
Like most, I have a rattling compartment
Where selection of supplements offer
Ongoing trip, ship of health embarked
My eight year old angel of exuberance
Sidles beside me for her citrus share
When she hears vitamin bottles tinkling
Chasing crisp vitamin C's sparkling flair
Sherbert fizz raphsody rests on her palm
Envelope of appreciation wraps me neatly
" There's lots of of Vitamin L for you," impromptu joke
" Vitamin Love" instant grin returns sweetly
10th August 2020
Submitted in: Any Form, Any Theme 20
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Sh!
Don’t tell anyone; it’s a secret.
Suddenly the hidden Poetry Market became desirable to share.
Only real poets are invited, I confide.
I wrote a poem once, she whispers, when I was eight.
Another poet who was supposed to be in the secret sidles up to my left ear and hisses, “You
Aren’t telling him about….” Making me jump.
Of course not, I say, indignantly, ashamed and astonished to be caught.
My ears are hot. Deceit is written all over my face, especially between my nose and my eyes.
Hissing Poet glares at me. “I know you are telling people,” she says. My T-zone is red, pointing like an arrow to my deceiving heart that has violated another’s confidence.
The more secretive the Poetry Market was portrayed, the more appealing it was to mention it, to a select few. It’s not like I’m telling everybody! I justify to myself. Myself scoffs.
My face turns a hard right. Whisper. Whisper. I see someone point. One laughs. They look at me and laugh again. Are they whispering about me? I don’t even know them!
It’s strange but the more secretive the Poetry Market was portrayed, the more desirable it was to break this not-so-smartly-earned-confidence. We were all told not to tell!
I see another in-the-know poet share the location through a secretive language, sign.
I run up to her to point out this violation of trust.
The irony is not wasted on her.
My reputation has preceded me.
Using her finger as an arrow, she points to directions I had written down on a yellow post it note.
It was lying at my feet, in my tell-tale writing.
The next time the coven decides to build a secret market for poets, I would appreciate being
Left out of it.
This is simply too disturbing!
Bella's entrancing green eyes
stare wistfully into my own.
She's a windowsill jumper, bounding with grace
whose taken over my apartment as if it's her place.
She's such a pretty little kitty, a catnip dancer
who seems to see herself as a feline, divine.
She charmed me on the day I found her
but as a rescue, she needed time to come to me.
I know this is where she was meant to be.
Sweet girl with a history that remains a mystery
She never meows with sass when corrected,
and her purrs are soothing whispers in the night.
Bella brings me hours of great joy
so, I reward her loyalty with a toy or two.
Wearing a long-haired burnt umber coat,
she sidles up to me, anticipating a petting.
Bella bestows love that I'll not be forgetting
A lap-curler when she chooses to be social
but aloof which proves the theory to me...
'Sometimes cats just like being left alone.'
==================================
The widow, dressed in glossy black,
glides from the shadows at the back.
A veil lies slack across her face
to mask the grief her features lack.
Possessed of an insectile grace,
she sidles to the open case
and like the reptile smile she bares,
this too, serves to defile the place.
Since jealousy insures she cares
less for his death than for her shares,
obsession next finds her engrossed
in leaving with the gold he wears.
A parasite, she'll man her post
and feed from this depleted host
'til she believes she's bled the most
she can from his departed ghost.
==========================
There is this bunny, you see
Who lives right next door to me
I haven't figured out her/his pronoun yet
But I can tell that he/she would make a grand pet
What I find cute about the bunny is this
It hasn't yet learned how to kiss
This morning it sidles up to a cat
And puckers up its lips oh-so-fat
But it closes its eyes, then Surprise!
The cat slips away, it falls and ---
Now, why would you think I'd write 'dies'
What kind of 'grand pet' is a dead bunny
Especially one you can't kiss
And can't tell if it's Mr. or Ms...
Well, sure hope I've made your day sunny
Even if there's no playboy in the bunny