Long Skylights Poems
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I scan the horizon as I trounce the arid desert.
Brill trees and a trickling burn shape my stream.
To me, it's as if I'm showing God's entail I querist.
As away as I am aware, it is a magnificent dream.
Perhaps, Lord, late openings are to be unlock.
As well, I will fulfill all your vows around time.
The clay under my feet is starting to awake.
It's all aside You that you've grown grass sublime.
As I stray calmly amid the skylights.
I'll induce firm my deft hand grips Yours tightly.
My faith in You is vital, and I wish to highlights.
And long for the holy avowal of Your majesty.
I owe You, God, your unfathomable grace.
Much obliged for plunging me in your rife.
I may never be skilled to repay Your fairness.
But I'll behold to You till the ending of my life.
As I range You, God, with love, you bestow.
It has given me loftier reliance and ability.
My solitude and aridity will soon vary low.
And the lands and people's illness severity.
I beg You, Heavenly God, to relieve the way.
To strengthen the modest jewels of my soul
Much obliged, Lord, for setting my break day.
A blighted block of my moral being goal.
1ST PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 24, 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 30 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
I chance upon her
in the far reaches of the backyard,
a place I never go. There she trembles.
A tiny tiger, whose newborn eyes blur the world,
secreted in mother-scented-shadows
below blackthorn shrubs.
Faint mews draw me closer.
The power of her vulnerability
fills my veins with a ripple rising,
brimming me with a nectar needed,
like a dry stream bed restored by remedy rains.
How helpless she is with new eyes open.
Her eyes like skylights — clear
and filled with new-wild-blue innocence.
Neglected yet beautiful, I sense in her
the familiar phenomenon of the impulse to pulse.
Her outsized feistiness belying
such a petite package of plea and need
with teeny needle claws and barely a wisp of a hiss
...and I recall when I felt the fear
of being small and voiceless in a choiceless world.
Born a feral kitten, her mother likely lost
to speed-wheels of a car or snap-jaws of coyotes,
whose throats float steaming howls above black
saw-toothed pines to haunt the long night moon
...and I wonder, if she wonders,
if the sweet-milk-purrs with soft belly fur
will ever return to snuggle her.
She’s been cold and alone for far too long.
So I gather her in the hug of my hands
warming her as I draw her in and curl
my chest around her littleness.
A shield formed against her lone-ness.
...and I, a long-ago-child abandoned,
a child whose silent cries heard only by stoic walls,
reclaims a voice that helps me make a choice
not to let Nature decide how birth and fate collide.
So I sit with her, swaddle her, love her.
Nourish her with eye-dropper milk where
hearth embers still glow after the fire,
to heal the orphan and raise the phoenix within.
Moonlight tango
It was a Saturday night, in Buenos Aires, 10:30pm, to be exact. It was a hot summers night, and you could see, and feel, the steam rising from the cobblestone street, here in La Boca barrio*. This is where it all began over a hundred years ago, and you can still see pictures of tangos faded heroes of yesteryear hanging on the walls.
The tango hall was packed with caballeros* in their suits and suspenders, and the damas* dressed in their red dresses, and stiletto heels. Still feels like the roaring 20's fedora hats and all! With a glance, and a flick of his baton, the orchestra leader motions to the bandoneon* player to begin, and so he starts dum dum dum, dum dum, dum dum dum.
The men tilt their fedoras slightly to one side, and stride ever so elegantly across the hall to pick their partner, and together they glide over the black and white checkered marble tile dance floor. The moonlight filters through the skylights, illuminating the smokey haze, that permeates the Milonga* hall.
The dancers have their gazes fixed on each other, and they move and glide to the incessant syncopated rhythm of the bandoneon. The violins and cellos join in with their plucking sound matching the tempo of 2-4 time. The dancers are dancing chest to chest, and then cheek to cheek, moving and gyrating, in time to the beat. As the tempo picks up the pace, arms and legs entwine, and then separate and entwine again. Spinning and twirling, strutting and whirling, they dance into a frenzy, at a frenetic speed, all the while staring with a look of love, (or at least of passionate desire) and what else would you expect to see dancing the moonlight tango?
* La Boca barrio- downtown neighborhood where tango was born
*Caballero(s)-gentleman(men)
*Damas- Ladies
*Milonga- tango dance hall
*Bandoneon- Small accordion style instrument.
John Derek Hamilton
February 07,2017
One starry night lit up the skies
lighting the way for three wonderers
traveling where the snowy path lies.
Whistling winds howled fear to all.
Proudly a deer stood watching about
studying the travelers crying call.
Nowhere to go but forward
was the only answer for the trio.
Home appealed like a reward.
Far off one saw flashing rays
flickering in the night heavens
something not seen by day.
Oh holy night was calling a song
of peace on earth to all about
the wonderers gazed far and long.
A church stood in the faraway
with skylights shining ever bright
Carolers chanted in words of pray.
The echo of the music traveled away
one by one the trio joined the carol
singing Silent Night in a calm way.
When the hymn came to a pause,
all stood still in warmth of ecstasy
It is time for Christmas and Clause.
May the joy of the holiday night
bring happiness to all this season
and let all your wishes be right?
Goblins prance and dance beneath skylights;
Their contortions create shadows as they swirl.
Ghouls are disgusted by their cavorting and
go along their way;
searching for victims to terrify;
a game they relish.
Ghosts will have their say in the darkest night and
haunt children’s dreams.
Nightmares are where they meet to party.
On All Souls Eve, only the spirits of ancestors and
angels will stop these dream invaders;
monsters will run back into closets for safety;
keep the light on tonight;
souls are not the only celebrants.
In the clear light of morning,
candy swaps ensure comfort until next year.
9-21-18
Fiction - October 2018 Writing Challenge - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
If you’re very lucky, you may find
The type of handyman
Who can take care of the problems
That you now no longer can.
Climb a ladder to the roof? No prob -
It’s what he likes to do
And while up there, he will clean
The cloudy skylights, just for you.
Clogged up gutters? With some gloves
He’ll scoop out leaves and dirt and gunk,
Staying cheerful through it all.
(I know that I’d be in a funk.)
When he’s finished, he will lowball
What he thinks that you should pay.
Do you know of anybody else
Who’d act in that same way?
Handy Randy is this person
Who is capable and fair
And reliable and really nice,
These attributes so rare.
It is time to stray from the race.
Where life has a very slow pace.
The pines in the mountains are inviting.
Where the deer in the field look up when they were sighted,
The cool wind of autumn blows through the trees.
As the flowers are visited by buzzing bees.
The sun sets slowly displaying colorful skylights.
Where hues of blue and red bring forth twilight.
I am still watching this amazing and beautiful site.
I hear “My son, I have given you my life”
Stunned at the proclamation from my brother.
Yes Jesus, your garden planet is like no other.
As the sky above the mountains begin to clear.
The radiant light from the moon brings stars near.
Suddenly a shadow is cast as our brother of life.
The shadow starts to radiate light of pure white.
And he appears before me with outstretched arms.
Then I was embraced with love so warm,
My son, it’s time for you to come home,
Yes, you are with me and never alone.
Music practice,
when I was a wounded child,
felt too redundantly mundane,
yet never merely quite ordinary,
especially within a band
or chorus learning environment
For restoring spiritual
mental
natural health,
compassionately co-invested.
Later,
as an adult wounded child,
I repeated this same
redundantly mundane
Business As Not Quite Usual
multicultural community mediation practice
reassuring ritual
Especially within a sacred
indigenous
nonviolent nature/spirit communication
health optimizing Win/Win integral remuneration
expanding EarthJustice progress
processes not win/lose patriarchal culture
please get it off my chest
still struggling with capitalist questions
How do multi-mediating clients
harmonically co-invest?
Musicians musing EarthHealth remediations
feel free to sing out loud
our EarthMuse restoring inclinations
recycling dipolar co-arising precipitations
by winning outside GoldenRules
for cooperative muse
music camp vacation
ecotherapeutic anticipations
Left credible
theoretical
And Right awesomely
experiential
Together transubstantiating
integrity's potential synchronizing
principles of indigenous reverse
spirited nature bi-harmonizing
Natural music's symphony
enspiriting muse epiphany
extending back and forth
in and out
down and up
Left EarthPowers
and Right SkyLights
healing non-pathology
Dancing
RingSinging
nondualistic co-winging
Thoughts of Muses
feeling
moving
EarthSystemic Music.
I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
Wood's voices are loud, and the wind is weary.
It hurts and hurts as the fall leaves turn dreary.
On the saffron-robed eastern dark tally swarm.
Sheets dropped in a thin line from a massive storm.
November arrives, and a cool breeze follows.
Cheer meals and fireplaces are roaring bellow.
Warm passion beguiled the blizzard and brief days.
And December ushers in cool breezeways.
The sun had fallen, and the moon was nearing.
The dawn brings fresh vitality and jeering.
Lights wander into the night without remorse.
Skylights rejoice, and azure woven waves hoarse.
Winter winds sweep across during November.
It was the first snowfall I can remember.
At dawn, a mystical miasma peeks through.
A blade of grass has silvery drops of dew.
The sound of the rain is soft hum on the roof.
Tinkling against the glass window of my woof
Abet me figure out where the muse came from.
Both gentle and substantial rain seems to come.
Tenderly tethered snowflakes flutter downwind.
The realm of presence enters its dozing bind.
The land is fully coated in sparkling white.
Let's remain indoors, where it's nice and quiet.
Sounds and recollections are being consumed.
Dewdrops in the mornings of winter are doomed.
Unmet sorrow, your gaze snatched my breath away.
Winter winds obscure the sun's buoyant display.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: November 10, 2022
Checked by HMS.COM/11 syllables per line.
November or December Quatrain Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger