Long Skyline Poems
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I saw blue memoirs fell from momma's eyes, as she looked into my brown retinas. Swiftly she removed my medicated glasses, a dominant gene I carved out from papa's bottled eyes. "Oh! sorry D!," She whispered! "Its just a matter of time new sores become old sores and grow to mature into scars" she cried as she looked into my eyes. Eventide dawned upon us like golden mist as I was flown into the nurses moonlit; in a bird with twinkling red optical, double paired rubber legs, iron facials. The nurses at stand dished us mother care attention. Ice dangled in her eyes. Momma is smiling joy painfully at me. As I stole
a look at her brown embattled face, I pictured her retinas glued to drenches. The ice now fell from her eyes. With my octopus years, my feet has trod this egg shaped earth.
And the world seemed to pass so swiftly on me like a shutter's speed. I could see the skyline walking on the tightropes of my memories, like flashbacks in a cinema film, laying on
this medic bed. My belly could only be facing down while my electrified toasted back kissed the wind escaping in through the casement.---yak!!!!
And the only mirror I could have afforded to reflect my per boiled back is my momma's pair of brown camera eyes, but here they are ice dank. I thought. It could be fun and warmly, laying on the pressing iron, left on the bed in our unisex room, after long being used by aunt Lydia. I couldn't tell its degrees with my brownie eyes. But my steamed back did, so it kissed it metal surface---and here we are, " In a toast of roastful love,' underneath nurses moonlit with
my mauve skin.
And the needles! o no! I hated needles. Two prickles a day!, yahhhk! my bum bum like Evans rickety bike. I heard Evans my best pal crying along in the neighborhood, while I was being rushed into the medic bird. With his grey coloured panties, hung on his waist like tarzan.
He did be jerking bitterly. I and Evans jolly good mates had known each other since the neighborhood old. His curly dark hair, and owl eyes tells you he is indian...
An excerpt from my book " momma's camera eyes"
29/4/2022
Shattered,
A city skyline weeps within
Tendrils of the deep
A broken world, time's cruel grin.
The compass needle spins insane
Lost in a dreamscape's refrain
Echoes of what was
Whispers in the silent mist.
The sky bleeds into the labyrinth
A canvas of lives lived out fast
Words etched in stone
that haunts forevermore.
What Jagged maw, extends into eternity
titan broken, spilling gears of city, drowned.
Pieces and parts of a mortal tear
twist in the hollow of time
a nest of nightmares absent of rhyme.
A single, eye stares from the depths
reflecting a desolate shore, a skeletal horizon.
A monument to forgotten industry
in the machinery of despair.
Dreamscapes bleed.,
Tentacled secrets unfurl.
Time is bent and broken
Points on a compass unseen.
Is this rhythm or requiem?
An abyss stares back, unblinking.
We are both creators and destroyers,
Of oblivion.
Listen closely.
The silence unspoken.
When love visits me again, I will not feel like a burden.
I will take in every effort and see how deserving I am, see how worthy I am." — Rede Omowunmi
He felt the quintessence of pure sadness:
He cursed himself for his badness.
The wayward wind wailed within his grief.
Could he ever regain some gladness?
His body trembled like an aspen leaf.
His mind felt like waves smashing on a reef,
Billows flowed to the shore, white foam so fine.
In his heart, he felt a beat so brief.
The struggling sun hugged the western skyline.
He walked down the path, all lined with pine.
Found a chapel, a quiet place to stay.
She was kneeling. Will she be mine?
He brought her red roses just cut in May.
He knelt near her, though he could barely pray.
She looked at him, and she smiled happily.
To Our Lady, he offered her a spray.
I was an active, prominent architect, like fervent stars which race the sun,
Or exotic, summer flowers that bloom vibrantly, creating rapturous visions.
I'd wrought modernist skyscrapers, as huge trees lean into a bronze glaze,
On raspberry, latter days, quite lovely, when azure blue jays sing in praise.
I had designed homes and buildings, to the plumb delight of stylish people,
While satisfying the favorable environment, with novel, vivid colors, gleeful.
I had built homes for family members, the loved ones who made life sunlit,
Like magnificent avenues of autumn, wherein we bask before all colors flit.
Happily, my works were very popular, as current sweet songs of ruby birds,
At the purple, sunset time of fading skies, when lilac time flows backwards.
I dwelled in the house of the whimsical new, admired by casual passersby,
As clouds and gemmed landscapes are admired, by visitors to neon skies.
Neighbors wafted through visual colors, as rouge moon visits newborn sun,
Like hours spent visiting gaiety's garden, waiting for something to happen.
Torrid summer was in the cherry sunset, and green birds owned coral day,
And pink butterflies flew by the window, as gilt, molten time slipped away.
Juicy apricots were beginning to ripen, with their tangy, sweet savor of July,
When I saw several of my creations come to life, on the street, walking by.
I laughed to see the sudden swaying, to graceful, fluted music of the wind,
Like the smiling time of the evening, when seeing sun and moonlight blend.
They moved proudly upon the skyline, playfully frolicking, hues shimmering,
Like the earliest break of antique day, when newest truths start glimmering.
Mellow sunshine fell straight through the clouds, as the dancing slowly died,
Like the last day that a rainbow was glimpsed, on the day that nature cried.
And I had sensations of blind wonder, like the starry-eyed, dreaming night,
When the mighty ocean bellows its roar, in huge, full moon's powdery light.
I realized my buildings were alive, because of the people who dwelt there,
For people lent them color and spirit, as a medallion sun makes floral flair.
But they never again danced in daylight, nor in the sudden, purple twilight,
Yet, the rosy memory has never faded, like vibrant memories of moonlight!
Oh, my dear bride; how the years have unfolded before our eyes.
Remember way back then when we stood at the Buckingham Fountain?
Or took breathtaking moon-light views of the skyline from the Planetarium?
Or went for a drive through the windy city and later enjoyed a picnic in the park? Those were the days my love, those early days when like lightning, I was first struck by your love, and you set a flame in this heart of mine that until now, still burns.
For 50 years now, in good and bad times, we have been there for and with each other. No, I don't remember our first valentine in 1971 when I first learned that you were the one. No, I don't remember if I bought you a dozen roses or took you out to dine at a nice restaurant.
Yes, my dear, it's been 50 years, and I am certain that I must have asked you in the winter of 1971 to be my valentine. Yes, for these 50 years, in haste I say, that I have looked upon your beautiful face, felt the warmth of your embrace, and realized that it has been pure and undeserved grace.
Why, I'm certain your reply to 'being my valentine' was, "Yes". And away we went until yet again I asked for your hand in marriage, and you said, "Yes I will". Oh, my dear bride, 16 months later in a college town, we both stood together there in the sanctuary of God and said, "I do" in June of 1972,and until now, you are still my valentine.
020321PSCtest, ALL YOURS (Feb 14)', Brian Strand
in quietness of placid dream
cloak of darkness on hidden scars
slowly glows a sequestered stream
slowly departs from deserted streets
a moon in vista of soft warm light
as dewdrops blossom in tender tweets
music of heartbeats in faint skyline
light redeems slowly from another world
in flossy collage, calm colors entwine
a canvas splashes ambrosia of pink
purple and lilac in a golden ataraxis
sound and silence in perfect sync
morning stars hang up in a pallid yawn
light pulses slowly, meld in pastel dawn
yet another new day, waiting to be born.
Dated 19th February 2020
Sponsor Edward Ibeh
Contest Name Pick-A-Title, Vol 14 - Tristich
I walked the garden path holding all the intimate hands,
nurtured in the impermanent world the hope of durability
of me loved and belonged, and me owning and retaining.
Times changed, didn’t know why storm of dismay surged.
The garden got ravaged, the trodden flowers tarnished,
I now walk a lonely walk in the garden turned wasteland.
The crushed thoughts rise from debris in the void mind,
blankness drags dreams down to the edge of extinction.
With the submerging spent sun in my melancholic sky,
the twilight colors of my listless life slowly sink to oblivion,
night waits for my moon at the fringe of the hazy horizon
to ascend across the insurmountable span of the onyx rift.
The wisps of disappearing cloud tinged with fading hues
weave for me the fading tapestry of the departing day.
Behind the shroud of the nocturnal gloom my stars hide
beyond the edge of the immeasurable distressing gulf.
The dust of despair drizzles in darkened supine skyline
from the descending night enveloping the ebony future.
My mangled mind can’t recover the dwindled dreams,
lost in the unfathomable depth of the agonizing abyss.
In my splintered mind at the edge of hope I search,
discover the inner light showing the reality of reason
God has given me to subsist in this life so beautiful,
there’s no cause greater, no motive better than to live.
My fragile footprints fade in the threshold of ashen dusk,
as in lengthening shadow of obscurity I walk the last mile,
hoping to feel God’s grace in the rays of the new sunrise,
I stand too close to the edge of the unbridgeable chasm.
Now and here
Love sums bliss;
A sacred space
~~~~~~~~~
By koi pond
Aqueous surprise;
Lively zest colours
~~~~~~~~~
Old kung-fu master
Fluidly agile;
Pugilistic dance
~~~~~~~~~
Dawn sunshine
Stray birds sing;
Window ledge chorus
~~~~~~~~~
Busy streets
Winding into nightfall;
Moonlight lady
~~~~~~~~~
Chinatown buzz
Mid-autumn festival;
Tea and moon cakes
~~~~~~~~~
Hazy skyline
Smell of distant burning;
Choking sensations
~~~~~~~~~
Work on words
Haiku fragments curl;
Profound moments
~~~~~~~~~
Feel of moist air
Cool breeze signals;
Abrupt rain falls
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
11 September 2019
Singapore
Season of dream haze and arctic signpost.
Chill and chap brood whose scattered offspring plummet thermal values as welcome mat for “whiskered” chimney guest awash with bounty.
Thief of sun filled days without a twinge but those universal late December days rendezvous can’t be thrust off-course.
Primal raw wind howl dissing summer’s distant memory - spotty and erratic though it was.
Deck chair, seat of toil free bliss now cold front recess blob.
Mirage or wishful thinking from a wet weather veteran.
We live in fear of reruns like Ophelia or
2010’s black ice.
Storm Force Brian, Mount Fuji on an airwave shrapnel carrier.
Dormant Loch Ness shadow’s fervent air mass plugging festive tunes.
To fuel dispatch and chimney sweep alike a sacred windfall.
For those who struggle just another inroad on an ever
shrinking pocket.
Yet this annual curtain closer has its grail and saving grace.
Dark art charmer lacing every patch for knee high boot crunch.
Architect of igloo closet ski cap.
Sleigh ride bell upon that maligned feast around our globe (Noel hark the alpine carol)!
Bizarre but only to us frostbite souls aloof from glacial beauty.
Deep freeze spirit canvass may not surface.
Christmas anthems booming over frolic footfall streets adorned by night owls.
Chaser lights that gee up gutted ghost town black spot.
Urban ice rink dome another fantasy or wonderland.
Toy shop stock n trade whose only trade is stock.
Colour coded gadget clutching every cell of window space.
Fashion fodder wizards magic spark a toddler’s glee at every turn.
Boisterous strains of Santa rousing inner reindeers - the sort beloved by children down the ages.
Yuletide decor gift band holly bush spike.
Log tossed on fire, kindling stick incendiary, leaping flame enshrouds smokeless polish.
Punch bowl nasal spice so aptly named rum do!
Skim milk skyline flaunts its snow fleck jewellery aloft.
Stars of astral compass spread their twinkle dash on human garlands.
Winter’s stepwise edging in a whirl plume of slush.
Christmas well and truly has arrived
like all December Days.
Clouds of fleeting cotton clump,
tire to make the changing shape,
tell wind, stop blowing squally across sky.
They want to adorn shining golden lines,
as cold sun sinks beneath skyline remote.
The sun rays paint old leaf tan,
in summer heat the face curls,
as the shape of youth crushes for it’s dry.
In fall wind it blows away from the stem,
tree wishes spring to usher in the green.
Dream buds unfurl the dry eyes,
see petals shape blissful bloom
in flowers soaking colors from spring air,
share hue of butterflies from sunset sky
until the shape of splendor wilts forlorn.
Bleak loneliness strides with me
toward you, my charming moon.
Its shadow sinks in my fading footprints,
that’ll pace until I reach you to embrace,
you’ll find me repose in shape of silence.
Life weaves web maze of patterns
with the ordained shape of things.