Long Speckles Poems
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My cocoon tightens –colors tease
I am feeling for the air
A dim capacity for wings
Demeans the dress I wear
1099 - Emily Dickinson
Butterfly- A Glosa
My potential, held in a chrysalis,
I hide within a shadowed niche,
safe from mischief and the curious,
time stands still for my strange seed.
Buds of my wings, flimsy as flowers,
grow from leaf nectar with ease.
In grub miasma I am geometry concealed;
a rainbow of speckles
secretly forming in tiny degrees.
My cocoon tightens- colors tease.
Outside a gentle, scented atmosphere,
stirs memories of my once, segmented self,
sucked to wind tossed leaves, green
of their green, protected by dapple;
a puzzle of leafy camouflage.
I gorged there, naked and bare,
then wove around me a fine cocoon,
I was the spinner, and the loom,
quietly suspended now I must dare.
I am feeling for the air.
I am feeling for the sun,
cell by cell, a squeezing permutation
diligently shedding grub matter.
A framework, a pattern, a nectar tongue
coiled for long throats of flowers to come,
poised for pastoral whisperings
I struggle to unfold.
A magic, a beauty stunningly brief,
I hold, like all mystical things,
a dim capacity for wings.
My feelers, living dopplers’ vibrate
I shimmer, transparent gossamer.
I gather energy, I tremble for flight,
I tumble with garden blest wings.
A brief portrayal of immortal life,
is part of the nature I bear.
I flitter, I flutter I seem to be aimless,
a symbol of ever-returning things.
Only the fragile and delicate flower,
demeans the dress I wear.
For Line’s “ A Stunner 2017 Contest
The Glosa is a Spanish form based on taking 4 lines by another poet and expanding the theme.
I have entered this in 3 or more contests and was NA’d EVERY time.
Applicable Not Applicable Contests
Contest Judged: 6/2/2019 2:03:00 PM
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
Placed 3rd
Headlines of irony in life…
Human satire—cuts like a knife.
The unsinkable ship, that sinks.
Surrounded by peeps, yet alone.
Priests who ‘prey’—yet sins they atone.
Pastor fights alcohol, but drinks.
Tax czar who cheats on his taxes.
Animal fans—hunt to relax.
Abortion kills—with nods and winks.
Lifeguard fearing water—lauds land.
‘Football’—a game played with the hands.
Oedipus—breaks riddle and Sphinx.
Headlines of irony in life...
“Women”—they may now take a wife.
The steakhouse owned by a vegan.
Pedophile daycare directors.
Homeless real estate inspectors.
WAR—‘politics’ by other means.
Fighting drugs, while promoting booze.
Mutual consent—the new ruse.
Prolonged charity squelches teens.
Green tinted speckles on bluefish.
Hitler’s Grandfather was Jewish!
Men—affectionately called ‘queens.’
In life, every nook and cranny,
Holds the next ‘headline irony.’
Good, bad, or sad—it’s Uncanny!
June 2, 2018
Written for Connor Lotts' poetry contest entitled, "Hutinashro - My First Contest Poetry Contest"
A swirling gold wind
Speckles of dust
I thrust my neck in to feel this
I am bewildered, a smothered vine
floating into the ending
but I want to fight
Want to get up and break knuckles and limbs
to spread seeds
and say I mattered
This is the time we’ll remember and I can’t forget
that man on the corner
How we’re all allowed dreams
and those who shatter
are lessons for those who haven’t slept yet
I’m closing eyes to remember the fabric
of the depth of Godliness
The heat in my chest, the badness
And I’m weighing the contents of time to find
where I should be standing
Tightroping on the thin line before it’s enough
and my promises are voided as bluff
I’m mourning
Wailing against the sepulcher of my birth
The tomb of my purpose
And the dead leaves that surround the contents of my body
are ‘raptured’
There is no more time
We’re weeping in the instant we begin again
But they have left us
with our own salvation in our hands
and nowhere to go
No peace to find sleep
Good mourning
" Pardon me,
if my soul has been p a i n t e d ,
with a lavender lake of solemnity,
but, I'll f o r e v e r be a soulful siren,
navigating midst neon s e a f o a m s ,
and sculpting an origami of honesty
~ like the archangels of heavenly faith "
When the 'Swans of Sun'
sing in a soft echo,
behind silvery beams
of oceanic clouds,
I always become
a winter's twilight,
that misses those
subtle hues of silky spring,
as bittersweet stars
tremble and fall
upon my misty eyelids,
like ruby jewels,
scattered with
jasmine scents and
falling on glass-tulips.
My story is more than
speckles of glittery stardust,
for, you shall hear
the heartbeats of harp,
breathing within me,
and unfurling upon
lotus layers of harmony,
knitted by an eternal shine.
Perhaps, ice crystals floating
on puddles of sunrays,
too search for a purpose,
and compel life to chase
that rusting light,
escaping from
crackles of lead skies.
I wonder,
is my sakura moon,
a sea of pomegranate promises,
dipped in maple scars?
Perhaps, my muse
is forbidding me,
and my paper kingdom
of sage and saffron,
shall be soaked
in a scarlet sanctuary
of aching phrases ~
arching beyond
aqua ashes of brokenness.
There, my heart is crowned
on a bleeding rose,
as a 'spirit of rosemary runes',
when its tears trace the
luscious lips of petals,
laced with secrets, unseen.
I'll always narrate
these tangible tales
to red robins,
describing how a
dynasty of dreams
kept burning inside
my poetic flames,
carving vermillion silhouettes
across pastel pages,
where healing
will be sketched,
like a rhymeless perfume
and the immortal dove
will rest upon
a pearly crown
of snow-white hibiscus.
The power of a flower
long ago a seed was planted at the shore of a sea of men,
the days were long before the sprout showed for the very first time,
it was a lovely leave bud on a tender stem, learning how to rise
from the Earth it was once protected in;
as time crossed the sky in the shadow of the sun,
Its stem became broader, and roots became deeper,
acquiring much more than it once did before.
A gasp of nature,
what will it be?
a rose or a apple tree,
no one knows till
Its flowers bloom
from buds as tiny
as speckles
the power of a flower,
frail but radiant,
speaks of who you are,
reeasing a unique scent of personality .
Form:
tight rope
Fear of the Unknown is
in my mind
The free-falling descent of my better judgement
I've gotten so high
The fear of falling is sickening
My eyes fail me
blind folded by nights dusk
On the edge
Tight rope walking
I feel a breeze from behind
Pushing forward
Dare I follow my dreams?
or in give in to it
theres a pounding in my ears
I teeter
And I totter
I hear a voice calling,
disguised in the mist ahead
with all my faith
and follow it
I don't want to be
a
lamb being lead to the slaughter
A few steps forward and
I faulter
there is a
wall
which I have built as my fortress
A
barricaded protector
that
Blocks my path
resting for a moment
to reconsider
this distrust and
I can finally see
I am my
own makeshift shelter
To overcome it
I must
shaking legs
ready themselves
to the unknown
regardless of the consequence
Pulse racing
as I ready myself for a running jump
Holding my head high
legs overreaching as I soar
pushing
the limit
with
Outstretched arms
exhaling the scent of Freedom
I descend
and
continue
to cross this border line
casting away
the blindfold of darkness
I see for miles beyond our horizon
Bright light peaks out showing speckles of angels wings
The sun stretches for miles
our warm blanket
and i see you
sunken in clouds
calling for me
Form:
( To be sang to the tune of, " Steppin' Time "
From the musical Mary Poppins... )
( Rams )
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
How many girls will we meet this time?
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
( A Ewe )
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time.
Hey you girls, this Ram is mine!
And I think he's so divine!
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
( Another Ewe )
This one's strong and full of might.
He has speckles that are white.
And his " Baaa! " sounds just like mine!
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
( Rams )
Will our lambs be Ram or Ewe?
Will our sheep have one or two?
We must wait for nature too...
We must tuppin' til we're through!
( An Independent Ewe )
Well, those Rams can keep their place!
I won't fall for a square face!
" Tuppin's not for me! " I'll say.
If they come near, I'll run away!
( All Sheep x2 )
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
Baa ba baa baa baa baa baa!
Here's the farmer, tuppin' time!
Baa ba baa baa baa baa baa!
Fire bursts in a flurry of fractured flames.
Blue butterflies dance the Phoenix skyline.
Speckles of light sneaking in by the frames
Winter is past; spring is beyond the line.
Brace the blazing beauty lost to blue blight.
Gleeful, with a blest blithe sense of divine.
A fresh ray of optimism that shines bright.
Rapture is synonymous with springtime.
Swallows venture, daffodils come to light.
Rich blooms, tulips, and a shield of lifetime
Spring is coming to bear news of long days.
Set life out of town while it is still time.
We cheer at its ingress but mourn its sway.
Buttercups and daisies loom here and there.
Life wields as we wait for mirth to display.
Fire bursts in a flurry of fractured flames.
Buttercups and daisies loom here and there.
Speckles of light sneaking in by the frames
Strive to look for the sublime everywhere.
Written: April 08, 2023
Author's note: I dug deep into my archives chest to retrieve this piece of utter nonsense, dear readers, because I thought it would make a good submission for April Fool's Day...
Freckles!
People who have freckles
Are sometimes people who eat pickles.
But pickles have bumps,
They don't have freckles.
Bumpy people are often fickle
And won't eat pickles without freckles.
A squash with speckles might be pickled,
But is no sub for freckled pickles,
Which is being pickle fickle.
If someone earned a nickel
For every pickle with a freckle,
He'd have to gorge on hordes of pickles
Just to make one lousy nickel.
Now I'm in a poetic pickle
And my brain is overworkin',
So freckled people don't be fickle,
Avoid the sun and eat a gherkin.
Autor's PS: This piece, as I recall, started out to be a parody of the song "People" from the musical "Funny Girl", but quickly took a very sharp left turn and turned out quite differently.
ink scratches on paper
tears smudge the words
scribbles and nibbles
for wisdom and love
meanings flow in and out
of consciousness and thought
emote passion and wonderment
a path of no return as it stands
as poets we don’t go but flow
with musings and feelings
reason and reflections
condense and prise open
the poet’s cradle weeps gently
rocks doubts and composure
envelops discards and contains
everlasting impermanent time
weeping willows inhale tears
cosmos flowers shed smiles
weeds become herb gardens
as a tomb stone beckons
in my warm grave I’ll be happy
if mourners wear orange and purple
when my epitaph becomes prologue
and I hand on the pen and a torch
when worms sift through the debris
my coffin rots and gives birth to soil
kind memories may keep me going
and proceed with my journey
26th November 2020
written for the contests 'where do we poets go'