Long Spindled Poems
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Helios, open darkened shutters Night did seal;
Nyx's opaque, drawn shades one by one peel.
With prehensile fingers grip your enlightened quill,
Selene's pale orb with luminescent lines reel.
With gilded parasol twirl your flaming wheel,
Until enjoined sparks into tinted rays congeal.
In saffron waves, blanch horizon's, window seal.
On spindled beam, spin golden threads from creel,
Sheaves of golden flax span o'er ethereal hill.
Branching, with sonic beam pearly plains drill,
Until azure streams deep reservoir does fill.
With torch, burnt-orange meringue on puffy clouds spill,
then into earth's grainy purview with vigor steal.
With tempera, egg wash the Sky's blank stencil,
then with magnified lens illumine the scenic still.
Plunging downward, into denser troughs truncated waves swill.
Onto earth's jade footstool, solemnly kneel,
Drawing from vassal's, residual til.
Amber blades with brighter finish instill,
With waxy gloss the folio cover frill.
Written: September 20, 2024
For: Letters or Photographs Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Ink Empress
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A mound of unsent letters was under my pillow
Frozen in time, drifting through my fantasies
My rhymes are scribbled with secret poetry
some have brilliant gleams
others induce quiet cries.
I have a letter written in ink at daybreak
a liquid of warmth embraces every syllable
I saw your name and felt an immense longing!
how it gnaws on my chest as a ravenous beast.
I released my hands and let you sail
away from the solitude and heavyweight!
a spry touch from your forgotten memories
for me, a sweet delight, but oh my inner injury!
Our space is still
a shattered wand to touch my pained heart
with dryer life to perish in the shadows
the sun is setting, making it time to chat
down the soul, sipping from saturation straw.
Distant away, my desert hurts
love that will melt needles
rejecting thread for another morning stitching
with unfamiliar birds, who molt their feathers
the spindled leg has ungainly wings
Satan laughs as he burns the sand.
Prophets of haste lack words
erosion glass steeple returns home
this is the worst season ever known
Your Nimbus Breeze is limitless
burning your deed with the rust of logic
carving now in grey dust.
I can only write words that you will not foresee
gathering lost pebbles for eternity
draw up our sunken riches
these words of mirage, palm arms swaying
my black meeting reminds me
of a dream from yesterday on a forsaken planet.
Time journeyed through the seasons sublime
Brokered days the trellis of life did climb
Tendered hours but grainy shards without rhyme
Token minutes spindled through the hour glass of time
Each tenuous second garnering only a passing stime
Bartered moments the continuum of existence did wantonly prime
Availing sky's porous rotunda filtered each, ageless ream through spectrum so fine
The hoary sun spilled it's vision into each, vacuous line
Gilded moon, celestial mariner did shadowy expanse twine
Bended stars, twinkling sprites from stealthy perch did antediluvian streams re-align
Primeval planets in their sanctioned orbits perpetuity did assign
My Childhood Home
My lovely childhood home, I miss it so...
built Eighteen Eighty-Six, so long ago.
Three floors, all rooms with mantled fireplaces;
carved woodwork, archways, spindled winding stair;
cathedral ceilings, sparkling chandelier
in dining room enjoyed on holidays.
Third floor not used but built with parkay floors
and doors that opened to small balconies.
Off the front door, a porch wrapped 'round two sides...
was like a fairy tale when I was young.
Such lovely grounds; garage with two horse stalls
and covered sleigh with velvet seats of red.
White gravel paths with gardens either side;
the rolling lawn, majestic tall pine trees
and rippling stony brook below the hill.
My childhood home fulfilled my childhood dreams–
so happy there with my dear family.
Until I married, it was home to me.
And since home now is not too far from it–
I often pass the site of my old house.
On left, before I pass under the bridge
that sprawls across the Hudson River now–
the empty view brings sadness to my heart.
To build that bridge they tore my old home down–
the only house to make this sacrifice–
The vision of my childhood home is gone.
As I ride by I feel them wave to me...
the ghosts of past, and my dear family.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Enchanted House
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 05/23/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: A Child's First Home
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Judged: 10/17/2015
Note: Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was completed and opened in November 1963
New York State claimed our home via eminent domain and purchased it in 1960
The missus pounded mine posterior...
causing percussive rumpus
Meanwhile good n plenty vibrations resonated
felt and heard round the world wide web
(strongest quaking sensations
occurred upon double mattresses atop bed
within apartment unit b44
2 Highland Manor Drive),
but woody d'ya believe
drumming, flagellating
and whipping gluteus maximus
spurred surging aftershock tremors
launched rocketed pecker
(property yours truly).
Imagine slap happy spouse
ain't misbehavin
just being her playful
(think cheeky) self
knick knack paddy whacking
undeservedly thrashing,
pummeling, beating
the living daylights
buttucks long past their prime
formerly cute palm pilot tushy,
now subjected courtesy
cruel aging process
wrought ugly human cellulite,
nevertheless I made
feeble attempts to rear up in protest
against asinine wifely antics,
while she obviously disregarded
feebly wailing for nought
me lamely uttering
friggin bloody murder in vain.
Zee spouse ain't no sadomasochist,
she just thrills
treating gluteus maximus (mine)
as a plaything
(think cat toying with mouse)
thwacking me fleshy behind
until derriere belonging to yours truly
feels comfortably numb.
Thee aforementioned shenanigans
predominantly arise, when
wedded counterpart owns advantage,
whereby I eagerly welcome shut eye
lo and behold only to experience
mine hinny quickly getting smacked
after I barely shuttered these tired eyelids
sneaking couple winks.
What recently began as
whimsical spur of
kickstarting moment
ushering tactile kibitizing
suddenly became nightly ritual,
whereby this humble husband
meekly surrenders bare bottom
(actually partner with skewed enjoyment
at my expense)
pulls off outer clothes
plus underpants (elasticity
long since stretched out)
wallopping me bum
until flesh heavily
spindled, lacerated, and bruised.
I kissed July's hot tangerine lips
swam in cool aquamarine eyes
basked in blond and honey rays
dreamed in mango pomegranate sunsets
of lime hillsides and marmalade roses
Years of sweet citrus passed in golden hours
One day I woke
to find translucent eyes
in burnt sienna
as trees wept leaves
in burgundy and olive
Soon the eyes
were frozen in powder
Ashen shadows blew
across barren groves
of spindled spruce
and howled
with December's lonely moon
But from my fire lit window
I hold fast to memories
of daffodils and oranges
mingled with the burn
of lemon tears
7/16/17
Thine distorted reflection rippled
within rain maker's pool
upon a midnight clear
full moonlight sonata
flooded shallow abyss,
cleaved fractal structures of silence
reverberating deathly hallow from 'ere
to infinity, whence magic wand
whipped out from
whereabouts unknown
wove disenchanting spell
atop me shaded noggin more'n
fifty ruffle lake suns
Dorian Gray pictured here
to fore, awakened
from drunken stupor,
whence sober self
saw repulsive trouper
fluid dynamic image jeer
at pot bellied, dead panned,
and ad libbed the mere
ore image lam bent,
mutilated spindled
various horrid aspects of
myself nine inch
rusty nails impaired
which, aghast at such
creepy distortion i didst rear
like a bucking bronco unclear
how this horrid, jagged,
limned paragon did wear
a grotesque disfigured Joeseph Conrad
lost within heart of darkness – maybe Zaire
or Zulu-land, this
soaked silhouette half bare
from waist to head showed unmanly
sagging overly engorged breasts
plus right and left elephant sized ear
egad, THAT CANNOT BE ME,
yet upon performing
self exam a glare
ring outburst ensued,
cuz thy once
bronzed handsome physique
now grist for a Joker to jeer
and fodder made
for television series created,
directed, and executed by Norman Lear
which role might be
temporary for Halloween, but near
lee every SINGLE day and night,
thy aged dusk fraught hominid jerked,
leaped, pooh poohed I ham ill prepared
to accept, roistering, rollicking,
rueing this Frankenstein scarred
complex deplorable edifice able,
ready, and willing to be tarred
rather than evince flabbiness,
gruesome homeliness, instance
when no objection would arise
to live out the remaining days of this life
as the world wide web turns, spins, rattles...
and voluntarily sign myself into a stew ward
with (at minimum ), a ghoulish, gnarly,
gummy self activated door
leading to privet hedge row trimmed
topiary resplendent yard
cuz every cotton pickin, friggin,
fingerhut lickin portal iz barred
dated Friday the thirteenth
with **** face on that card!
Alone, where winds had smoothed the cobblestone,
a young novice sat, solemn and austere,
brooding over mistakes made, seeds past sown.
Entering the abbey; a fate severe,
she wept with sadness when dismay had grown.
Praying, she cried, "In Your Word I abide."
Her soul ached; tears were silently falling.
"Strengthen my faith, Father. Be at my side.
Forgive my despair. This is my calling.
I know from You there's nothing I can hide."
Stark loneliness grew; hope quickly dwindled.
In solitude her days would reach their end.
Then came enlightenment. Faith rekindled
in whispers to her as angels descend.
She dropped skeins of yarn, carefully spindled.
Down on penitent knees she bent and bowed.
"Forgive my apathy. I've been a fool
to hesitate, Father, for I have vowed
my humble life to serve beneath Your rule."
With an overjoyed heart, she spoke aloud.
Blithe notes of Twilight's symphony alight
Into occluded abyss spindled cords take flight
Duller shades into harmonious bands unite
Grainy film spreads o'er recess a dank, dingy kite
Initiating eve's wake, ethereal blinds shut tight
Midnight's, chilling vigil stills darkened night
Nyx's, silver, pale orb mystical procession doth ignite
Twinkling pallbearers on flanks shoulder the blight
Ghostly-white planets from distant corridors observe rite
Pleiades' sisters' glowing blue embers provide candlelight
On bended knee, Perseus the glib eulogy doth recite
In the somber parlor, Orion with satin bow stalkers doth fight
Tears from Aquarius's drawn bucket salve Night's dreary plight
Mystical beams from Southern Cross emptiness doth requite
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
The King dares not defend her.
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the Saints will soon surrender”.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
and even less, a gender.
The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
but kneel as Chaos enters.
They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
defying life’s tormentors.
The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
when blessing doomed dissenters.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
the Stones stir, staring at her.
And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests refuse to christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
yet No One looks to listen.
The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Nighttime brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals.
Continued in Part 2