Long Splay Poems
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The word sombrero in Spanish was made
from Late Latin origin, meaning shade.
Predating Mexican type of headwear
that’s commonly presupposed, instead they’re
more generally hats designed with brim.
Therefore the galaxy’s wide-ranging rim,
through pareidolia’s visual drift
causing our human perception to shift,
gave it to stargazers sombrero guise
as seen in Virgo’s sidereal skies.
Hence nickname ‘Sombrero’ has taken hold
with globular clustered stars in its fold
which swarm quite abundantly ‘round the core.
Its technical tag is M One O Four
From Earth we perceive it almost edge-on,
a factor inducing some to hedge on
whether the galaxy, like Milky Way,
is spiral or has an elliptic splay
or might be a hybrid blending the two,
a question left hanging from earthly view.
It’s said to be fifty thousand light-years
across, roughly thirty million from spheres
where we dwell, with ten times as many groups
of star clusters globular as the troops
in Milky Way’s multitudinous realms—
such grandeur galactic indeed o’erwhelms—
which orbit in circular halo’s verge.
Aye myriad worlds for life to emerge!
Dust lanes birthing stars about it are wed,
ringed paths poetic for dreamers to tread.
A white dwarf companion perhaps may be
midst all the clusters of huge stellar spree.
If wonders abound in this ‘hat’ on high,
how many more lie beyond earthly eye?
While one must not lose sight of doings here,
someday human antics will disappear.
When miseries render our stance downcast
why not gaze above at the cosmos vast
whose infinite fathomlessness steadfast
shall troublesome worries ever outlast?
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * *
Image and info ~ Hubble mosaic of the majestic Sombrero Galaxy…
Image explanation ~ NASA/ESA Hubble Space Telescope has its eye on the Sombrero galaxy, Messier 104 (M104), which has a white, bulbous core encircled by the thick dust lanes comprising the spiral structure of the galaxy. As seen from Earth, the galaxy is tilted nearly edge-on. This galaxy was named the Sombrero because of its resemblance to the Mexican hat. It lies at the southern edge of the rich Virgo cluster of galaxies and is one of the most massive objects in that group, equivalent to 800 billion suns. The galaxy is 50,000 light-years across and is located 30 million light-years from Earth.
Soft rose petals seemingly host my skin, feathers upon my soul. With every beat of my heart, my body trembles, falters with every step you take closer. Electricity delights my every fiber as your gentle fingers caress my cheek a sigh escapes my lips plain for you too see.
Awoken from her slumber my soul is an eagle wanting to be free to arch and splay her wings beautifully. With my racing heart beats my hands begin to tremble betraying my poor facade, my lips sting with wavering control as I try to cage her excitement; Thick splintered restraints pull tight to bind my eagle from flying, Clouding her beauty in painful sorrowed longing. Oh Damn this war I wage inside myself?!
The smell of you brings raw lust and swarms me with nervous energy followed closely by memories of scars all to fresh upon my heart. My feathered soul delights in your nearness, I try to calm her but she stubbornly fights, thrashing endlessly to break my restraints. Indeed some part of me was designed to trust you, to want you, to need you; but why!? Leaning closer your breath whispers of soft lure upon my face; my blood begins to boil! Her desire to embrace you burning me from within. You smile at my obvious reaction and her excitement pulls at my resolve making it hard not to give in.
Your eager gentle eyes probe deep inside mine urging me to trust you to accept you; A deep understanding stands strong beside your hunger ripping my resistance to ghost me from afar screaming warnings that fall no anear my ears. Your loving yet ravenous lips steal mine passions exploding into a wild phoenix, my eagle's wings burst free nothing left to hold her hunger at bay, we entwine together quenching the endless thirst of the familiar unknown drinking deep this phenomenon of electric burning rebirth taking over me.
There is no fear or question here just electric fire burning away what history my body, my soul and my heart has ever known; I feel New! My wings spread wide there is no going back the past is just the past. Here with you i am a new beginning flying with the phoenix beyond the lines of caution and reason; I won't turn back! I am yours and you are mine; We have emerged as one from the burning birth of our electric phoenix. Here i'll stay forever free with you!
Form:
Death orifice my Libidinous command,
I contras life's ecumenical demand!
Now reach down in this thistle grim,
Desolate me with the edged limb.
Grant this voyeur that glimpse of dead,
A comatose where life and I unwed...
As minutes kiss my infidel fawn;
The church's bell will screech at dawn.
-Enthral me now!
Tell me Neith, was all my love in vain?
While blood is surfing in silhouette pain.
Succumb; I've punctured my unfruitful coat,
Birthing wonder if Love she'll emote?
Sable wings retracted like livery spades,
My celestial dream as life slowly fades...
This Dementia spoke to me in a tongue,
But before my babel, my barbed winds gone...
Finally taken from Life's 'Woetopia'
I journey now to Death's utopia!
While my heart still beats through thorn,
Only a few minutes till it's outworn,
Due to Hel I'll never be forlorn,
Alas! as Death I'll be reborn!
When Neith failed this loom of tapestry;
I flee through thick celestial forest atrophy.
The livid scar that put me to rest;
A tourniquet to the sepulcher orb in my chest!
"Due to Life's Ouroboros Limbo Inn,
I couldn't gift a priapic cusp within,
I couldn't caress your silhouette skin,
I couldn't love your sinister kin!"
The revel Dead speak of Summerland,
A masturbation by Death's own hand.
I'll gladly sparkle your path with pearls,
Take you away where meadow depression curls!
For you see- Death is the womb
of our throe forboden, aroused Moon.
On this night tears open the ebon vaults,
A corpse left to indulge all your faults.
The pal laid to my awe desires,
This catafalque God endures weeping choirs.
Psalms sung by Life's clique,
-Part of me might cry and shriek...
-In this storm; An erubescent shower,
released me from my beloved voodoo flower.
There my heart and knife wedded!
Benighted the ground splay blood dreaded.
Through astral Magicks, I decay my flesh,
Too the entangled Moon, that trees enmesh!
... The Summerland
Now I rule as master in this domain,
Finally my swathe depression deplane.
So it can no longer grief and betray,
But I face surplus love sway!
The blood and lapis daylight sets
in ether. How the mind resets
brutality of winter chill
with February's codicil;
what gossamer a dream begets.
I hear the crickets in the dark,
their clicking takes up where the lark
has been. The flagrant marigolds
have huddled into twilight's folds,
on sanguine nightfall to embark.
The eastern zephyrs fall and rise
with rapid movement of my eyes
and echo whispers midnight makes
of blood white trails on moonlit lakes.
In silhouette I recognize
a dogwood, though can only sense
its glowing coral consequence.
The blossoms tell me they comprise
sweet spawn of sun rays in disguise
and capture all my heartbeats hence.
Now honeysuckle is entwined
on crisscrossed pathways of my mind
with jasmine in a potpourri
to conjure shamrock reverie
that leaves the pewter scape behind.
Around the lambent dogwood tree
alone upon that verdant lea
buds can prosper, bees will hum.
As though seduced by opium
I greet a vista I can't see,
at least not quite. I know it's there
and feel the dogwood everywhere,
behind me, flanking left and right,
an omnipresence in the night,
like answers to unconscious prayer.
Now high upon a clovered scarp
the tree is standing clear and sharp.
In silence I see restless blooms
play music that my ear assumes
is chiming dulcet as a harp.
Such Efflorescent star bursts splay
like windmills on a gusty day
that in ebullience do portend
a vibrance that will never end
and all my reticence allay.
In waking to a winter storm
that's February's gelid norm
I long still for my fulgid tree,
resplendence that surrounded me,
but only meet a turbid swarm.
I rise and pull back hermit drapes
to see the torrid flurries traipse,
yet through the chaos can discern
the leafless frame for which I yearn
beyond the window storming scrapes.
The dogwood stands just as before
unclad upon the icy moor
with nascent berries undeterred
as though through humble verse and word
like daylight through an unclosed door.
2/23/18
Strength Thru Adversity
Gregory R. Barden
There, mustardseed scatter’d on firm cement
Frank’s sense all but gone as architect-
ural borders take shape: the cloister sports
Blue-green algae tanks | engineer-BREW
guard’d by python & html
Biomedical men GIVE IT | in overt
Exxon | two two-by-fours square in threes
Three-D printed modules fit to serve | reptilian feet |
Purpose, _\\r eign on airblade | land | mobility
Frontier for fuel sources | long estuaries
Deleted | terrestrial features close (enough) | heavy forests
Porous | aspiration making redundant | lungs on a bank
Tread steady no advice unless it's not your hand lever
Shifting gears | what : anonymous man receives sold
Compensation & homemade spirit | suicide kit | kids & all.
A few flew fewer | arms media call | out (we fall)
Clora, Clora,come view what's been made | fish bowl
Have we contriv’d it well? What’d yer think it’d spill
Over cliché onto en|trusted avenues | photovoltaic
Cells | cowr'ing autonomic cars | partial parsed splay
Conversations converge pariah at Digital Laboratory, the e-
State sanctions words You were so tender, then |
backwards European pulp | parcel in parts | merchant captains
Tall they list | & no phone to clone army exit | fashion
Ozone-graded hum mannerism Hell to
Helm until fricative F-stop opened up vowel zone | scarecrow
CDC panic CFCs a homecoming void music | cake
O Laura, Larry me this aura, lend aurora | cigarette
Facility ; easter greens, northern sky,
No lights, no Clora but address, echo chamber –
Should it be given | meaning | text pro|verb as from
A monk’s time sweeping just falls
Praying midst-a-an-&-w/ text, hard barks,
Vests to hold in endure – endings,
Morphiniplotic, making too-easy terms nation hooked
On hides, trademark dress-up bird nest,
Sycophant cardinals | gains on rubberized telephone line
You live in this. May matter | main vein mayday clarity
In dialogue a-group specifies prediction Species decline.
Poetry IS the Mother of ALL art.
The completion and the part.
A private punchline-divine.
Be it the fruit or be it the vine.
It is The IS, sometimes the Music,
sometimes the Muse for us.
The usery that uses us.
The gizt of hearts in infatuation,
of the telling apart.
Insanity or bust.
Between lesson and instruction.
To be or it's destruction.
The painting and the canvas,
bared for emotions-teeth to take a bite of that
sweet ****- au pair with a peculiar incisor inflection.
Like a werewolf transforming with a tear, gleaming
to go on a tear.
Of whatever amazes or confounds us.
It uplifts and surrounds us.
There is poetry in a hungry infant,
and the warmth of a Mother- the need pregnant,
expectant.
Symbiotic-
Symmetry-
Symbolic-
Systemry- in offshoot,
Automatic
Ethereal firmament
To drink of
the bulwarks of love that
cultivates the brainworks as it wallows in
possibilities mud,
taking thought into-the bliss-of-the asunder,
of connecting string
Gloriously plundered.
Poetry is,
A glimpse of
"The Way."
Sparking like a pinwheel,
on freedom day,
growing, blooming
the flowers seed of
Intensity, integrity, glowing into
Life's density in sporadic release of splay.
The I Am. Pied piping His signature conducting groove
into our channels.
As the orchestra plays.
The call that we all dance to.
Molding the Earth like pottery of clay.
God's use of snapshots of what love should be.
Has a chance to put from the reach of it's ease'.
The Universe His studio, and dispensary.
WE the ones fogging the lenses scope of things
(needing proofs before the picture is even through/
or while the ink is still new.)
Because it IS both abstract and it IS REAL.
There IS Contagiousness in poetry's mental feel.
Its thundering peel, uncovering, rolling. Roaring in zeal.
In a symphony of opened seals.
Showing like a signet ring.
Shofar in the spring of knowing.
Written: September 24, 2023
_____________________________________________________________
In the dawn-like haze—a shriek was heard,
An echo so shrewd, yet birdless, oddly slurred
It was ordained by—a stratum unseen,
A throbbing coerce, a numen so keen.
A canticle flower—a bellow coarsely flung,
Through bosky drifts, those shadows clung.
The broken clavicle, brittle skull,
Doused in lacquer—a tale to annul.
Cried creative bone, from annals of time,
In a secluded hut—where lamina chime.
With guttural utterance—the gowk did sing,
Fluted notes on brinks of obsidian string.
Cloaked in the dimly lit mist, a canon of clamor,
Shaping the world with a mystic glamour.
In the glum of worship, a rite did splay,
As voices uttered—in a solemn display.
A corpse lay still, in the midst of the scene,
Dazzled by the entombing, a nebulous flesh serene.
Funerary hums—in syllabic verse,
Resonated through time, as a solemn curse.
In an urn—fugally adorned
With fugal melodies, the ashes were borne,
A symphony of sorrow, a requiem grand,
For the soul departed, to a distant land.
The misty air whispered—in mournful tones,
As the funerary procession made its way,
A solemn journey, through the mist, embrace.
To the final resting place, where shadows trace.
And so, the hum continued, a haunting refrain,
As the earth embraced the remains.
Silent and still—in eternal rest,
In the hallowed ground, the corpse was blessed.
Gone was the body, but the spirit remained,
A specter in the mist, forever ingrained.
A memory of life—a tale to be told,
In the echoes of time, where stories unfold.
In the depths of the mist, a legacy grew,
Of a life once lived, and the love that it knew.
The funerary hum—a reminder of grace,
As it carried the spirit to a heavenly place.
If there is a word that describes best what
poetry is, I would say intimate.
Is poetry intimate?
Are not all works of poetry?
Or are they just collections of words laid on paper in nice
organized ways, to make them look professional,
as if they make sense?
I would hope we as poets, writers, or those who think they
make literary sense would believe the former.
As we let our minds spill over onto paper words that flow,
flow from the heart, or flow from some deep secluded
place within our soul.
We scribble on scratch paper random thoughts, things that
make no sense, just so we can remember what we were
thinking in that fleeting feeble moment, only to throw it in
some over stuffed drawer to find some months later, and
then possibly throw back in.
I would say yes, this is intimate, revealing our most
vulnerable feelings of how and where the next valuable and
honest word will show its worth.
What greater joy could one experience, than to have an
affect on a persons life through words? Words that have
emerged from the deep recesses of our mind, body and soul
as if we had laid open our life for all to see, exposed our
self to the world, as couriers of all things good or bad.
Delivering hope and joy, sadness and pain, and answers to
some. We as poets splay out onto paper all of the things
that reside in all of us, only in that organized, unorganized
way that some can understand.
Poetry belongs to all who read it and translate these words
into any one of a thousand different meanings.
Are we poets? I can not say for certainty. Or are we just
another Joe who shows their life in words written in script
in hopes someone will find them?
I Do Not Know!
http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net
© 2009 Charles Dennis
In the desert of my mind
Are nomadic dunes of ineptitude.
I traverse these dunes
Seeking words
Like a thirsting man after water.
My search is slow and ponderous
As my feet sink deeply
Into sands of frustration.
Drops of imagination
Fall from my brow
And are absorbed in the same sands.
Cresting a barrier of mediocrity
I see a puddle of liquid letters
Left by some recently passed storm.
I race to this source of inspiration
As quickly as my inability will allow.
Kneeling beside this tiny pool of possibilities
I cup my trembling hands
And scoop out the last swallow of satisfaction.
I bend my face low
To drink in the sweet elixir of purpose,
But, in so doing, I lose my balance.
I splay my hands to catch myself
And thus release the vagrant liquid,
Sending it back to the earth.
I watch disbelievingly
As tiny grains of discouragement
Darken under the stain
Of lost expectation.
“No!” I cry as I snatch up the sand
Now wet with the dew of my hope.
Would that I could
Suck the very moisture from each particle
That sticks to my hands in damp mockery.
The refreshing coolness of anticipation
Evaporates much too quickly.
In the stifling air of despondency
The grains dry and cascade form my hands
In a slow waterfall of contempt.
The realization of my fate
Comes to me in a wave of despair.
Anguish wells inside me
And pours forth in tears
Of hopelessness.
They stream down my cheeks
And breach the dam of futility.
They then pass with a salty sting
Over my immobile, cracked upper lip.
My tongue darts about
And absorbs the drops of destitution
Greedily.
So it is my thirst for words
Is momentarily,
Yet inadequately, appeased.
Remember again how you use to skip Stone and watch the ripples just find their way to possibility's reach?
Conjoined concentric rings following after each other like meaning and gravitational direction-
Answering innate, unconscious questions.
An order that makes sense, of things.
Tied together with invisible string.
Concentric startlings, like Ducklings waddling-
their take on things.----
Eyes on the prize,
taking off into future flight,
in the image of their bossy Matriarch of dreams-
of understanding,
minding
their everything.
With nosey beak.
A no nonsense heart string",---
pulls them
line by line.
Alexandrias own--- built army marching.
In search of the Mystery.
Learning to fly,
to swim the air
But not in a chaotic way,
not in a meaningless splay,
but relative,
Each.
One?
Like those ripples breaking the stagnant silence.
The flame lighting the empty sconce.
The birds imitating the coming of the Lord, giving glory to the sky.
-V- for Victory.
A leader and it's wing?
Christening Spring.
For all to see.
Swimming the air
In synchronicity never wondering why
waves of frequency art, poetry-
Stages how everything relates
to everything.
One overlooking one,
one after the other.
Like something that comes naturally.
A Love that loves the lover.
Like a child that clings.
To Mother.
God IS integrity.
It is already done.
But the mirrors tear, you can see it Cascade, crystal clear, then gets misty and hides from. It's dear. Solitary one.
A Dawn to share.
Still, it waits for you, with all love,
See how God's integrity cares?
to be, by YOUR side.
Let God save your soul and see.