Long Streak Poems
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I was riding a streak with the dice in my fist.
Lady Luck was with me, seemed I couldn’t miss!
Then this babe caught my eye,--I crapped out time and again.
Lady Luck stomped out, when True Love walked in.
I was anchoring third with a pair of aces.
Going for the split, needed tens or faces.
But when ‘you know who’ sat down next to me,
The blackjack dealer dealt a two and a three!
Lady Luck stomped out when True Love walked in.
She gave me that look. I sent her my best grin.
I’m gonna go bust if I see her again.
Lady Luck stomped out when True Love walked in.
I put a dollar chip on every black and red.
Three spins in a row came up zeros instead.
The old croupier said: “Son I’ve seen this before.
You better take that gal to the chapel next door!”
Lady Luck stomped out when True Love walked in.
She gave me that look. I sent her my best grin..
I’m gonna lose my shirt when I see her again.
Lady Luck stomped out when True Love walked in.
I kept the Queen of Hearts and folded all my hands,
And never set foot in a casino again.
When the urge to play overpowers me –
It's Yahtzee, Trouble, and Monopoly.
(To add insult to injury, our kids always win, you know!)
Lady Luck stomped out when True Love walked in.
She gave me that look. I sent her my best grin..
I haven’t won a hand since that fatal day when
Lady Luck stomped out and True Love walked in.
As the sun rises on the distant horizon like a match spark that is thrown into a
bonfire...a bonfire saturated in an accelerant...Bright red casting color onto the
dark ominous clouds chasing them away..May I depend on the Son today to
chase all problems, fears, anxieties into a place of non-existence. In so doing
my life will be fuller, happier and there will be contentment of heart and
mind..Over on the horizon it seems that the clouds are gone and the sun is
shining brightly but over me the clouds linger with dampness and cool air..The
cool morn is a glorious good time to think and work.The son is rising up farther
now and the clouds are closing in on it...There is one streak of the sun in a
break in the clouds that looks like a lazar beam flashing forth..There's
something about this moment and configuration of the heavenlies that is so
soothing to my spirit...This moment will pass into eternity...Will I be the only
one that shared this color, design, and precise moment with God and the
angels...
I roamed among lucent stars through a baroque city
Which mirrored imprints from past-life scenes,
Bringing me to tears about deja vu moments: Awed by its
avant-garde streak, my very essence left me reliving the arts held
dearly in adolescence: Such uptown elan! The charmed cacophony
Of violins and guitars , of warbles by dilettante poets
Along Brussels Street gave me carte blanche to explore
Nights’ fired passion without ennui ...While the distinct air inhabited me--
This soul-connection was not time’s anomaly. My heart
knew I once dwelled flourished here , as a bona fide lyricist...perhaps.
--------------
Brussels, Belgium—March 2016
Contest of Silent One: Ten Words Ten Lines 2
1/25/2018
Voice over
Wind catcher
Coffee maker
Coffee creamer
A streak of moonlight
A scent of sunlight
YOU ARE NO
I am the wrong way
Unlearn
Yield.
Voice over
Wind catcher
Coffee maker
Coffee creamer
A streak of moonlight
A scent of sunlight
YOU ARE NO
I am the wrong way
Unlearn
Yield.
For a dead debt sealing
exactly how should you call
Jimmy Carter directly in solvable white house only to digress
the ever mystic Angelita?
Voice over
Wind catcher
Coffee maker
Coffee creamer
A streak of moonlight
A scent of sunlight
YOU ARE NO
I am the wrong way
Unlearn
Yield.
Addictive poetry
I suddenly wake up and it's midnight,
And my heart is still at the poetry site,
Quietly get up and look for my mail,
And then into drafts and notes I trail,
Words and sentences my passion,
Traverse my inside ever in succession,
When these get struck at synapses,
Keep giving me concurrent relapses,
Addictive poetry my first love,
As if my soul is hands in glove,
Newer rhyme with every heart beat,
Deeper in my vein flows its each streak,
Fiction or fantasy at times for a contest,
Obsessive compulsion to enter gives a stress,
For want of creative words, I get too lean,
Expressing true emotions it's serene !
August 26th, 2014
Poet- Dr. Upma A. Sharma
For contest 'Addictive poetry' by Just that Archaic Poet
Entered for contest "Theme#4- Poetry" by SKAT A
Awarded 8th place win
Had a mouse in my house which I needed to oust
Which I did with an almighty shout
He ran through the door which I slammed with a roar
And the locks engaged, keeping him out
So now he was gone I could concentrate on
My friends who lived outside and in
My old tabby cat couldn’t catch a dead rat
So that mouse must have worn a big grin
Outside in my yard was a robin on guard
Keeping other birds clear of his nest
He’d plump up his feathers to look really hard
Like he thought looking hard would be best
But I realised there were birds in the skies
That would like to eat him or his chicks
Which made me decide that he needs to reside
In a nest that is stronger than bricks
So I laboured all day and by toiling away
I made him a box that was strong
I finished the build with a doorway I drilled
And I hoped he’d move in before long
My cat sat and watched as I put up the box
I fixed it quite far from the ground
Although my cat’s old, he can sometimes be bold
And I knew he’d be prowling around
I gave it a week, I kept taking a peek
But the robin seemed not very keen
He didn’t move in with his young scruffy kin
If he had done, I know I’d have seen
But then he was gone, I thought what’s going on
Had his stubborn streak started to crack
I looked in the hole and I thought bless my sole
There’s a little grey mouse looking back
Why dear night, do you remove the
canvas every day before the drenched colors dry?
how will we ever see and admire the portrait,
that which starts with blisters of pink from the
mountain of lions, and a streak of mud cast across
the elephant bushes
Is it your duty to turn dawn to day?
Dear night, let dawn linger
will it not please you if dusk lingered on,
to massage your long dark shadow?
Do not be afraid, we already know
your secrets thanks to the silver whispers
At wee you apportion us your shadow,
Each day we accept to carry it in silence
while you hide till evening!
Do not hurry us to labor,dear night
Let dawn linger
Looking down I can see
so many different possibilities
wondering which I shall pick
and with it then what I shall see
smooth pink stone with pits of white
will it fit in my fingers just right
that I might flick it with the crack like a whip
to get the perfect gyroscopic spin
has it mass that it might fly
many times as it skims
kissing upon the water where
ripples will spread in growing rings
or perhaps a kidney shape
bisected by a streak of white
bigger that more power might have
that longer then might be its flight
wonder I at a stone oblong
black and white and quite small
perhaps it's basalt mixed with lime
would it then keep its spin
here a stone with finger notch
of dark gray with salmon swirls
somehow draws and holds my eye
I want it not into the water to fling
so many lie here from which to choose
gold and salmon grays black and white
smooth and round or angles tight
I wonder which to give flight
as I lay in dark of night
waking from the fading dream
with bleary eyes upon the clock to gaze
to see the minutes slip away
slip do I from fading dreams
into the night awakening
with hours long before the dawn
seeking sleep that alludes me
'tis there meaning that I should
deeper thoughts into which to plunge
hidden meanings for me to find
or just confusion of fading dreams
She wore a dress in the color sin
and walked with thunder's grace,
a shadow lit from deep within,
with fire upon her face.
She left the party close to one,
her heels in hand, alone,
they say she whispered to the moon—
“Tonight, I’m heading home.”
But morning came, and she did not.
The chapel bells were grim.
A crimson streak, a silver spot,
the trail grew cold and dim.
They found a heel beside the drain,
an earring near the stairs,
a smear of blood the size of rain,
and whispers in the prayers.
The papers roared: “A girl in red!
A poet may be linked!”
His verses read like hearts gone dead,
his alibis all blinked.
He wrote of girls who vanished fast,
of lips and death and sky,
and Rosalie was not the last
to haunt his lullaby.
Detective Maren took the lead,
a woman sharp and slow.
She followed every crimson thread
the town was scared to know.
She found the Poet’s secret book,
with names in ink and dread,
and there—the line he never took:
"…and then she bled and bled.”
He never made it to the court,
he jumped before the trial.
They found his boots, a final thought—
a carving on the tile:
"Remember me, I told the tale
the world refused to see.
But stories shift like autumn gales—
the killer isn’t me."
Six months from then, a letter came,
no name, no scent, no fold.
Just blood-red ink and ghostly claim,
a secret left untold:
“You followed every thread I wove,
each clue I laid with care.
But who first whispered from above?
And why was I found there?"
Maren sat still, her coffee cold,
her hands began to shake.
The story cracked. The pieces told
a truth she did not fake—
The heel? She found it in the drain.
The earring? She alone.
Each breadcrumb laid with quiet pain
by hands as cold as stone.
For Maren was the girl in red,
reborn with borrowed face.
She’d killed her past and called it dead—
then stalked it like a case.
The Poet wasn’t pure nor clean,
but guilt was not the thread.
She needed someone to be seen,
so she became the dead.
The missing girls? Her mirrored pasts,
the selves she left behind.
And Maren walked the line she cast,
rewriting in her mind.
So if you pass Saint Cecilia’s hand
when fog begins to climb,
don’t trust the badge, don’t trust the land—
some ghosts commit no crime.
Enough of pastor’s sermons, where’s the light
Vicarious wisdom’s not what we seek
We’re told that boundless bliss is our birthright
Yet here and now on earth, are we not weak
Stench of fear, from pores of our form does reek
Our prayers unanswered, we are hypnotised
Fallen from grace, we resemble a freak
We’ll rest not until God is realised
Like monks wise, we wish to reach zenith height
Toyed by fate, should we turn the other cheek
Too long has ego trauma been our blight
We’ve beseeched the divine for a sneak peek
In elixir of bliss, to dip our beak
Is access to clear truth too cartelised
Whatever the odds, know we are not meek
We’ll rest not until God is realised
Thoughts rested, follow scent of love delight
Journey beauteous up another creek
Soft voice of conscience discerns wrong from right
World brightens, our life no longer looks bleak
Methinks presence is on a winning streak
We become bliss whence ego vaporised
Thus day after day and week after week
We’ll rest not until God is realised
Our burning yearning requires no technique
Know now oh hermit, God is love disguised
Such is the truth we affirm and so speak
We’ll rest not until God is realised
24-December-2021