Long Symbiosis Poems
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We are bespoke instruments of God
Breathing the glorious music of life into this world.
The sad notes, the angry chords, the joyful trills, the comical scales, the romantic melodies of love….
The strings of this heart, delicately plucked into song,
The keys of Grace played into this existence,
Touching souls,
Moving the veils of illusion.
The curtains draw back,
The orchestra revealed,
The show of remembrance begins,
And God reveals the elegant dance of Truth.
Once seen,
Once felt,
Once experienced,
The exquisite symbiosis,
The divine orchestration,
The tender revelations of the magnificent symphony of what we call life.
We are bespoke instruments of God breathing the glorious music of life into the world.
What tune will the Infinite conductor of all creation play next?
Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
ye come;
leaf cusps and petal ears —
classicals, swearing oaths of
mellifluous assembly...
Calm rhythms hasten to the
ears of Beethoven —
summon him for a serenade,
lest the dark shelter of a
decrepit day strips this solitude.
Anodyne hisses among
this hidden threshold,
curing and healing the weakness of
Clepoatra's hair, dampened with
the venom of haters of vanity.
Classicals,
rid us now of this grief of mundane
dances...
Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude
on notes of the keys.
From the clarinet,
the bimetallism of barter —
the platitude of life and death
(symbiosis of percussions)
epitaph to the aftermath of
inveterate tradition —
now and forever...
And the clarinet looms.
Written: December 06, 2024
___________________________
We were born into tribes
cinctured by bonds and praxis
welded by ambits and dictums
an eyeless chasm.
But scope a sounder view
just under the shimmering surface
and the outcome will be luculent
our parallels often outshine our oddities.
Our blood is crimson
all of us slipshod weeps
all of us longing for love
all of us fail to face our fears.
Our zeal fashion fetching flow
our souls seek seraphic symbiosis
we all itch for a warm welcome
and achieve startling accolades.
But, we build walls,
and draw lines in the sand,
we judge hinged on appearance,
and ignore the outstretched hand.
But if we may just foresee,
beyond the color of our skin,
and the language we spree,
we may find kin.
Because in the recesses of our souls
within our deep cores
all of us are noxious
rhapsodic around finding fulfillment.
So let's slip away,
from the chains of tribalism,
and gasp our kinships,
with love and hope.
For only then,
can we for real unite,
and transcend our differences,
Into a world of light.
You're clothed in the nuanced expression
of variety, in the unique alchemy
of weave in proximity to the bridge
of wear and wearer at Gaia's boutique.
Where light and shadow dance together
in exquisite harmony.
The creatures run out to the day to be seen as material
witnessings.
The rustling of leaves in the wind, the patter of rain on.
the ground, patterlings
a g loved fit of symbiosis in alchemy gauze
of secure medicinalings.
The laughter of children playing,
and the sweet melody of birds' wingmanning and.
bopping the swaying, surrounding the displaying.
Knitted in comfort of scene like an Uonion.
Umbrellic extension of womb.
A closeness grafted in our canvas of
muse as color and hue,
swatch to match of ensemble curl ie qued
swirl of
coffee cream heart to the batch of daily brew,
togetherness stitched message,
A tip of the cap to you.
There are no cogs, springs, wheels, or gears inside of me.
I'm a flawed human whose mind and heart often disagree.
I don't have parts, interior mechanisms like those inside a clock.
but if my heart makes a decision, my mind puts up a roadblock.
There's no symbiosis between them, nor a willingness to agree.
Each day is a struggle for me, from which I cannot break free.
Mechanical parts of a washing machine sometimes need repair,
but when heart and mind are at odds, it's a hardship I must bear.
It's pugilistic sparring and I'm overwhelmed with doubt and fears
because I'm the one who always gets hurt, bringing me to tears.
I can't get through to my heart, and simply cannot make it clear
to a stubborn mind that tunes out what it doesn't want to hear.
I've pleaded and tried bartering but neither one will take heed.
I've accused them both of having an ego and an attitude of greed.
The interior machinations of my mind and heart often malfunction.
My heart seeks love, while my mind is smug with selfish unction.
I can't really remember when the last time was, they ever agreed.
They're an enigma, each one having its own beliefs and creed.
We’re in a young-love recession.
Gen Zers are slow to trust and averse to risk,
we have, it seems, a particular social nervousness
about interpersonal exchanges and the symbiosis of love.
So we resort to situationships (undefined relationships),
a stratagem for closeness, with zero commitment.
You can flirt; you can kiss; you can dance.
You can have a crush so big it blots out the stars
You can have transformative romantic encounters
you can care deeply and get hurt badly
you can, in fact, be absolutely wrecked by love
All without ever being in a relationship.
Thank God we’re only young once.
.
.
Songs for this:
Die With A Smile by Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars
Busy Woman by Sabrina Carpenter
The last trailing tendril filaments
of moon beams nocturnally trace
fashion an illusory gilded chariot Ark,
whence upon celestial runners,
the approach of dawn's early light
illuminated terrestrial space
which nebulous solar city flanges
revisited since time millennial
hubbub of human race
nsync with Zodiacal constellations,
which appear to shift
as planet Earth axis place
alternated in accordance with
inexplicable universal teenage
mutant Ninja turtles joint pact
with power rangers assumption
sans quotidian playstation remotely
controlled by aliens upon
oblate spheroid figurative stage
set whence commencement nudged
village people foment quiet riot rage
and rant against
uncontrollable catastrophic frenzy,
when cosmic creator
rehearses another page
from playbook, which
color coded cobbled Bible
emanates with radiant hues
of yellow and osage
nonetheless, no mortal adept to predict
(only within plus and/or minus
some marginal variance of error).
oft times punishing atmospheric phenomena
incarcerated, pistol whipped
(if anther incorrect),
whiplash unleashed, oppressed, imposed
challenging condition testing ground
flora and fauna could thrive,
whereat most hardy
plants and animals didst abound
linkedin upon terra firmae
murmur of orchestrated
organisms devising fitting
evolutionary survival traits
plentiful glory vis a vis L'Chaim;
gnome hatter outlook required
sprinting thru uber vanguard,
where zero sum game pitted
disadvantaged Feng shui
living things poorly sparred mismatched
against itching attired egghead,
kickstarting netzero beastie boys
indeed emulating hotmail prodigies
holding greensward ground.
scrimmage fostered, elicited,
dictated, commandeered nature
going full throttle with pings
across biological labyrinth
positioning glommed, peeved,
mis tweeted seeds of life, and white lily,
within soil lent green grubby business
whereby herb and woody stemmed
recalcitrant proto flings
wrote toe rooter bakers
gave Gaia a run for her money
to buy Buffalo wings
chasing miscreants nimbly
outwitting, out-rigging
outsmarting nettlesome stings,
and sage protuberant fungi,
released messengers where rise home
spore ports left nada mushroom,
though symbiosis wood
bark a roll a cord.
"There are fairies at the bottom of my garden"...from a song by Noel Coward.
In gardens, glens, and forest glades
That oft great banquet halls resemble,
On a summer's night,
If the moon is bright,
One might see fairy folk assemble.
One night, by purest happenstance,
I chanced by one such congregation.
I stood bespelled
At what I beheld
To be a fairy celebration.
But something seemed to be amiss,
Their demeanor was alarming.
No joyful tunes
Or ribald runes,
These fairy folk were mourning.
As I strained to hear, quite suddenly,
I kenned why they were grieving.
They keened and cried,
A fairy died
Because a human stopped believing.
It's no supernatural malady
Or some mysterious psychosis.
How fairies thrive
And stay alive
Is by simple symbiosis.
They need us to believe in them
To keep their ranks from falling.
And, yes, it's true,
We need them, too,
So listen for their calling.
May I never grow too old to dream,
May my heart, with age, not harden.
Then they'll not grieve
Whilst I believe
In the fairies in my garden.
I can hear their haunting music now,
Tantalizing and pulsating.
I must away,
I cannot stay,
My fairy folk are waiting.
Soul’s Imperil
Embrace the lost
creative gift
Keep it closest
to your heart
Ignore it
at your soul’s imperil
Whose ire tears
— your world apart
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Mistral Wind
First
Last
And Always
— say something
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Symbiosis
Without real freedom
true privacy dies
The right to our secrets
— in liberty lies
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Echoes Surround
You’ve been leaving
since before you arrived
The seeds of denial
you planted inside
To run in the wasteland
where echoes surround
An orphan retreating
— despoiled and bound
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Without The Dark
No saint
without a past
No sinner
without a future
No faith
without a doubt
No light
— without the dark
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
A Verbal Palette
A Poem is but a picture
— painted with words
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Leading Us Onward
Beautiful
chaos
A wonderous
chime
That rings
beyond order
And seeks
to defy
Leading
us onward
Calling
our name
Beyond
what’s endemic
Resplendence
— ordained
(Dreamsleep: March, 2026)
Looking Deeper
Did you ever love
what’s in the box
But hate
the way it’s wrapped
The politics
of modern life
Repels
— what it attracts
(Dreamsleep: March, 2027)
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
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December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.