Long Tick off Poems
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As we sit in anticipation watching the clock countdown
Our minds racing filled with thoughts of renaissance
The talk turns slowly to the making of vows
And we think about sleep and the years reset
After everything that edified us as we celebrate
What will this year bring as we welcome the outset
Filled with optimism at the new years outset
The clocks count our blessings in their continued countdown
As we strive forward small victories we celebrate
As we enter the dawn of our renaissance
As all the negatives we purge and reset
And positivity our mantra that was the vow
In our minds eye we remember that vow
Staying strong and positive like at the outset
Remembering each day to pause and reset
As we tick off goals like the tick tock of a clocks countdown
Positive thoughts kickstart our personal renaissance
As we grow and allow others to grow we continue to celebrate
As we recognise our growth it gives cause to celebrate
Soon we tick off that almost insurmountable final vow
We allow no negativity to hinder our renaissance
As not only we survive but thrive from the outset
No longer do we hear the clocks ominous countdown
As we grow we need less that thought of reset
As we win we watch others still in need of a reset
But with each milestone etched is cause to celebrate
And now we are the ones in control of the countdown
As others see us and admire our vow
And we share its about being consistent, being steady from the outset
As we by our renewal are able to contribute to others renaissance
Be alert in guarding against relapse following renaissance
As the world will try to inevitable push you to reset
But they have not witnessed your strength since the outset
The world fails to grasp its each day you celebrate
And now you have no need of the vow
As you usher in the final countdown
I vow to live my life with every reason to celebrate
And I realise from the outset it was life that I reset
I feel revived and restored in my renaissance as I end the countdown
After "Being a Person" by William Stafford
“suddenly this dream you are having matches
everyone’s dream, and the result is the world”
the synchronicity, perfect
beating like a heart in a box
the ticking of a metronome
swing, swing, tick off into the air
it’s a moment you can breathe when you had been drowning before
except now everyone, everyone, is drowning with you
do you think I’ll grow gills, mom?
learn to breathe in an unbreathable space
maybe we can all grow gills at the same time
and nobody would need the air
we could survive, happy, with mutual understanding
but the world is a single second
it passed already when you read that line
the space in the breath that happens
before you plunge into the water again
you’ve got a taste of it now, the air
did it stick between your teeth like taffy?
did you like the taste or did you like it better when you were suffering with them all?
that combination of right place, right time
when everyone is linked
and a whole world is gaping in one swing of a pendulum
so don’t lose it, don’t wait
for the swinging to go out of sync
you lose all of the wonder
you missed the timeframe, the ocean’s closed
the continents have formed how they have, you’re done!
growing gills is only possible if we make it that way
the clarity you see while dreaming
of what the world can be
in such a limited space of a moment's pause
a warning of what we cannot waste
it rises up higher than anything has ever been
dissipates into the air, gone
the ticking is too loud now, too intermittent
its synchronicity is now unheard of -
never again seen or replicated
gone too fast, too soon
the water is too deep to breathe in.
The queue was long, fifty or so,
Spacesuits donned, ready to go.
With wife and son, of ten years old
We await our journey to unfold.
Earths orbit was good, the moon even better,
But Mars signifies the true jet setter.
The craft in the hanger, white and obscene
Larger than any craft I’d ever seen.
The gel like seats programmed to mould,
To any shape or form you wish to unfold.
And a gravity equaliser on board to boot
Working in harmony with your gravity suit.
The craft will propel via the repellent field,
protected of course by the ships heat shield.
No sound detected, no smell of the fumes
Until the atomic fusion produces a subsonic boom.
It’s 30 days and the orbit is reached
Through cryogenic state, our rest is not breached.
The planet below is a sight so immense
As the shuttles descent keeps us all in suspense.
There it is, a majestic city in lights,
Incoming shuttles, so many flights.
Visors lowered, to protect from the sun
Cold to the touch, before the gloves are put on.
A city of forests and huge water falls,
A man made miracle with customary malls.
The ultimate holiday to tick off the list.
Human exploration not to be missed.
I sense tomorrow is the future- Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Sheri Fresonke Harper
Date - 8th October 2019
And then ..
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
And then..
The ribbon and the cuff link
Escort the gent..
That annoy
Man about a woman
On the long wait
Of her dress up
But then..
The afterward will
Be splendid
When the deal is done
The beauty of her
Smart on your arm.
Before then ..
She vexes and maddens
And makes the blood boil
Too much wick and tick off
The man go nut's
He is in rut to go.
The stockings go up
The lipstick on.
The right way ?
Thats right
Her head rotate's
"How do I look
Is this colour right"
Inquiry ?
"My hair is sitting
In the chair"
She complains
Her miff continues
As if the mirror foils
Round and round she twist
My blood boils
As she pencils
Her lips red for minutes
Till it ends.
But then !
When she grabs my hand
After make up
The twist starts
And another gent
In the foyer
Get's the goat.
I feel A millionaire
When she leads
Me arm on
In those stilettos
Balanced and poised.
And then..
All worth the wait
We look superb
And me I feel like
the main lion
In the den.
The ribbon on the cuff link
What a hit !
And then
Bling !!
We cream the dance floor
And all the other penguins
Look on ..
Supreme la belle le beau ..
There is a sizzle.
Form:
Death is an experience life has prepared me for ~ by poet.
As the years accumulate.... like so much dust;
time makes its presence known ~
wrinkled skin, hair loss, and an assortment of aching bones
tick off the moments, days, months years
culminating in death...
Death is tethered to life;
fundamentally... it's the fulfillment of life.
Birth gives birth - to death ~ they're conjoined,
one cannot exist without the other.
Tears spontaneously flow at both - equally,
death - is - not - the - end ~ nor the beginning!
A circle has no beginning or end
and neither do souls...
We are souls, created, in the image of God
eternal ethereal sentient...
circles within circles - birth, death,
dreams - within dreams - within dreams ~
life death - death life;
words ingrained in our thoughts ~ used to justify
reality, as we perceive it to be.
Our view ~ limited by our conciseness,
we label death as the end of everything;
including ourselves.
But is that true?
Time
Like a shimmery satin
Ribbon blowing in the wind
Time slips and twists,
Its meaning constantly shifting.
How much time is there?
Do we have time? How long?
Can space be time? Is there
Only a certain space of time
In which we are caught, live
Out our lifespan and die?
There is a certain time,
To catch a train, a set time
For an appointment.
How long is a stretch of time?
Is time enough just enough
Or more than enough?
Is it an hour, a week, a year?
Is an eon still time?
Does time have weight?
Can it weigh heavily on someone?
When is there not enough time?
A day to take a trip?
A month to pay bills?
Is time longer or shorter
When you don’t have the money?
How can time be short for
One person and long for another?
Is a long time heavy or light?
What about a moment in history?
Is the moment time?
Is history time or is it space?
So, what IS time? Is it flexible?
A perception? An idea? How can
Time be both exact and inexact!
Clock pendulums swing, but
They tick off only the hours,
And minutes and seconds,
Never the elastic, elusive time
Which spins its own thread,
That constantly weaves in
And out of our lives,
Like a ribbon in the wind.
I hike as I've hiked a thousand times gone
But curved like a serpent, the path that I'm on
The scrunching of steps in the snow as I walk
Tick off precious seconds of time as they mock
The night swallows minutes, as they swallow me
Hard payment, in lifeblood, for mortality ...
The magical mood of a white-spattered sky
A dance, drifting soft, as the wink of an eye
Small heavenly jewels of a winter sky's weep
And crystalline tears of the season's cold creep
Soft, tickling my face with memories, frozen
The frosty reminders of fates that I've chosen ...
- Thus, leaving the plane wreck behind in a storm
I set out in hopes of some refuge that's warm
And now, three days hence, air whispering death
I'll trudge steady-on 'til my last icy breath ...
For should I end up in this cold, barren ground
Ah, blessed will I end, with such beauty around ...
In the midst of a providence few ever know ...
Enchantingly baptized ... by a heavenly snow!
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Action Adventure" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
The usurpation of the annual right of solstice
by a quarrelsome religious upstart,
Lead to the re-designation of the celebration
due to its now newly designated Holy part.
In order for a connection to be formed
between the Lord and a party that was pagan,
The symbolism had to be reworked
until for Christians it could be displayed again.
By this intent, the Roman festival of Saturnalia
surrendered its celebratory rite,
And donated all that it possessed
to those who recognized a birth one Holy night.
Is this to say that the adherents of the newly
formed holiday were being misdirected?
Or that the symbols of the pagan celebration
are something that needed to be inspected?
I advocate for the negative in response
to the above outlined interrogatives,
Instead I shall take a stand to allow each
to follow their own personal prerogatives.
And if any of what you’ve read in this missive
should sway you into taking pause,
You’ll probably want to keep it to yourself
Or there’s a chance that you’ll tick off Santa Claus.
It seems that I am getting old and grey,
my body's also slowing down its pace.
But, I've still much to do, and much to say.
It seems to me that life is like a race,
It starts off fast with youth upon your side.
You swiftly run and barely leave a trace.
It seems each day is like a rolling tide
that ebbs and flows decisions are engaged.
And through each year no choice, we take the ride.
It seems before too long we're middle aged
more settled, future planned, yet to unfold.
Perspectives held when young have some-what changed.
It seems somehow, our lives become controlled
by forces unforeseen we cannot stop.
Dictated by our bodies growing old.
It seems that soon we'll have to close the shop,
and face the fact we can no longer be.
So, take the final journey to the top.
It seems the bucket list that is for me
is incomplete, therefore I'll have to stay.
Tick off the list to do and lots to see.
And I should really start this all today,
it seems that I am getting old and grey.
Wordsworth wrote, in 'Splendor in the Grass,'
about the glory that can be found in the flower.
He alluded to a love that had long since passed,
like clock hands tick off each second and hour.
He was saddened when taken from his sight,
was the radiance of a great love he once knew.
His world had been filled with splendid light,
but then darkened in shades of gray and blue.
He wrote to tell readers they should not grieve,
for a love that has been lost or left behind.
But that poet's words I am unable to believe,
for I consider them callous, no truth do I find.
I wonder if Wordsworth had ever shed a tear,
or had his heart broken or hardened to stone.
Did he ever lose a love that he once held dear?
And in his hour of pitiable grief, did he cry alone?
Wordsworth may have been a bard, a poet grand,
but in his 'Splendor...' quote, he has clearly shown
the falsehood written with ink quill in his hand,
for I have grieved for lost loves... I have cried alone.