Long Wasps Poems
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Mountains of snow, with colder snow underneath.
We all have phones in our pockets.
I set a timer to the last time we talked.
Left it all in the snow.
A river is where we used to hang out.
Is now just a river with fish, and not us.
The fish wonder where we went.
They head south.
The tire swing was taken over by wasps.
Whispering wasps which are disagreeable.
Stinging, and buzzing.
We had an argument here, before that tree was overwhelmed with those wasps.
Mountains of old texts.
We have newer and newer phones over the years.
Delete them, or don’t.
The mountain will grow.
Colder snow and river canoes.
Friendships which left scattered clues.
An argument which was like a wasp in a tree.
We took different paths, which were almost free…
Until I reached the toll booth.
And he asked for five dollars and the truth.
Give money to make the old road disappear.
Delete that last text with a tear.
I am stifled, stagnant, stressed and seriously strung
from streetlight to streetlight
There is nothing left, my energy is kaput, gone.
My creativity is something I barely remember.
Until I get home to my refuge in the country,
my trees, my lilacs, my lilies, my tulips, my earth.
I shed the cloak of heaviness, at my front door,
running toward my lightest coolest dress.
In seconds I am outside walking from one corner of my yard
to another, taking photos.
Talking to my trees, hugging them even,
replenishing the bird feeders, while cardinals soar in.
Butterflies light on my shoulders, dragonflies dive-bomb me,
I am Snow White here.
I do not whistle but I chant as I walk around my yard loving my flowers,
pulling up weeds.
All of the weeds have a place somewhere. I place them where nothing grows,
Knowing next year they will fill up this bare spot.
The only plants I do not replant are thistles.
Thistles hurt so much when I step on them barefoot,
and barefoot I am in my faerie yard.
So I pull up the thistles and I put them into my dumpster
knowing they will thrive at the dump.
I have a wild rose bush I had to dig up from another place
way deep in the forest.
It took me six hours. I thought it would be worth it.
It took four years to bloom.
That fourth year I said to it
“If you do not have one bloom tomorrow, I am throwing you away.”
The next day I woke up to that rose bush with forty beautiful hot pink flowers.
I kid you not.
When I am gone for a few days my yard comes alive upon my return.
The trees begin waving frantically even when there is no wind.
My husband always comments on it. Archangel Jophiel and I laugh about it.
She comes to me at night, and we discuss the beautiful things we have seen.
We discuss the grasshoppers, bees, wasps and yellow jackets too.
My yard is alive, five flower gardens in all. With unexpected visitors.
I sometimes see a gorgeous snake or a handsomely painted turtle.
There is a reverence and awe about it
I cannot fully explain, but it amazes me always.
A fair pile of graded kindling and fresh limbs.
Wooden spring, deep brooding in each fiber, the damp air won't help.
White fire, a searing brain, a taxing task, omni-repetitive, still
remains at one hand.
Weakling losing life to the vain ones' trash-talk.
Destroy nothing is what they did, flickering out in the same degrees they claim to cling in.
A generation of defeat, the last one's shadow losing to mind
creases, a folded reality to claim them by late afternoon.
Choose—no time for two. Soon you needn't think the weaker... the seeker.
Go now, or this all can be taken faster than you can react.
Try it—know you think accomplishment compliments the brave.
The hills will pass, and a valley collapsed and caved; all redacts the same.
Take lessons that I had taught you.
Are what you are just to be the same? Shame.
Your life in life, death, and in debt howled at the thought when that parasite finally sung in the cerebral mind walkway.
The Gong is struck when you start to continue on without commands.
It will drive, dive, and when invited inside, sink.
First signs showed themselves from a sunken pool deep and became entrenched, irremovable inside incredible things.
In irreversible time, you fall behind the lines of your very own eyes, sidelined, sliding horizon behind the glassed iris.
Looking out at a child to continue and thrive would be a slightly happier cry.
The Swan, at the moment, swaps a wasps' for the beetle's task.
Tasked with a peculiar torture devised, violent arches stretch in the middle remained in vicious spasms for the remaining nights.
Up until the dreadful last palpitations in an infernal happening expunging the heart from clotting, culminating in a violent expulsion.
SUMMER DAYS
Watch a swallow swoop
and pass above an old meadow,
lush with grass. Speckled starlings
sing with delight over flying ants
in nuptial flight. Buckthorn in a dense
hedge screen. Ceanothus ,shaded green
Jasmine,Honeysuckle,Bittersweet
scents to mingle in summer heat
Clouds of teasels spiral tall
'midst dancing grasses against a wall
wandering wasps picnicing un-checked
onto perfumed petals,paperwhite
first intoxicate,then delight,
high above Cauliflower clouds,nimbus
topped weep a shower of warm tear-drops.
PASTURES GONE
buttercup yellow
kissing cowslips
dandelion,poppy and daisy,
corn marigold
cow parsley and clover,
a willow that weeps
and meadow-sweet,
deep in a forgotten pasture.
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name ichthyschiro
cinnamon seeps into the home and I can already smell the sugar crumble
a fragrance of childhood innocence captures memories and recollections
different times they were when fresh food could only be bought in season
or harvested from a garden plot that teased my taste buds when growing
beans and potatoes where for the winter alongside spicy pickled cucumber
carrots and beet root were quietly flourishing under cover of fertile soil
to warm as soup longing hearts and bodies when the heating stayed cold
it was post-war and my family still remembered frost bombs and hunger
giving shelter a garden loo I remember was painted and faded in Royal Blue
with a heart carved out into the door although there was probably none
every time you sat there you knew you were producing valuable compost
sustainable living is neither a very modern invention nor flatulent science
behind it a rampant blueberry hedge stood tall and proud in the autumn
you had to duck and stretch out to pick the harvest from thorny branches
did not mind the scratches and bleeding because hunters and gatherers
know that food on the table required skill resilience as well as tough toil
the lacerations were like medals and badges of honour for the pickers
fuelled the collection bucked mixed with sweat from young skin full of
endurance purpose and meaningful clusters of patience and strong hope
for life pastry and home cooking in years when food had not to be fast
much later a psychotherapy lecturer painted a picture of therapeutics
and reminded me that blueberry crumble starts with flowering beauty
proceeds through passion and effort with spiky endeavour to seed
and preserving fruit and effort is a necessary rite of passage to reap
I have succumbed to taking my pills and they assist me on my journey
but when I feel blue I sit in my garden and listen for birds in the hedge
share crops with bees and grateful wasps in silence no sting in the tale
eat biscuits and feast on remembrance so that my nostrils fill with joy
21st August 2020
And the monk -
that graveyard instrument of bone and golden hair -
laughed like a maestro striking a black bell.
"Begin?" he said,
"As though the soul were simply a corridor,
with arrows nailed into the walls."
Outside, the trees were committing
their annual suicide into autumn,
each leaf a small, burnt scripture,
spiraling through the throat of God.
I desire instruction.
A clean, pristine wound
A staircase hammered into heaven.
Instead, he handed me silence -
that terrible animal with human eyes.
"Listen," he whispered,
and even the dust obeyed.
The room grew enormous.
The candle performed its yellow autopsy
upon the dark.
Somewhere, invisible clocks
were chewing the ankles of time.
Then, I saw it:
how the body is only a rented coat
hung briefly upon the nail of breath;
how thought is a swarm of wasps
mistaking its hive for eternity;
how beneath the skull's temple
something starved and holy
keeps beating its bruised wings
against its own bars.
I had spent years
dragging my reflection through mirrors,
calling it a vocation of life.
But the monk opened his hands
as though releasing a bluebird neither living nor dead
and the world split.
Not dramatically.
No choir caroled
No jeweled grand revelation
Only this:
the unbearable intimacy of everything.
The rain entering the roots
without assent
The moon trembling inside a puddle of oil.
My grief wearing the face of every stranger walking by.
And, suddenly,
I could not locate myself.
The self I had defended like my kingdom
was smoke stitching itself to smoke.
Even suffering -
a clever actress dragged in widow - black -
removed her makeup at dawn.
What remained?
Not happiness,
that is too small a word.
Not peace,
peace still imagines an opposite.
Rather:
a vastness without chattels,
where even God has taken off His face.
The monk touched my forehead.
His fingers smelled faintly of cedar and graves.
"You ask for a path," he murmured,
"but truth walks only through wilderness.
The river reaches the sea
precisely because
it forgets who it is."
HEAVEN'S NATURE WITNESS OUR DREAM
Outstretched maternal skies
bleeding slowly as the sun smiles,
running golden rays
fugue flux flowed by,
frozen bear-shaped clouds
extend their arms to hug the beams.
Charmingly, the light meets
the earth with a tender embrace...
Escaped warmth escalates,
it raise the speed of roses blush,
dew caressing snake-grass dried in flash,
gold-and-black striped wasps kiss---
the red apples chin and oh how sweet
even the nestled mistrels began to sing!
Skirt-lair of violets and lilacs puff
luring scents, it populates the atmosphere.
Finger-tantalized tendrils of hair
stroke repeatedly the whistling wind,
gently I clap my hands:
an accompaniment to thumps and stomps
of the two children laughing, dancing 'round and 'round.
Beside me, I hear his heart, beats! Beats! B-e-a-t...!
Beating like a little butterfly fluttering greet,
he planted a silky kiss atop my head.
Under the windows of gigantic trees,
the heavens witness the fruits,
we long dream.
When Cupids arrow land
finally hitting the right hearts:
"Imperfect but perfectly matched"...
Love mimics the tone of evergreens,
the sadness throbs tearing twang
it will be readily forgotten,
unmindful of the questions: how and why...
_______________________________________________________________
***FREE VERSE - other term "vers libre", a form that doesn't use or follow a specific consistent meter; a regular rhyme and a particular number of lines. It is based on normal pauses and natural rhythmical phrases as compared to the artificial constraints of normal poetry.
***I love this poetry form because it allows me to write artistically; pattern;incorporate;narrate and include a bit of everything about other poetry forms: rhymes, alliteration, personification, metaphor, prose, rhythm, sounds etc. I as well can limit two lines with its syllable count to achieve beat and intensity. I alone can limit my pen.
Lastly, it underlines POETRY FREEDOM and POETRY EXPRESSION not limited by rules.
***For the contest: Poetry Writing #1
Sponsor: Broken Wings***
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
1:16 pm, December 16, 2015
Late afternoon October 15th, 2022
a spring like day
witnessed nature in surround sound,
whereby reflection spurred
reminiscence about similar weather
a few years ago when...
Serious intent to read
latest issue of TIME magazine
found attention pleasantly distracted,
when I became keenly aware
of flora and fauna bursting,
blooming, buzzing, and twittering
oblivious to yours truly sitting stock still
in folding lawn chair
marveling at each budding
natural born architect and engineer
each respective constituent
living organism engrossed
delicate as deft potters crafting chinaware
observing good and
plenti hive nesting reverential species
trumpeting suave and donning debonair
without any pretentious fanfare
merely obedient to genetic coded wear,
exclusive domain glorified, ordained,
and sanctified by divine imprimatur
contemplating if despair
experienced by coterie of biosphere
not including *****sapiens,
and/or aghast that their extinction
dooms them to disappear,
which undeserved fate unfair
for innocent animals and plants
critically contributing as
unique vital gadgeteer
linkedin to significant role
evolution indiscriminately licensed
met with preserved concord, versus mutineer
extant among bipedal hominids
each and every simian forebear
generally recent primate ancestors,
whose short lifespans predated medicare,
but more particularly modern man/woman,
who flagrantly extracted precious
minerals, plundered mountains,
usurped possibly, sans sadling muleteer
and/or forced chaingang extruded
raw materials to concoct wear
able, munitions, disposable,
and most importantly
deadly ordnance for bloody warfare,
never quenching thirst for mortal Kombat,
nor scooping up riches galore,
no matter wealthy status equals bajillionaire!
Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades are there now,
These anterdiluvian giants,
The empires,
The first is around the old empire Roman,
In Europe, a tiger named Shere Khan,
Fashion warps the bodies of humans,
Else, Pharisees - the wasps seduce Byzantium and Russia,
A shady lodge in Protestant countries,
Conspiracy dungeon,
A femme fatale,
Joseph, the brother,
The exterior court against Christian vineyards,
The army,
The tsunami,
Almost a world war,
My icon stops, not a trump card,
Like the "French Grand Monarch",
Monte Cristo count,
Forerunner and precursor Ivanhoe knight,
With the Pope of the third secret of Fatima,
Enoch and Elijah,
Two little ones against these giants with their own cults,
Three heads of bipolar Goliath,
Daughters of the nations sleep with these different types of arrogance,
To lie,
Become the mermaids of Charibdis and Scylla:
Adah and Zillah,
Lamech's wives,
To kill is their pride,
The Pharisaic leaven makes these giants grow for Ahab,
His kitchen garden,
Cain weeds in reality as a stamp,
Triple beastliness in alien farms,
Fallen stars,
On flags around the Virgin Ark,
Fires and arms in hands with Iscariot Judas,
Finally, these dwarfs against the Light,
That Light shines in the darkness,
Why do the nations rage, and the peoples plot in vain?!
Everyone has a story,
of their favorite things to tell.
Nobody likes to talk about,
those things that make them mad as hell.
So here are a few of the things ,
that really get me pissed.
I know that you can probably,
add a few things to this list.
I hate weeds among my garden flowers,
that have roots ten feet long.
People who sing at the top of their voice,
but don’t know the words to the song.
Folks that take an hour just to tell me,
something that could be said in two words.
Groundhogs that live under the shed,
the frickin neighbor’s cat that kills my birds.
Standing in line at the grocery store while,
someone goes back for an item they forgot.
Waiting fifteen minutes for a price check,
on something that they bought.
The outrageous prices of milk, bread, gas and beer,
the things any civilized person can’t live without.
The smell of a wet dog after a walk in the rain,
people talking on phones and think they have to shout.
How bout the stupid dog that won’t stop barking,
though there’s absolutely nothing to bark about.
White cat hair on black clothes and I don’t own a cat,
a new shirt ruined because a stain won’t come out.
A tuft of hair that just refuses to stay in place,
socks that keep falling down to wrinkle under my toes.
Road construction signs and no workers within sight,
That wild white hair that keeps tickling my nose.
Wasps, hornets, bees, spiders and snakes,
that jump right out of nowhere it seems.
Being woken up by the doorbell,
just as I get to the good part of the dreams.