Long Whorls Poems
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Last night I drifted between dreams.
The dawn was too weak to keep me awake.
I closed my eyes with intention—
to step back through the curtain.
The dream re-opened lucid,
not as I had left it then,
but as I wanted it to be.
I warped the path of the flowing stream.
Its waters following my lead.
I called to the spirits,
the half-seen and half-forgotten,
and they came in up close.
They hummed their mantras,
their eyes enlivened with flame.
Their fire did not burn.
It melted old dregs away;
things I had clung to.
Renewal rose through my chest,
bright and oddly burden free
I pressed through the ashes.
Sought not to awaken but to reshape—
To change what was fixed.
The dream became pliable.
A soft-clay under my breath.
I felt doubt and concern as,
I opened the door, entered the space,
feet bare on the floor.
Each corridor was pliant for me—
the walls redrew with each sleepy sigh.
When morning awoke and returned,
the dream’s pulse still beat in me.
As my eyes opened, I knew,
that we can rearrange whorls,
when sleep and waking coalesce.
We live in what a world
that
whorls
and whirligigs with giant feet
upon
its
waters splashing along as if
its
coastland
His hem not even
wet
like flying fish Peter’s hands
flip and
flop
into the palms of Christ
who
sets
His disciple back in the boat
mercy’s
in
Christ’s eyes His Father smiles
shines
the Holy Spirit
Angels applaud all the glory
as
for
earthlings there’s a story
A field afire
papery petals glow like ruby votive candles
a collection of cupped solar flames
vowed to shine despite the dew before dawn
evaporating any doubt the sun would rise
the mist would lift
consoling one in darkness
Rising up where wildflowers past have fallen
victim to soil fallow and shallow
your Spring growth resurrects my hope
as your resurgent blooms stretch to the heavens
I awaken thawed from the frost of loss
regenerated by dreams
of undying love sacrifice and joy
O poppy blood red
vast your bed a symbol of life and death
and imagination.. you inspire me with your irony
your roots belie a feathery foliage
anchored though airy
light and looking like you might take flight
but spirited blossoms stand an army of angels
earthbound and blushing
My breath stops when I gaze upon you — yet
when I walk among your thronging whorls
grazed by your grace
my chest rises and falls
my bloodstream set ablaze
by the grandeur of your inner light
my heart rejoices with the voices of breezes
aswirl with a swish through your scarlet banners of peace
We share a savor for new-day chardonnay skies
tender the warm tinge before summer’s singe
rhythmic air moves us with singsong sighs
a swaying dance of sepaled celebrants
with nary a fresh bud trod upon
crimson and sunrise spirit and flesh
raising palms and psalms in thanks and praise
festive in rebirth and remembrance
where tears fall not as rain but as
c o n f e t t i
as my heart carries the bouquet of your immortal beauty
like a bride on her May wedding day
Susan Ashley
March 11, 2022
*Dedicated to my father who gently passed on June 10, 2021.
You are loved and missed dearly, dad
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Spring Showers or Spring Flowers
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
*nary: not, or not any
(Image: Glow with pride: Express.co.uk)
My mood is purple today.
A pinch of chilly, a slap of icy rain.
The kind of mood you silently curse.
When it knocks the sextant from your self-worth.
My mood is purple today.
So, you'll say hello to me first.
Or there'll be no fake cordial at all.
This purpleness will soon pass...hopefully.
Like wind ripples in green whorls of grass.
But for now, give me a sliver of space.
Stay clear of my vibrating horn.
The one with dried blood in its thorn.
I'll stay chained to my pen for most of the day.
If you want to communicate,
click like a dolphin from a distant bay.
My mood is purple today.
The gods were deleted and the tribes archived
the Vista-View—two bedrooms
beige-on-beige a fungal beard
colonizing the microwave’s lip
You watched the iron bars then the glass
then the greenish biometric light
the glass drinks the whorls of your thumb
a cyan leech labeling the ridges before
the neurons arrive early
coaxing a instinct to open its eye
matter blinking awake in their wake
always a beat behind
its outline—stubborn delayed—stumbling to catch up
A vertebra clicks and the world misfires
the locker room’s thick lactating reek
wet cement and the chemical musk of
Axe Phoenix—a scent so violent
it strips the insulation
it kicks you back into the teenage animal
gristle of your own neck
3:14 a.m. at the Wawa parking lot
sodium lamps stutter in saltatory arcs
leaking amber data into the asphalt
a signal failing to hop the gap
unsure which reality they are meant to illuminate
You a prisoner
You the Ouijaboard
the opera is transcribed in unpaid late hours
stripped myelin pale lipids drifting like snow
the white noise of your own making
slowed to an unmarketable frequency
The listening that is not a listener
does not want your confession
it waits for the precise imperceptible
asymptomatic instant
your respiration falls out of compliance
Status: nerve sheath thinning
Status: saltatory conduction faltering
Status: epineurium issuing final instructions
"Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune, and gave her Nature's most healing balm." ~ Louisa May Alcott
Dawn's light awakens me from sleep,
as morning light unfurls.
On the skyline I see it sweep
across meadows of grazing sheep.
Dewdrops hang like fine strands of pearls
on webs of silken whorls.
Like tears, they fell in waning night
as if the sky was grieved,
but in amber rays of daylight
I clearly see the dewy sight
of moisture, to which leaves have cleaved...
their thirst has been relieved.
Lush, the grass when it drank its fill
from Nature's water tap.
My garden is happy to swill
morning mist when the air is chill.
Petals fold to better entrap
drops for flowers to lap.
Prismed by the sun's reflection,
each pearl soon disappears,
dried by Ra's heated subjection.
There will be a new collection
when in the morning there appears
dew that's been shed as tears.
Original Date of Posting ~ June 18, 2022
Dewdrops Contest
This Challenge ~ December 3, 2022
Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
We're honored
to carry you home
in a simple pine chrysalis
engraved with your verse.
Behind the procession
lie the whorls of living
pastels of decay...
From all the chaos the soul will ascend.
Beyond the cloud-kissed steps
beautifully winged, so delicate.
Dear friend,
Are all the answers now within your grasp?
The breath of God-the heart of infinity
Pulsating in the purest purity
from which every angel cascades
in glades of clover minted with infinity
high in a hushed lavender mist...
Void of stresses of the flesh
here is where the mind can finally rest.
Black echo of doubt cannot fiord this forever nest of time.
We're born into foolish folly, aren't we?
Then die with a few verses of veneer.
Panning for the shine of living
vomiting the remanence of life
like owl pellets.
In colors this canvas reminds me of our plastic card table cover
The one in reds and blacks that helped us to learn bridge
Mom did not need it; she was an avid bridge player
But Daddy and the rest of us did. This is what I saw on first glance.
I had not thought of this card table cover in fifty years!
Next I spied my usual doddles – swirls, whorls, dragon zigzagging spikes
This looks like what I do when I am held hostage on a phone call
Usually by my great aunt, but sometimes by a wordy neighbor
Doodling on speed, is how I think about it.
If I had a nickel for every one of these I have drawn!
The blacks and whites are prominent.
Bits of red seem intentional, not as accidental as the lines.
Not sure where the greenish yellow color came from
Something mixed up by the artist perhaps,
Unsure if it even has a name.
Christmas spirit was all over the house.
A day for a party, but with plenty of louse.
Ding-a-ling-bring-some-sling unseeing Dan
Came alone, which is always the best that he can.
He contributed chocolate fudge that was tasty and sweet.
For his amazing mother’s sugar cookies cannot be beat.
Candy cane crystals blinked in succession from the Christmas tree.
You want to know about everybody? I asked. Come sit by me.
Take a bite out of every piece of pie for corpulent Laura is back.
She drove up in a shanty of a Hackensack beer belly without any tack.
We knew now the party could truly begin, and possibly turn on a whim.
For she usually brings Enthusiastic Essie, her fun-loving, identical twin.
Christmas carols were being piped in courtesy of the host’s daughter.
Gladypipes herself is not here, absent after running off with a potter.
Watch out! Pompous unholy Lady of the Arrogance church is here.
Sitting alone in a corner, on her non-smelling, prissy stuck up rear.
Some of the newcomers have sat down, trying to make small talk.
Discovering she is as mean as they come with uplifted beak of a hawk.
Christmas party full swing now. People are gobbling up cakes and pie.
In the east, I see Jesus’s happy star, winking down from the sky.
Prissy non-listening glistening, kissening, fissening Man of the West.
Is flitting from young woman to old matron, flicking winks at the rest.
Most of us felines know him exceedingly well in a rather bad way.
He's dated every single one of us from twenty to forty; he likes to stray.
Another successful party, full of gusto and girth, gladness and giggles.
I write it all down quickly with juicy whorls, curls, and squiggles.
A dribble of pink
A dabble of green
She dances in starlight
Imagination full seen
Her artistic flair twirls and spins right ahead.
A splash of sequins flow lively
Into her fantastical head
Rhinestone dreams formulate a clever stream
of fun-loving sparkling, bits of clever dream scenes
A dribble of paisley,
A swirl of love
Her canvas takes on its own attributes
inspired by heaven above
Whorls and whirls
Imagination on fire for sure
A dribble of lavender
Reminding her that art is all pure.
A splash of thunder
A bolt of plaid with a fuss.
A true artist’s power, as it always was…
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Contest: Splash of Something
Written 6-2-2020