Where heather hums in Atlantic rain,
old stones remember names;
the wind through gorse like whispered pain
keens low the exile’s flames.
A curlew cries above the bog,
its call a silver thread;
it stitches sky to sodden fog
where silent feet have bled.
O Sídhe stir beneath the hill,
in twilight’s hollow breath;
their music bends the human will
to dance with time and death.
Yet green endures through grief and
Little girl lost
Without emotion
She floats on concrete
Shoes uffed over puddles
Running toward mommie
But mommie doesn't
Understand how to
feed this little
girl who is lost
And so without hope
And stranded in a
Rain Forrest she
Opens her diary
But only to close it
Without the words
She is lost for words
Lost without money
She chokes on P & B
Sandwiches
But stumiks the upsets
Of a broken Vail in her belly
She hides and trys to find somber
Sweet melodies
That will put her to sleep
Little girl lost
That's what people call her
In prison now
Hooked up to a mic now
She checks "1" 1 "2"
And speaks " who does really care"
This girl is gone and blue in the face
Of emotions
Final
Little girl lost.
A male artist loves to paint on walls --
walls within alleys behind malls
Malls of curious and innocent people that shop
Stalls where peaceful and weird people meet and hop
Under a tree the said artist usually drops
Drops of excess oil and paints sliding from his tops
From his shirt and pants pastel colors so cool
Smeared with smudges from head to toe that drool
An artist with intricate and glowing tattoos
Symbols, faces and letters inscribed in twos
On skin his views rejoice with Gogol --
famed realist and grotesque in googol
An artist who lives in an alley
Homeless and penniless, but happy
Everyday his life depends on pennies
Pennies from passers-by and fans in their twenties
One day, he was asked to work
Draw and stroke for teachers at work
Morning and afternoon he delivers his works
Free drinks and food from school he receives with forks
End of each day the artist glistens
Thanking people for help that brightens
His life regained, renewed without delay
Tears of joy like it's Christmas everyday!
Men,
I think I'm color blind
The way I see, no color on the skin
Is white lucid?
Or is it black being hazy
Ain't no love for White
Neither loyalty for Black
Don't just be preaching Black Lives Matter
How about if we all matter
Speak against discrimination
Men, speak against segregation
It's all against the laws of God
Remember, we all created
In the image and likeness of God
I bet, therefore, you and I should hold hands
Our conscience is rational
That means our thoughts need to be radical
For whether we work for good or evil
We'll all be judged on the same scale
And it's either the promised Heaven
Or the bottomless Hell
Surviving Pawn
While the Sun was winking at the Green planet...
Seven colors cavorting in May
Winds swayed, lulled and clasped clouds like hay
Colors above clouds tilted and frolic
As Winds soared, fly o'er North Atlantic.
Seven shades that waft under shimmy skies
Shading trees and lagoons like brumed pies
Colored blades enamoured by nature's wonders
Inlying blessed planet, emitting in numbers.
Clouds flair, tireless of its athletic heels
Swirling in air, running like spinning wheels
Reels and Winds giggled at Clouds' cycles
Clouds gasped and wept with flaming icicles...
.
there'z nuhth'n hot'r
there'z
there'z
okay okay
(mind ya)
i just received my
new prescription for
my progressive
len'ziz (sooo timely)
so
anywho
i step'd outside uv
my favorite water'n hole
and there were her'z (across thuh road)
her
pure white
soft star stud'd
lump'd up (where lips go)
panty's puff
She wore a ribbon red as flame,
he carved her secret in his name.
They danced beneath the open skies,
with stars like lanterns in their eyes.
The campfire laughed, the horses swayed,
the fiddles sang while nightbirds prayed.
Their vows were stitched with whispered thread,
"Till death," they swore, "no tears to shed."
But Fortune's wheel turned rough and wild--
the lawman came to claim their child.
A fortune-teller saw too late--
the cards had sealed a crooked fate.
They rode like ghosts through iron rain,
the mountains swallowed up their pain.
Yet dawn betrayed their broken flight--
two shadows fell in dying light.
The caravan still hums their song,
a love too bright, a loss too strong.
And every fire that gypsies light,
still weeps for them across the night.
Some say when midnight paints the skies,
you'll hear their laughter where it lies--
two spirits twirling hand in hand,
forever free across the land.
Along the road where moonbeams spill,
the gypsy wagons wander still.
Their lanterns swing like fireflies caught,
each wheel a whisper, each song a thought.
The fiddler hums a ghostly tune,
that weaves beneath the weeping moon.
A tambourine keeps time with dreams,
and horses wade through silver streams.
No map can mark the path they tread,
no stone remembers where they led.
They chase the winds, they court the skies,
with fortune shining in their eyes.
And if you chance to hear their song,
it means your heart won't rest for long.
For once you glimpse the roaming stars,
your soul will follow gypsy scars.
where is she? where is she? asked the emperor
the lady with the candle must not be found...
do you think the captain of this ship is blind?
the anchored ship must not be caught...
the baby in the cradle starts to sob
but no one near must be found...
the red cap! the red cap! says the man in white
it is the moment when the lightning must strike...
the red carpet and the fall of crown
she must not be found,lady in light pink gown...
1952. Curfew was on and roads were vacant.
Some armed hands were still haunting there
To hush every possible roar or uprising rant
With the spiteful hammer of thunderous fear.
But a murmur of revolution was soon heard
As thousands of spirited people marched on
With the resilience of restoring their barred
Language from the threshold of extinction.
They protested peacefully carrying placard
Of their clauses until the armed hands fired
And soaked them with blood in vain to retard
Undying voices that can never be smothered.
Each drop of the sacrificial blood has built
the monument of revolution that will always
Shine as a star of Devotion and forever quilt
The vigorous souls with its contagious rays.
Their immortal death blazed a fire of liberty
in hearts that were in the grip of oppression.
Soon, it became a furnace that burned Deity
Of Oppression and Bangladesh was born.
Life is short
But love can be shorter
I wonder if love could ever be overwhelming
I wonder if we could ever get tired of love
I wonder if we’d push people away because they love us
Is that what love is really about?
I wonder if the foundation of love could be mistrust
Re-echoing and resounding worst memories
I wonder if love is desultory
And probably depends on happening situations
Like a bag on a windy desert
True Love they say never fades
But does it even last for ages
I’ve been digging for days
Surfing and scattering the mains
Where goes love?
Down our tummies?
So, they don’t last?
Or up in our chest ?
Like an undetectable malformation ?
Or skyrocketing to brains?
Probably why we go crazy about the people we love
I really hope it’s all not a mirage
But rather true reflections of genuine affection
And not delusion of fantasies
The only thing we wish to see in our images
An aura of love strongly bonded across our hearts
Where distance cannot even stand a chance
Of separating the ones we love
But I still ask from the bottom of my mind
What is love??
Son of the rising sun; a child of prowess.
Hatched from the spawn of the raiders' conquest.
He rose from the trail of the claws that raid.
His sage was a tale that became a legend.
His serene spirit yearned for awareness.
He sailed across seas to muster the knowledge.
But his quest for freedom dragged his feet back to home,
where the heart of wisdom was long-waiting to hone.
He fought fiercely with his pen in quest for liberty
when the wrath of men clamored for anarchy.
His sagacious spirit wielded the courage
of the soldiers that craved to ward off the raid.
He offered his life glancing at the dawn
so the gloomy eyes in grief would see the rising sun.
His blood that spilled has fueled the fury
that snatched liberty from the claws of foray.
February 27, 2023
Writing Challenge - H Words - Poetry Contest (3rd place)
Sponsored By: Constance La France
Goddess from heaven
with a top of golden;
Descended like an omen
to brighten the minds of men.
She sings deeply well;
She dances like an angel;
She acts like it's real
and casts away her spell.
Her beauty that enslaves
enthralls the heart that craves;
Her body that gyrates
stirs the drowsy spirits.
Her sweet smile with spell
is filed with deep meaning;
Only the rightful hearts may tell
what lies deep within.
But it's her flipping hair
That sends all eyes to snare
Like her name on a paper
That blows up her ember
I wish I lived in her time
So she might remember me
Her faded memory
Struck the heart of sympathy
But the legend of her smile
Still lives in memory
For her glorious divine
Is a track in history
February 24, 2023
Goddess of sultry
As adored by many
Her hair golden
Makes the heart smitten
Like a lily of white
A rose with astride
Makes the wind like
To take away her wrap
Her mysterious craze
Puts the soul in deep amaze
Just like a baffling maze
That puts the mind in daze
Her alluring beauty
Conceived its own meaning
Just like history
That is worth remembering
Her tempting speech
Awakens the drowsy spirits
Just like a rhapsody
That brings surge of ecstasy
Her oozing appeal
Has captured the hearts of greats
Her legend, like her zeal
Has charted great feats
But the parting of her stare
Could still be mystery
No one dared much to unsnare
The twists of history
Though she's gone with the wind
In the river of no return
Her charm like a whirlwind
Is enshrined in souls that yearn
February 24, 2023
Like the North Wind,
Sent by Boreas
to lay driven snow, pure
and white, an ivory
whirlwind blows
through my living room.
The rodent, pink as
embarrassment, flies
with the speed of a
crossbow bolt loosed at
full tension. It’s woolen
body, firm but pliable.
The ashen animals
bear claws sharp as
thorns, attacking with the
ferocity of a defensive
rose garden. They strive
for the kill, dilated pupils
take on the shape of
fully waxed moons, the color
of pitch; an eclipse of
bloodlust. Eagerly, but
methodically the blanched
aggressors approach the
rosy mouse and with
muscles tensed, as taut as
moorings, they leap.
Their lithe, slim, dextrous
bodies fly through the
air. In a blizzard of ferocity
the rodent is struck down
and the ivory whirlwind
abates back into a pile
of freshly driven snow.
1/12/23 for “Metrical Tale”
Sponsored by Hilo Poet
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