The grass is slick and cresting.
Between a thinned-out thicket,
a white light ogles through it.
A faceless sky is elevator gray,
nothing to measure, no steppingstones
for see-through lighthouses.
Here in the rootless byways
of shiftless realities,
treetops break the surface,
of leaden puddles,
frogs perch,
dripping waterlogged croaks.
There are no shores
for somnambulant seagulls.
I am too lightheaded,
miasmic margins
numb the humdrum.
Footsteps crunch upon clouds,
doubt tugs at
'out of depth' ankle bones.
Long past war’s fading drumbeats
And beyond the miasmic mists of time
Run undercurrents that displace peace
And fancied futures hoped sublime.
Once staccato beats of war drums abate
Far from war graves and their dead,
We find loved ones’ dismal fates
And lonely lives now filled with dread.
Soldier’s sojourn in the dash dividing
Dates on their eroding tombstones
Remind us that their lives, though exciting,
Ended not with hope but love unsown.
Once draftee’s dreams become forgotten
And their past romances are long since lost,
All that remains is what God left them
And scars they earned at frightful costs.
We too, wonder what will become of us
And we hope to pass our test divine
Once life’s abating hoofbeats leave us
And we’re enveloped by the fog of time.
Who will remember who we were?
Who will proclaim, “I KNEW THEM WELL?”
Who will stop and silently ponder
What our tombstone epitaphs fail to tell.
I dream poetry;
I breathe poetry, for poetry
calls your name, feeling your
inerrant essentia—
your soul bleeds into mine—
a collision of cosmos,
diffused magnetically, once
a vagrant in a haze of miasmic
vapors—wildered and exposed—
you unshackled me from
this purgatory;
inversely immersing me in
your sphere of solace, and
blooming artistry,
lulling the vast polarities
splintering each layer of my veracity.
I dream poetry,
for your love drizzles
burgeoning constellations, amid
rosette sepals galvanizing my
orphic nuclei, with
every spark we sigh,
tethered to the infinite composition
of our unwavering love compellingly,
beyond heaven and earth,
devoted to you—
your fallen star; no longer silent, circling
nocturne arias entwining our destiny.
A marionette to the mind,
Whispering fading schematics,
Deluging the heart and soul, in a
Juxtaposition of good and evil,
Betwixt Heaven and hell, amidst
Snowdrifts that swirl before my eyes, while
Spiritless shadows restlessly carouse;
Discordantly, far from reach,
Vagrantly ambling across
Deadened Arcadias, glimpsing
Floating embers, in wake of
Vivid firestorms, swallowing me whole,
Faltering with every step I take,
Decelerating towards the escape I seek,
As it rhythmically scars my timorous nature,
Awakening the monsters hidden deep within-seeing red-
Bleeding out miasmic toxins, as noxious
Spores erupt, immersed in a haze of austerity,
While it seeps and saturates, throughout
Malignant wounds exposed, undulating between
The storms of push and pull, as daunting
Tasks, of rippling sequences, splits my
Chasmic core.
Soulless footprints are all that remain, as
Moon tides wash ashore, ebbing away
Towards dystopian depths.
Enamel finger-smeared thick with butter
Yellow onions, yellow butter, floured and browned
Just add cream
From roux to dream
Now spice to glue that hold my world together
The team assembles for its tasty mission
Cheddar, gouda, mozz and more
Thick sheets of ham
Tubers sliced translucent
Layered, latticed, clothed in white bliss
Sealed deep into my black Dutch Oven
Four hundred twenty-five degrees, twice boiling
Every five minutes, I keep checking
Time warps
seconds are hours
Only half done, removing the covering
Top comes off, melting marbarella muck
Gilded golden gruyere
Splattering over spuds
Swirling cheese seas
Miasmic fragrant fromage tauntingly teased air
Beep! Beep! Beep! It's done!
Don't waste a moment
Too hot to taste
Bubbling lava lake
Slowly crusting cheesy skin emerging from the oven
Finally, the soup solidified, gooey cultured cream
Ready for the fork and spoon
Potatoes caked
Ham baked
Reality as gastro-goodness manifested dream
Onto my plate, my fork, my palette, my bliss
The dimmest portion
Of a brighter light be I
Trapped in a miasmic
Cloud of misconceptions
Emotion is the designer of dream
Search for the meaning of feeling is futile
As they mingle totally in my twilight time
My mind sinks in dusky obscurity
Impulses unexpressed.
After the wasted walk in the miasmic day
The meandering garden path I’ve lost
Look now for a guide to show me the way
To the unknown end after the journey
Story untold.
The cycle of good times and bad times
Shrouds the skeptic mind with confusion
That clears as the mist of foreboding lifts
I discover a new door open for me
Yet unentered.
When the day’s last sunrays flash past me
Under the chromatic sky I sing my song
You all go your way, don’t ever hear
The lyric of my soul I then write
For I’m unlistened.
I write for time's tome of eluding continuum
Although unfulfilled at the end of each chapter
When unsure if I should stop or keep on writing
The latent urge stimulates me to scribe for self
Even if unread.
____________
August 30, 2022
Contest : I Write Because
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
The brainwashed masses,
Wearing rose-colored glasses,
And nonchalantly flashing passes,
Never realizing the hourglasses
Are running out of time.
Miasmic shadows
And dystopian blows
Are working to transpose
The masses' crystal rose
Into a thick unending slime.
Again is a foolish animal
Being led to the slaughter.
Again, Man. By this, war-times'
Ogrous corral-master.
This is its devouring site.
Quag's miasmic, pounds, heaves
Through which patriotic ritual
A blood sacrifice receives.
Tame herds, firstly driven mad.
Perversely made to appear
To sprout a horn; devilish tail;
Magnifies the other's fear.
miasmic,
alighting the foul bourgeois powers that be
bounce like carrion crows
on the prone corpse
of the bled world.
Chaos of mind Eating, inching, scratching, crawling.
Deteriorating the tissue of my mind.
Enveloping miasmic corporeal vibrations.
Sounds that stretch, twist, and creak.
Leaking emissions evaporation a contaminate.
Eyes a window attached to the mind the trenches. Elaborated around the voices eating, itching, scratching crawling.
Is my sanity dissolved into chaos made impartially?
IT'S NOT TOO LATE
God gave me a blank diary, its pages numbered,
and in the hand of destiny a pencil for my take
when I came in this beautiful world enamored
to write the distinctive story of my life I’d make.
I traveled a winding path, destination unreached,
couldn’t get niche in many hearts, I tried in vain,
In storm strife found the bridges I built breached,
a lone drifter in desolate wasteland I did remain.
On the pages of my diary I truly wrote my story,
turning its leaves now I don’t find it charismatic.
I wonder if it is what in life I was destined to be,
a futile anecdote so very mundane and miasmic.
I don’t know why thus far life utterly failed me,
I ask God for second chance an eraser can I get
to erase the old narrative, construct new story.
The sun hasn’t set, maybe it’s not too late yet.
January 19, 2019
IT REEKS ANEW
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
When a Cow Defecates Onto the Grazing Field
There Is a Stench, That All Miasmic Odors Yield
But Given Some Time the Weathering Will Seal
And the Original Discomfort Becomes a non Deal
However, If the Deposit Is Stirred, the Odors Return
Leaving Old Conflicts Alone, a Lesson to Learn
We Have Disputes, Arguments Causing Unrest
But If Finally Resolved, Passing Times Test
However, If the Event Is Later Resurrected
Resentments Return, Peace Becomes Unprotected
If You Find a Bear Sound Asleep and Undisturbed
Poke Him? Dead Events Should Remain Interred
SPIN MASTERS SPINNING AWAY THE DAY
Every moment
I turn on the TV
What do I see
Nothing but liars laying down lies
Spin Masters spinning spam of deceit
Chanting
The truth will set you free
White is black
Black is white
Lies are true
Truth is a lie
Lies will set you free
I see nothing
But politicos
Dropping down lies
UN truths masquerading as the truth
Oh so sincerely
The lies spew forth so sweetly
From their corrupted lips
The toxic wastes
Spree out of my TV set
Infecting my soul
With paranoid distrust
And I vainly try
I do try
God do I try
To the find
The nugget of truth
Buried deep in the dark, dank, dangerous
Black, evil miasmic mists
Given off
By the talking heads on TV
So I leave my house
So full of doubt
And wander about
Looking for the truth
Some semblance of hope
And I look up
And see a solitary cherry tree
High up on a hill top street
Infusing the air
With its sweat ambrosia
And I smile
Knowing
Someday soon
The national nightmare
Will be pierced by the light
Of clarity and truth
And the evil ones
The body snatched aliens
Inhabiting our leaders
Will be banished
An opened fifth of hangovers
rests beside his dried driveled arm
(drug used by underachievers.)
Out cold, head resting on forearm
Unconscious in a dreamless world,
a portal often frequented:
an alcoholics netherworld
and mind most disoriented.
A parched throat forces arousal
And miasmic exhalations
rekindle once more pitiful
repeated, inebriation.
A morning swig begins his day
and ends the same as yesterday.
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