What is harder, the border, the pictures
or the brightness of light and dark pieces?
It is a mishmash, sordid assortment of
escapism, scrutinized under illumination.
Piece by piece, I fall to pieces, pick them up,
scatter them to my mind’s wind, hem and haw
over the nuances; why do I torture myself so?
In the vice of the big picture - resounding parks.
Two canvas frames, two boxes, tepid waters,
the need to complete, competing only with
me, myself and I. Now, I see everything in
tabs and blanks, even as I count sheep.
Even as I watch t.v., the pixels penetrate my eye,
portion into die-cuts. Dioxyribonucleic acid flesh -
are we pixelated…like paper doll cut-outs with
wardrobe and accessories, my own Barbie palace?
Soon, I will finish this 27 by 20 preoccupation.
With a stethoscope and head mirror, examine
each rectangle - 63 squares; my hope - not
one morsel is lost, pieces of my life complete.
big spin
win again
in like Flynn
hodgepodge dodge
slash bash
mishmash
sycophants
chants rants
seat-of-the-pants
riff-raff
grift graft
craft
debate obfuscate
obligate
alienate
annoy enjoy
deploy
destroy
curtail assail
derail …
pray tell ?
Eustace and Matilda “Tilly”
not as noticed as silly Billy.
Quirky Baileys, too,
but their uncle dropped the metaphorical shoe.
It’s a wonderful life
except for the strife.
Potter, “the old fart,”
is evil at heart.
Uncle Billy with knots on his fingers
too long, he lingers,
bragging, that he wraps cash
in a newspaper mishmash.
On a bridge too far,
taking responsibility from the “nut bar,”
George is set to step off,
until with an angel, he’s face-off.
Water is love,
when given a shove,
like when the floor split,
and the Charleston was a hit.
An Angel second class,
without wings, makes a splash.
George seemingly saves the old guy,
but “he’s never been born,” in the blink of an eye.
This heartwarming movie has whistles and bells.
In a small town dwells
evil and good. You can tell which wins.
To see the end, you must watch where it begins.
A must watch for me, every Christmas!
She says I’m so fun,
then claims that we’re done,
she says she hates me,
then wants my babies.
first she wants her man,
then says, “Go use your hand.”
She stares at my eves,
then says I’m full of lies.
The aggravation…
the resignation…
I think I’ve had enough
of her bipolar love.
Bipolar love.
She dreams of houses,
then only grouses,
wants to show me off,
then snaps, “Just get lost.”
One day she’s a dream,
and the next only screams,
How do I deal with that?
In love with only half...
The real confusion…
the sad delusions…
I think I’ve had enough,
of her bipolar love.
Bipolar love.
I want to love her,
and not be disturbed,
hope she gets well,
but half the time it’s hell.
It this allright?
Am I justified?
This is not her fault…
but drives me up the wall.
Mishmash of feelings…
it leaves me reeling…
I think I’ve had enough,
of her bipolar love.
Bipolar love.
She was a good dog but at times
she could be a ,
like the way she would look back
when I called her
with a certain demeanor, perhaps borrowed
from my ex-wife.
I wonder sometimes about old souls,
animal spirits and all the other
confusing mishmash that folks
fall back on when a dog looks at you
as if it were taking you for a walk,
and you had better try
a whole lot harder.
Now here's mishmash mess of a dish,
A hodgepodge of things you won't miss,
Use-by-dates, well past encore,
Muddled up on the floor,
A culinary concoction so swish!
Remember when each of the tastes
bitter, sweet, sour, salty and umani,
had their own special place on your tongue?
When you could lick and flick a tongue tip
to savor one by one,
each titillating and tantalizing tidbit,
and avoid the bitter, sour and salty,
in the hors d'oeuvre samples and starters?
But turns out all the taste buds
of different types are a mishmash,
spread all over the palette
like mixed berry jam jelly on toast.
So blitz the blender,
pulse, pulse, pulse the mush to liquefy,
to make your next bender meld,
to an homogeneous amorphous blend,
a potpourri punch
fit for a sourpuss.
Good at assembling spiritual mishmash,
High expectations raising for big cash
In the open for Despair full fury:
The demons behind them for his jury…
Chooser of the Language of Pentecost
He may have acquired at a great cost:
Body movements take on the pugilist’s
For all Contrary Spirits’ flying fists!
No vows made he wouldn’t try kung-fu kicks,
His smarter left leg foes one by one picks…
The events in the Bible come alive
Clever links with the current trends survive;
Sometimes seems he would afterwards vanish,
One recalls words: he did nothing varnish.
More and more hearers of the Word-Life swarm
And this as a development - Uh! – warm…
“Now, I want to the Devil embarrass
But as I cast him out might some harass.
Therefore, you vacate where I now point to:
It’ll mean I won’t afresh to God cry to…”
“Next, sands under your feet take a handful;
Then, at the sky look with a face thankful.
Despair is done for as you repeat these:
I come against you Despair; right now, freeze”
Many moms make a mishmash of marshmallow melon month of rites
Marmie and Magnus mined minx’s minestrone meatball mites
Magnificent Marmaduke mollycoddles minute rice making mush.
Merry majestic Mallificent minced magnetic mimosas in a rush.
Mushroom men marbled Marley’s meatballs mooing with madness.
Muddobber’s melancholy miniscule mites were wooing with sadness.
Magnificence of Manny’s marsh mediates in miniscule rites of badness.
Ma makse a mishmash of marshmallow melons, and it is pure rad-ness.
Very late had I known your glory and grandeur,
Though classic, you're mishmash with rock and folk allure;
Your melody merrily mingles with fastness,
Does it not blend with rhythmic sanguine slow softness...?
When you came into my hand in my mid fifty,
I felt like taming an elephant so shifty;
Your strings seemed to stretch my tough and hard-molded veins,
I could not bear so long my neuropathic pains...!
Its gracefulness cannot be just competed with,
Don't around its splendor revolve many a myth?
Midst its grandeur it burns calories, says science,
There's, in violin, art-cognitive alliance...!
When someone asked me: how hard it is to play this,
I said it's like palm-tapping, as a nemesis;
Friends, finally, I mastered, yet, playing a song,
Only goodness knows how long my art will prolong...!!!
19 April 2023
Iridescent bubbles, in my sleep, I see
a mishmash of things: some dear to me,
some odd - mind's subtle hues gleam,
a hodgepodge they seem;
Aw! in my
dream
I see sky
with two suns and stream -
baffling scenes, mismatch, I deem;
Still, I love my mind's craftwork, I glee,
iridescent bubbles, in my sleep, I see
Date: 01/22/2023
Writing Challenge - Andaree Form - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
For women men drop big cash
To have them toothy smiles flash:
If one needs windows, gets Sash:
Blenders to tomatoes mash,
Women quite free to sound brash!
For handsome men – No! A Trash!
Even Eves the idea thrash,
For being infinitely rash,
Save one did cash in banks stash…
Macho Men can’t their teeth gnash
Nor round with displeasure dash:
Whether Norman, Noah or Nash
They’d be unleashing tongue lash,
On their names leaving a gash…
No luck with views A Mishmash.
Chalk up the above
tummy knocker round
motley fool whimsical caprice
forever one generic
(ewe among us) scapegoat
bullied, lambasted, ostracized...
simian still silently suffering
life threatening wounds
since no protective Jason,
nor the Golden Fleece
shielded me against
Tormentors of Torghast even after
becoming gratefully dead,
struck by lightning bolts well greased
they will still increase
only difference when nonexistence prevails,
versus while given lease
as run(t) of the mill mortal
doth finally welcoming peace
of body, mind and spirit.
Aforestated gallimaufry mishmash
hoopfully doth explain
tangentially, loosely and amazingly
one after another graceful linkedin refrain
now heeds intuitive trumpeted
clarion call moon faced
cybersurfer to wax and wane.
Roll up welcome Harris tweed
Scottish tartan mat after
lame attempt bing witty and wise
fame and fortune elude,
nevertheless logophile continuously tries
this April 6th, 2022 no surprise
quotidian series of Lemony Snicket induced
unfortunate circumstances did rise
every hour these myopic eyes
blinked cognitive depth youthfulness belies,
when dawning consciousness did arise.
I do not hold myself to time trumpets,
no list of things to do schedule for me;
but I follow my own true north compass,
I am unconstrained and unrestrained free !
Facing each new day with rapture and glee,
perhaps you think my life a mishmash mess;
but I embrace life in each free will breath,
filling days with joie de vivre bliss.
My words written on white are God caressed;
joy- chaos of the pen and the abyss !
Because of no restrictions I have peace,
I am not enslaved to a list of things;
letting go of "must" and "need" a release,
and each dawn a new beginning it brings !
And my spirit, mind, heart and soul has wings,
you may think my life a muddle jumble;
that cannot endure and will soon crumble.
but truth, I never know what will sparkle !
Enjoying each "in the moment" tumble;
for in time- I will be engraved marble !
________________________
November 4, 2021
Poetry/Dizainx2/Unconstrained and Unrestrained
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1403-576-04
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Agendaless Exuberance
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 11/27/2021
First Place
Mishmash of thoughts,
smashing potatoes,
brightened with butter
and lots of salt.
Wherever was i,
thoughtless, scattering,
smishing and smattering
what ought
to be sound, fearless
and earth shattering—
a cause.
Finally,
the mishmash
of thoughts,
lined up,
tear down
the page…
all the rage,
totally engaged,
a symphonic sage,
a madman’s parade,
a sword twisted—
a poem wielded and waged.
9/18/2021
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