Paint a smile on my face, until mid-poem
a grimace arises and the acrylic peels.
What are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my cheer,
force my hand to sketch
the grim roots of charcoaled teeth?
The sun is struggling to rise over a pastured valley
while ravens pluck at my eyebrows.
Dark wings and meadow daisies mix and blend.
Death Head moths now emerge,
a word-canvas is once more lacquered over
by a dark and deep-throated coloring.
As quick as lightning, a clownish grin
flashes forth from singed paper,
such comic relief begets a portrait
of my surprised
and beamish laughter.
Paint a smile on my face, until mid-poem
a grimace arises and an acrylic peels.
What are these dark angels that cast such shadows
over my cheer,
force my hand to sketch
the grim roots of charcoaled teeth?
The sun is struggling to rise over a pastured valley,
while ravens pluck at my eyebrows.
Dark wings and meadow daisies mix and blend.
Death Head moths now emerge,
a word-canvas is once more lacquered over
by a dark and deep-throated coloring.
As quick as lightning, a clownish grin
flashes forth from singed paper,
such comic relief begets a portrait
of my surprised
and beamish laughter.
Mixing metaphors in the morning
Coffee craving stills the brain
Active principle lying passive
Roar of silence calls in vain
For no one leads when no one follows
Nothing lasting will remain
In the moment where all is timeless
Self and other just the same
(9/8/23)
Mixing in the Moonlight
Dear darling, gaze ye at the blood red moon.
Ancient light that calls with its bright red tones.
Fret not, on the breeze there will be no tune.
For the loss is great, witness how she moans.
How can we lowly sinners, give her hope?
Her pain daunting, my love, that is so true.
The poor boy hanged at the end of a rope.
With our hidden love, it may next be you.
Let us then escape ‘neath cover of dark.
For to lose you would crush my very soul.
Upon that tree, the beasts have left their mark.
Where once his heart was, there is but a hole.
They forbid two colours joining as one.
The moonlight is far safer than the sun.
My attempt at a sonnet.
A blender
Can be used for mixing or crushing
Of many things
Including the visible and the invisible
Happiness can survive alone
But happiness sometimes does blend
With sadness
While you're touring you see
Startling poverty
While you're enjoying food
With a lot of people yearning for it
At this moment
Feelings in your heart
Seem to be mixed by a blender
Sadness always hurts deeply
Like being crushed by the blender
Unless sadness is blended
With hope
Welfare will give the needy hope
A prayer too
An encouragement too
Some confidence too
Some efforts too
And one's own determination
To live to struggle and to try too
When you look forward with a sense of dread;
And yet there is no gun aimed at your head.
You try to find the joy, but there is none.
The concrete pour looms large; let's get her done.
At least there is a thought that does console:
Peach cobbler, homemade ice cream, in a bowl.
*** THIS WEEK ***
(“If my doctor told me I had six minutes left to live, I wouldn’t
brood. I’d type a little faster.” Isaac Asimov)
The sliced portions of this week
Collapsed, an almost eloquent fall
Into a slow-motion slide
Of morsels
Then, still unnoticed, on into
The soft blue crystals of
This week’s ending — being
Merely a measure of the journey’s recipe
For this grouping of days — thus…
I now see their floating,
Their flour-misty cloud descending
Through a sieve Life quickly set
Over time’s mixing bowl, wishing
To gather anew
A batter for next week’s
Offered cakes.
——————————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 5/19/22
With thanks to God
Past future
continuously and forever
turning back
back to the present
same to
yesterday... anticipating
future
for those who can read...
who reads, not to make the same mistakes... !
It's easy to think
of the mixing of spirits
as being something sexual...
because, in a way, it always is.
Mixing engenders
the kinds of connections
that go deeper inside
than the usual interactions.
It's easy to think
that you know what's happening
when you're oblivious
to the sword of the truth.
When you don't understand
all the nuances and subtleties
it's easy to think
you know what's going on.
The mixing of spirits
flows beyond comprehension;
it's only reflected
on the bright sword of Truth.
Thanks to all those brave souls,
the trail blazers
that has gone before us.
They who fell in love,
back when white society
wasn't so excepting or
was intolerant of mix marriage.
Love is made of tough stuff,
couples had it ruff.
So, for a while, some lovers even
kept a low profile.
This has been going on for a long while.
But they took a leap of faith anyway,
staying to themselves.
Love will not be denied.
Now days you see mixed couples everywhere...
Not just in and around military bases.
Today it’s not a shock,
but a pleasant surprise.
Seeing couples and their kids,
from different ethnic back grounds.
And even different size,
skinny and obese.
Both straight and Gay,
more than just Black and white.
As Day follows Night,
all kinds of races mixing it up.
One has only to open your eyes to see,
the mixing of the of the melting pot.
Which is hot!!
Love truly concurs all.
God has taken the spoon
and stirred the melting pot,
from the top of the rim
to the bottom of the bowl.
How can a father forget their son’s names?
Josh/Bobby or Bobby/Josh who can remember
Laughter that came to my ears when they would laugh at me
Am I the only one who mixed up their children’s names?
Today is much easier then yesterday I forgot how to yell at them
WHO, left theirs toys on the floor Bobby/Josh?
WHO, ran through the house with a hose Josh/Bobby?
I should have named them the same so I wouldn’t forget their names
Contest: I’ll never forget what’s his name or (Her name)
Sponsored by: John Lawless
Date Created: 09/12/2019
Sex is to have fun, not to mix the gene pool
Let's be honest, the gene pool will mix itself with the right tool
But oh what fun
Till we're done
I vote to change the system, I'll be waiting in the vestibule
If we could peel back the blanket of earth
To expose the bones buried there
Mix them all up in a great big pile
To say they'd all look the same would be fair
The rich man, the poor, the blind and the weak
Each gender, religion and race
The short, the tall, the large and the small
And include every shape of the face
If we had to choose one bone at a time
Not knowing who's bones belonged to whom
To make ourselves over new again
I wonder how well we'd do
Not judging by color, size or shape
Or status of high IQ
The bones might fit together just fine
And stay together till the end of time
©Donna Jones
I have a set of mixing bowls
handed down from my Grandmother.
There are four bowls in the set
that nest within each other.
The bowls she gave into my care,
have a long history to tell.
I will try to share some of it with you
I hope I tell it well.
The smallest bowl held fruits and nuts
and a varied array of spices.
Used and added to the mixes
of cookies and candies to delight us.
The next bowl size was used at breakfast
for scrambling the eggs.
Or for placing leftovers in
to use another day.
The third bowl she always used
for mixing up cake batters.
Birthdays, Easter or just because.
If she could bake, the occasion didn’t matter.
The biggest bowl was very large
And used mainly for dough to rise.
Nothing made the home smell better,
than fresh bread baking before our eyes.
Thus ends the tale of the mixing bowls
or maybe not all together.
For I plan to hand them down someday
to one of my granddaughters.
I'm an artist
of life within
a timeless
adventure. Every
thought and
emotion is dabbed
onto my palette
for my mind
to mix infinite
colors of
bold dreams
to transparent
memories. My life
is a canvas
that only
I can paint the
masterpiece.
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