Somehow, she appears from nowhere
to dominate the darkest sky,
her glow, suspended in the air,
will mystically bring on a sigh.
Her magnetic vibes are wondrous:
the shifting of each ocean's tide,
and also, somehow moving us-
she steers how minds and feelings ride.
Manipulator is our Moon.
Our months, divided each by stage,
are how her phases stay in tune
to regulate how hearts will gauge.
Full moon and love are tied as one-
Romance and moonlight, hand in hand
maneuver closeness that is spun
as Cupid seals what she has planned.
A force of nature, to be sure!
For ages, she's been on a throne
with mystic strength that does allure-
to mysteries still unbeknown.
One night I 'met' someone I thought was meant for me.
We 'talked' for hours while our souls aligned perfectly.
Each night brought our minds to blissful sync.
Sometimes I worried, "What does he really think?"
He adamantly professed his love for me
And beguilled me with ethereal poetry.
His silver words so mystically divine,
I thought them from a higher realm than mine.
He captured my heart totally in his net.
When the scam was revealed, I only felt regret.
Alas, nothing on the dark web is what it seems.
Just another deviant low-life crushing dreams.
O' Strawberry Moon
Magnanimous beatitude and abundance boon
A beautiful glint off still waters
A shining hope for sons and daughters
Close and low you hang in a summer sky
With nightjars, fireflies, and nighthawks mystically flying by
Your warm, golden, reddish calmness looms
Man expresses gratitude for another sweet strawberry moon
No less eerily
Or mystically
What thick hangs, a dream forest
Now this park o'er.
And no less spellbound
Therein, unfound!
Realm of the haunted! Time-frozed.
Flash back encounters!
As one's firefly, the other's
Girl sprite glows for.
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
shape-shifted deception portrait.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted in primal persona hues
of distinctive disposition,
epitomized once.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
shards of shattered pretence
willfully abandoned as discarded debris.
Transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its own reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern,
designed by the paradigm of contrast.
Peerless paintings mystically mingle;
Hues of heaven and earth amalgamate.
Bells of my shrines rhythmically jingle;
Logic and love lawlessly agitate.
I see Morpheus moving around my mind;
With wings of poppies, Minerva hovers.
Celestial scenes are craftily designed;
Saraswati showers seamless powers.
Monsoons recover all drought-driven cracks;
Ripples in the lake of my mind stir on.
Nightmares consummate with sweet-dream climax;
Blissfully, myriad rainbows are drawn.
Shouldn’t soul-deep joys from deep fountains rise,
As cosmic plumes lift minds to search the skies?
Enwrapped in this morn
Fog-thick, brightening
What for its soothing peace is
Mystically real.
Dying, walk through it
Again! Surrounded
By its new day in Heaven's
Inspired look and feel.
Rain diffuses mystically the edges of distance,
while the slant drop arrays slice the silence,
thread the window pane with trembling lines,
I sense subtly sketch dripping lattice on my palm
I trace on the fog-filmed glass with my fingers.
The moist ground exhales the scent of petrichor,
the smoky smell drifts through rain-splashed air.
Outside, everything is splattered, washed clean,
inside, tenderly touched, I feel it all, slowly softened.
lycurgus cup
imbedded silver and gold
mystically savvy
Little fingers, big fingers
Red fingers, blue fingers
One finger, 10 fingers
Long fingers, stubby fingers
Pointer finger, middle finger
Ring finger, wiggle finger
Leather fingers, soft fingers
Cold fingers, warm fingers
Stinky finger, slimy fingers
Fingers manicured with pretty painted fingernails
Fingers that can hold a pencil or a pen pal
Fingers that can tap on laptops or typewriters
Fingers that can tap tap tap on tabletops
While I transcribe or press “RECORD”
Poetry will always be the Midas touch to me
Bringing forth the Golden Age of Man
The Poet’s need to free the soul
Is as old as the knowledge of fire
Sometimes the Poet bleeds
With words beyond the funeral pyre
Never underestimate the Poet’s power
To create changes that are magically mystically miraculously
Spun into a reality that only poetry
Can inspire.
Something very transcending about art --
my poison, Poetry! I think of the pen
or keyboard as a wand. I wave and the
images of my mind appear, mystically
in the framework of a composition --
they do, sort of, materialize out of nowhere;
often not intending to write. Then, possessed
a spirit substance gushes from depths of fertile
consciousness! A place I fain where demons
and angels are at constant Chess. I merely
a receptacle for their vehement rivalry. The grace
of God, my goblet shape – they pour in and
out of me...when my session done, a rinse...and
ready to go again.
A mermaid fish gives me a glimpse
Quintessential beauty of the deep blue sea
Untold gorgeousness which I had never before seen
An anomaly who gave me just a sliver of a glimpse of a look
Rarely does a human get to see such a creature
I feel honored, excited, and chosen by her majesty
Under water the creatures are cheering
Mystically and mythically sound
Look at me, no hands! Said Witchy Randing.
She could ride a broom while standing.
The other witches did not dare to try.
Watching her zoom high up into the sky.
Her familiars were holding on mighty tight
A crow, an owl, and a smug cat, all white.
Witchy Randing held her arms up tall and wide
Feeling mystically powerful all inside
she felt as if she was one with the wind
confident flying fish, prettily finned
the crow gave a caw, the owl threw out a hoot
cat snorted and gave off a dainty feminine toot
Look at me! No hands! She yelled to the sky
Silver stars smiled with nary a try
She rode her broom to another planet serene
The last time the four of them were ever seen.
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours- waiting for rebirth."
Quote by - Constance La France
Dry deserts turn into meadows
Dense forests burn into ashes
Oldest oaks and tallest Redwoods in close
May fall down with bashes
Salt lakes, sulphur springs, and sweet streams
Traced on mountains, valleys, and plains
At times, surge and overflow with extremes
Run into dry domains
Myriad breathtaking landscapes
With rich flora and fauna blessed
Evolved mystically in bizarre shapes
Go messed and unimpressed
Spring does magic and brings life back
Ferocious heat waves of the Sun
Eye-feasting harvests, and winter's cold track
They trigger everyone
Nature, a genial host to all
Always shields its pristine feature
Revamps but settles not with the downfall
She is the best teacher!
Place: 2nd
I awoke from a dream --
well, let me start again:
My thought was that I had
awakened. Yet, I rose quite
mistily -- with ghastly figures
hanging in the air, moving
to and fro, in possessed manner.
Swat at them, I could not. My
arms would not lift, my hands
seeming porcelain objects. Residue
stillness, long after the model
had expired, and the artist had eaten
his last moistened bread meal.
The volume of Poe, lie open
on the bedstead, where it had been
wearily placed, just before my
dozing. Strange, the last page read had
been altered...and the name highlighted
for death, was now my own. Could
this deranged volume and I have
mysteriously, mystically changed
realities? My name began
to burn, uplift from the page, the savage
apparitions swarming to tear hungrily at the
fleeing image. My soul drowning in drool.
Sub Categories
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