Where they speak
Where they compose
Where they brainstorm
Where they act out
To create
To make right
To edge perfection
Then it septed through
The murky waters of
Knowledge
Those who's and
and what's
Straighten out
the unfralls
Making way
For
Intreies
On who's mark
Starts the
Composment
Sounding out
What words meant
Ready
Ready
The intro's
Starting
The sun is hammering down on my face.
Memories that move across a puzzling place.
Smooching all the way back down to my skin.
My cheeks are flushed with tears from the past.
My greedy spirit is taught by a glorious blast.
An ovate calm circle springs to mind tips.
I plunge forward into the crimson abyss.
Freed my caged heart from its custody.
Fearful people have shelter from the world.
In my quest, I am ushered by the primal words.
Mounted shadily on a huge salt-staining rock
Looking toward the abyssal distance bloc.
White shades blend with galaxies and light.
A vibrant brushstroke boson over the skyline.
Sky and the ocean in a lover's arms and whine.
Written: March 20, 2022
Halo of hallowed air
rising from six strings
walk over my bridge
minstrel minaret
magnified maple
ovate oak
viral wings
open in harpischords
playing archangelic
a myriad
of elphins
dancing
I want to tell you a story-
of a special place that
I just love.
A place full of vivid colors . . .
where I can be washed in hues
and tones.
It is a place hushed and shrouded
in stillness and tranquility
sublime . . .
It is a cathedral down the street-
and within is a chapel of stained windows.
Ovate and circular and rich with gleaming tints
and at a certain time of day . . .
I can hide in a camouflage of stains
purple, red, green, gold, blue- spatters and
splashes . . .
A rainbow of concealment-
and in this stimulating
silent place I sit.
I can contemplate and write my poems
and when a drape
of shade falls . . .
I leave but I bring the rainbow
of camouflage with me- I keep it in my
soul . . .
_____________________________
March 4, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Rainbow Colored Camouflage
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 881-947-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, 25 Lines
sponsor, Brian Strand
Fourth Place
The grains of sand fall quickly through
A past that time forgets
Who we were, where we've been and
Where we shall go hence.
While much is learned, so much is lost
Though wisdom ever speaks
She sings her song to right the wrongs
Her children there to teach.
Why do the groves stand empty?
Where lay the rowan staff?
Who's song will pierce the darkness?
Whose words will paint the past?
To master, ovate, and those between
To poet, musician and bard
Let not the pen rest out of hand
Nor withhold the living word.
The light of inspiration shines
On those called to receive it
Let's raise our quill, sing our song
And dare now to believe it.
~Christopher Thor Britt
For Debbie Guzzi's "Words of Wisdom" contest
Topic #2
This poem relates to topic #2 as a person strives to remember the inspirational wisdom of the past, and pay it forward to future generations so the creative process may continue...so the eternal voice of the poet is not silenced and the creative seed is planted, nourished and, above all, appreciated as mankind strives to learn from the victories and failures of our kind, and so, somehow, grow, live and die with new wisdom to pass on to posterity.
A shear with in arrogant move,
Pulls up her rear to disapprove,
Turns to blush pinks within the hush,
Mouth ovate in the soft subdued crush;
Black lines expose her twisted spurs,
Fingers play with the bottom lures,
Incredulous walks the ramp edge,
I let off a catcall to fledge;
Poor soul carries her bag in hops,
Catch her to disarms as she drops,
Heaven and hell before the fall,
A swift soft kiss rumples the doll;
Obscure or white the stretch is fine,
Stay on track each path looks divine?