Like a breeze licking the tops of the trees,
Like those silences that strike straight to the heart,
Like the river that believes it has tamed wild water,
Like that December morning that is not Christmas.
Like those clouds running through the blue of the sky,
Like that flower offering its beauty to nature,
Like the falling night stirring orange swirls,
Like a bird’s song fading into the distance.
Like those scents offering a symphony of freedom,
Like the Moon laying a veil of light,
Like the birth of life with no return,
Like the hand extended toward one and all.
An addition of moments that overwhelms me.
Like a prayer carried to the end of the path.
Joël Charvillat
Starmer when said 'return of sausages',
He just meant safe return of hostages.
Yet, in this world of words
Where actions are rare birds,
Gaffes rule, tongues slip with faux passages!
____________________________
Happenings |32.09.2024| humour, political, words
Poet’s note: The UK Prime Minister Starmer called for the return of sausages, which soon went viral. Sure, he meant hostages. But in this world of words and words and little action, what else can be expected?
Pas de deux of hearts;
Reaching for her hand
he bows with such grace;
An enthralled smile asks
‘May I have this dance?’
Dressed to mingle,
to twist and shout;
Balanced breathing,
a profound pulse;
Heat rises
with a touch
on her back,
Just one
finger
slides.
For those who lack conviction
Aspirations stay but a mirage
And for those crafting mountains from mole hills
Detriment a deadly barrage
Believers of strange eyes upon them
Flaunt shame as a wristed corsage
And without the courage to soften their hackles
Lie confined in their mind's dank garage
Jongleurs of fabled failures
Treat their worry to massage
Subjecting the rest of their dreadful days
To vexation's entourage
Clever inventors of futuristic fear
Paste pictures to a specious collage
And blame the world around them
Imaginary Sabotage
Drama-Free Final
I'm from here,
you are from there...
let's not separate anymore!
In the delightful dancing
turns the gentleman in wiggles
making the lady slides
at the ball
magnificent
pas de deux!
ensemble !
This lovely fruit that clings to tree:
it beckons shyly, just to me.
Not an apple to pick, alas;
nor a fine pear--I almost pass.
But then a perfume fills the air,
almost too sweet for one to bear.
And so I pick this lovely fruit
and give to one in my pursuit.
She thought it beautiful, at first.
I wasn't ready for the worst.
The face she made was new to me,
her screaming fraught with witchery!
She threw the beastly thing at me,
and ran away: I watched her flee.
What smells so sweet but tastes so sour?
That, I now know, is lemon's power.
What a faux pas I had just made.
But it unmasked a grand charade.
As lemon and the girl portrayed
that which lies within and not displayed.
Stomped by intruding and invasive breed,
Foul footprint of this year is a misdeed -
Two weighty boots with heavy tread
Stirred quite a lot of dirt and dread.
COVID and DONALD just will not concede!
November 23, 2020
My wolf kisses me like I am something he can fix.
As if he could drown me in watered-down love, force a baptism upon me
But he cannot simply rinse out my evil in his morning gargle
It festers in my bones, a burning rot in the absence of religious certainty
How can he think I need his Majesty's water, when I am the queen who fills his cup.
Have you ever truly seen me through anything but the warping water I give you to drink?
I must float below the surface of what he believes I can be.
Maybe if I sought the rocky bottom, I could kick off and breach the surface.
But in order to sink I must let go of his light heart.
And I can't do that.
The boy looks at me with fear in his eyes.
Hesitation in the face of temptation.
I am his ruin, a pit trap, a fall from grace.
I am that which he strengthens his faith by denying.
I am frightening, something he has not been told to want.
But he is not a boy, he is a wolf.
The wolf I love looks at me from beneath his green shroud.
Temptation paws at him, and his thoughts are bared.
A holy creature, though still a denial I face
I am salvation, quenching, a rib to his heart.
I see it written in every inch of him, tooth to tail.
Maybe it is wrong because I am not a wolf, nor a girl.
Or maybe it is not wrong at all, but will take time to unfurl.
If you go away
you tear my heart from my breast
and tears drip from my opened chest.
Come back to me
remember the love we shared
and life can be restored once more unbared.
Not a word,
not a single tear
as you step away.
Leave me then,
slip into the darkness of night
and let me be.
Nina Simone
Feeling indescribable
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Q7w7gk1JhQ
Don’t forget
I tried and did
My best
I gave it all
And more
Don’t forget
When you
See my picture
That this man
Lived ten lives
Took the pain
Of ten men
But felt the
Love of none
Don’t forget
I was just
a man
Of flesh
And sin
Foibles
And Faux pas
Don’t forget
This man
Was your
Dad
of part one pertaining to my most recent poetic entry (Inexplicable Quirky Memory Unhinged clasp one) unintentionally got submitted twice, and rather than tamper with attempting to delete delicately, (and probably wreak greater havoc then desirable), this generic human male (meaning thy characteristics of body, mind and spirit) lumped within that general category designated as average.
this chap neither exalts in arrogance, haughtiness, orneriness...nor does emasculate, humiliate, lacerate...his being.
tis modesty i strive for despite the (all to quick to judge via initial virtual impression) predicated on my predilection to populate poems (and/or prose) with ponderous pedantic particular pun dit tree.
When you get to my old age of eighty-two
You and your doctor, dance a pas de deux
An entrée, an adagio
Dance like two buffaloes
Quite a pretty sight, worth a spleen or two
My smile is just for you
although you are so far away
your feet tiptoe around
a shadow
a phantom
your fragrance
temptation
seduction
Once was a day where we were
warm and soft
in morning breeze
I pirouette to you
This corner
two sides protect my back
but i'm so vulnerable
in how i miss you
how my nights are poor
my days are lacking
my aching frame
Every day one small step
makes a waltz
orchestrated
a day where it
doesn't matter
that legs are ethereal
***
July 12, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
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