Embedded and dormant,
they neither wake nor sleep
but defer and endure
until a sun-seeded air
percolates in countless
humming sepulchral lungs.
There is a foretelling,
an imminent rustle of shoveling wings -
the soil erupts,
whirlwinds swarm tree and leaf.
Now begins the cacophony,
the drumbeat of innate necessity.
Wing plates thrum
against chitinous abdomens,
a fretsaw orchestra hollows out
cavities for creation.
Grasping obsessions
become strangleholds of insemination,
then unto death do they pour.
We who sweep away or step upon
their stiffly crinkled corpses,
to our numbed ears comes a solace
as the raucous interlude abruptly ends,
nor do most keep account of the years,
until the next pronouncement
of yet another reincarnation blares forth.
Wouldn’t it be wild if the sails were snow white?
The sun overcomes the bright yellow sky.
Not flax, hemp or Dacron. Gone is the onyx night.
Deep red, not blood; proud colors flying high.
Pastel yellow slides through green and blue valley.
Dark rock; red rock - peacefully percolates in lake.
Lime greens, verdant forest, spinnerette cloud finale.
Uninhibited hues of sunrise - amorous soul shake.
Have we forgotten the little boat? in the center
of the framed world… sails are painted lips,
(world’s overflowing with a pigment tenor)
pale sepia, monumental orb with remarkable hips.
With varying degrees of intensity,
my internal war rages on.
Freedom of choice vs. obligation to others,
a conflict that’s been fought since time’s dawn.
The battle requires a decision to be made
that personal responsibility must mediate.
Choosing a position to take is juxtaposed
to choosing a position to abdicate.
The skirmish renews each morning,
since the tempest percolates whilst I sleep.
There’s no option that involves fleeing
because the repercussion would echo too deep.
I long for a palatable solution,
which could usher in welcomed peace.
But my internal war will continue raging on,
'til I find an existential release.
“Work is worship," a doctrine passed through centuries,
"Rest is rebellion," a baton, drowning in miseries.
"Act without expectation," karma echoes,
"Everything returns," as destiny bestows.
"Silence is golden," a soft ebb that silhouettes the sand,
"Words can change the course of history," a tide that overwhelms the land.
"Knowledge is power," the metaphorical snollygoster—
"Ignorance is bliss," a brazen imposter.
"Aging like fine wine," a desire to aspire,
"Worn by the years," behind a graceful facade.
"A stitch in time saves nine," maxim in Grandma's script,
"Don't fix what isn't broken," Grandpa's witty quip.
Aphorisms perplexing the gyri and sulci—
Dichotomy percolates, its fulcrum sheepishly sly.
Like a dolphin decoding submerged signals,
Surveilling truths with a dunk, a leap, and a dash of giggles.
When trust is planted
it germinates
before it percolates
and rounds into belief
We
live
a delusion
day by day
the illusion
we are free
independent
free spirits
to be
who we are
to do
as
we
please
when we like
able
to
choose
The
consequences
of ego
lie all
around
'til
this
hedonistic
bubble bursts
&
marks
&stains
as
it
percolates
through
our kin
It
is
known
as sin
but
is unconfessed
never
breathed
aloud
oft
considered
an illusion
so this
circle
revolves
who
will
break this ring
and
ask
Him
in
Steam rises
“old faithful”
Percolates once again
The cup has character
Not charm
It has earned its place
Borne the days
Arrival
Wept
In oily tribute
At their passing
The brew contains
An oily rainbow
Its soothing solace
Savored
Earth once had a heartbeat.
Everything was sparkling-alive...
The sun and dirt.
A speck of pyrite
Rain clouds teasing the earth.
All that man touches eventually dies.
Wars spring from iron hands.
From the malignant flavor of religion.
From love gone feral.
For the lust of petrol lands.
When God kneaded man.
He kicked a mustard seed...
igniting the bluest avalanche.
All things beautiful were crushed.
All that is good was despised-disfigured.
Unrecognizable is the devil's latest fad.
This is the age of the ogre.
The age of opaqueness.
The age of the sub-cultured.
Dark matter of the soul percolates to the surface.
Faith is pulverized into the skin of oblivion.
The meek will inherit the stain of a dead earth.
By Mark D. Stucky
Glamour is a hollow, shiny shell,
a rapid, pretty paint job
on an insubstantial surface,
that alluringly promises much
but never satisfies the hunger.
True human beauty is internal,
from the depths of one’s core.
It starts in the heart and soul.
It slowly sprouts and spreads,
percolates and permeates
the exterior from within.
The best but bleakest beauty
grows from wisdom
wrestled and wrought
from woundedness.
Pain, a teacher of distinction,
comes to every one of us,
but only some students
embrace the lessons
and find meaning in affliction.
For perceptive learners,
crises cut and clear the clutter
from bloated, busy lives,
enabling the complex splendor
of sorrow and healing,
of tears and laughter,
of doubt and faith,
of truth and grace,
of peace and joy,
of love and compassion
to emerge from pruned spaces.
(First published in Small Town Anthology VII: Entries from the Seventh Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2021, p. 93.)
we writers strive to achieve our best
to bring forth what percolates within our breast
giving rise to thoughts that are eager to be
placed on paper for the world to see
at times we struggle as if climbing walls
other times we buckle when we hear the call
crying out from deep down in our bones
for sweet release, to find a new home
for the words we hear in a muffled voice
conflicted by each and every choice
of letter, syllable, comma, phrase
waiting to appear on a bare new page
we know it's hiding in that writer's womb
a seed of surprise waiting to bloom
any moment now, from dawn to dusk
pondering, percolating is a must
Stranded on the highway
my heart beat slightly faster
I had a destination to reach
Suddenly, everything seemed uncertain
What would become of me, where would my feet go,
now that I had been pushed off the yellow auto that I was safe in
How similar it is,
to the sight of a man standing alone on the cliff side
as the sea hit harshly against the rocks
Nobody expects a few droplets of water
to defeat the sturdy rock
But still it does so
The rock breaks into fragments
and ends in a mushy concoction of mud and stone
Water that percolates in between,
seems to mock it as the memory of its great past
flickers into non existence
Such is the story of great civilisations too
Would I end like that?
I ask to myself
I'm still at the beginning of my life
I wonder anxiously, is the best over yet?
Or am I still a small drop of rain, on my way to become a sea?
Not a part of the sea, that is too pathetic for me
I dream of valour and greatness
I can only hope to achieve them someday
A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?
Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soul mate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?
From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.
Placed Eighth
April. 29. 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Bliss mist percolates deep within
Rapture unbound ensues
We feel the tingle on our skin
As ignition renews
We meet and greet each face
With open arm embrace
Owing to divine grace
Love gist
Bliss mist
09-November-2021
Quietus
When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
& heads turn in disgust.
Faced with lust & deeds
Of mistrust.
When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky,
Time will cease to exist.
While some of us ascend
The staircase.
Not all of us will be so fortunate
In a desert of red.
In any case,
No matter which way you go,
Wait for me.
Wait for me at the floodgate
Which passion percolates &
The stars weep for us as we do
For them.
Don’t breathe without me,
Just as I wouldn’t without you.
Humble & unknowing
I don’t know what’s to become of us
But I do know,
I don’t want to be without you.
When buildings crumble
& return back to dust
When all else fades
& the stars speckle
Like eons of old dust collected
& swept across the sky.
Wait for me,
No matter what happens
Stand
still dear
soul, as bliss
percolates form,
stretching the moment
and moments yet to come,
as time itself stands still thus,
with presence devoid of cravings,
drawing the current into our heart
resulting in blissful rapture unbound.
When we invite love divine in our home,
we first cleanse ourself of feral stains,
laying the welcome mat of trust,
with winsome smile on our face,
making room in our heart,
for the honoured guest
to feel at home
as we be
full of
joy.
06-July-2021
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