SUNNY INTERVALS-:-
filtering
illumination
occurrence
sunbeams
aureate
into INTERMITTENT BRIGHT SPELLS
cast
atmosphere
piercings
periodical
meteorology
of SUNBURSTING PEEKABOO’S
momentarily
komorebi
inexorability
brilliantly
suspended
She's losing count of the times she's cursed
Inconsolably cast my destitute self in hell
She's forgotten the periodical instances she's dumbly paused
Sentient to her reinvigorated hatred
Entwined in inexplicable feelings of attachment
In a layering gone wrong
Probably for its lack of a footing!
In the distant thoughts that harshly rule her mind
Reminding her of the mistakes, she's made
Gaffes that brought an end to our dreams
Of a valid and reachable vision currently so reserved
She's been oblivious of my blunders
Those that justify her actions and reactions
Antiphons consequent not antecedent!
In that newfound awakening
A realization calling for novel resolutions
Dawns upon her like a striking lightning
Sending awakening requests to dimmed passions
In attempting to make past due slip-ups
If only to approach things with naivety
As some subjects are sophistications enemy
But an ally to the crude!
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The Hub Of The Earth, I
Some vehicle screeches toward soundless nights,
a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
as it settles midst different roadside slights.
The decreasing engine roars criminally,
pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
the bright hub unpolishes pitilessly.
The earth's orphans coexisting subsistence,
under new suns and periodical moons,
melts in a blink of an eon insistence.
Meddling miners carved canyons, felled forest looms,
a blue world shadows as a universe watch,
sculpt mountains, charcoal skies, oily oceans, dooms.
A womb will reinvent the species that botch,
our metamorphosis cast a new sasquatch.
2021 March 13
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Mar 20)
~~Brian Strand
They invent new lies with periodical distractions
repeat falsehood till truth turns doubtful
teach generations the ways of hating
the **** of discriminating, dividing, killing
the innocents that love their neighbours
value diversity, equality and peace
shunning the weird chains that lock the sun for roots to grow
--R K Singh
Original - Shankha Ghosh
Translation- Mahtab Bangalee
The triangle-
You have no religion, only
Without being caught by the roots
You have no religion, only
Without tolerate the axe hurt into the chest
When the infernal region suddenly opened
Except spreading both hands
You have no religion, this
Without filling the emptiness.
throw from crematorium to crematorium
Your the pieces of body
In afflicted time then you know
Not sounds light, life weaves lace.
You have no religion then
Couple of periodical triangle times are just illusion-
After drinking wine everyone was drunkard
The poet just drunk in the self faith
(2/10/2020 4:34:00 AM)
That About A Face
Previously responsible concerning an adolescent resplendent facial hallmark,
Awarded to privileges and sanctioned embellishment favoring enhancement,
Over time, years chip away unnoticeably o'er worn breathless moments,
Taunt texture of an arduous youth evaporates in a whimsical hallucination,
Face delicately immersed in a penny-filled wishing well made full by an Irish spring,
Whereby, encroaching four-leaf clovers anticipate deviating hands to favor,
For a wealth of squishing palms to rub gently the verdurous lucky
chartreuse petals,
Against foretelling fluctuating skin with moisturizing balms that saturates the aged cavities,
Alas, rebellious slaves to periodical moons ebb the epidermis as once kept promises reneges,
Former fields of the dermis yield a harvest worthy of an ample supply of suppleness o'er a lifetime,
Where cherished glorious heyday occupied a magnificent proffered face for cameras to envy,
In the advance of time, I am content to gracefully tender the waning years for a fair measured distance as a camera poses for a closeup.
2019 December 22
Best For Last
We bare our souls capriciously exposed,
O'er a chronology gift long ago,
Humbly traipse fortuitous hearts composed,
Traverse fragmented biannual flow.
Oblique drifts of periodical moons,
Guide our latter half just as earned before,
Nature flights of triangular formed loons,
As seasonal exchange caused them to soar.
From color-filled picturesque scenery,
To monochromatic impassiveness,
Passage midst creation and synergy,
Intimates harmonious timeliness.
Clock fades crucial seconds tempts to outlast,
As time wane merging thoughts holding our past.
2019 December 14
*3rd Place*
Your best sonnet July-December 2019
~~John Hamilton
*Honorable Mention*
STRAND SPECIAL 10,any form ,any theme
~~Brian Strand
I am going there
your living post where
I go periodical
wait till your coming, most standing right
be seated with loving amoretti
just for your looking
book my heart to gaiety
shakes me the timidity
where I cannot say something
but truly write I
where your love is long staying
-December 02, 2019 Chattogram
A car rolls into a soundless night,
Its light sends a bursting view of overhanging growth,
In a microcosm succession of descending seconds,
Pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
Till all is rendered back to the void of night.
Sounds of rolling wake the void,
'Tis but a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
The road approves its adoption,
As it settles amongst other roadside neglects,
Earth's orphans coexisting under new sun's and periodical moon's.
Dull chrome insulted by grey matter and passing ignorance,
Melts in a blink of an eon as inherent elements being nursed,
A rebirth phenomenon after being ripped from its womb,
As meddling minds, carve out canyons and canvases felled trees,
Sculpture mountains, etch on charcoal skies, paint from oiled oceans,
All from a dark planet behind a concealed metal mask and chromed artificial air tanks,
That all were at one time...
...an errant orphaned wheel cover.
2019 September 19
A car rolls into a soundless night,
It's light sends a bursting view of overhanging growth,
In a microcosm succession of descending seconds,
Pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
Till all is rendered back to the void of night.
Sounds of rolling wakes the void,
'Tis but a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
The road approves its adoption,
As it settles amongst other roadside neglects,
Earth's orphans coexisting under new sun's and periodical moon's.
Dull chrome insulted by grey matter and passing ignorance,
Melts in a blink of an eon as inherent elements being nursed,
A rebirth phenomenon after being ripped from its womb,
As meddling minds, carve out canyons and canvases felled trees,
Sculpture mountains, etch on charcoal skies, paint from oiled oceans,
All from a dark planet behind concealed metal mask and chromed artificial air tanks,
That all were at one time...
...an errant orphaned wheel cover.
Kite Less String
Written: by Tom Wright
1/15/2014
Days of youthfulness are as flowing nectar,
And a clock’s alteration indeed methodical;
With twain of days come its own spectre,
Not instantly but apparent and periodical.
We impact each milepost as we progress,
Visually searching for some future mound;
Our primary resolve is to become a success,
Abruptly finding our days have browned.
Now the lesson in these thoughts I bring,
Enjoy each day whether laboring or leisure.
For shortly years equate to a kite less string,
Remaining is memory, make that a treasure.
Oft times God blesses
Us in spite of ourselves;
Depression got me thinking philosophical
Are we really here am I mythological?
Screws coming loose, minds psychological lifes coming to an end it was purely periodical
Tryna catch up To my sanity.
I'm searchin for clarity in this ugly reality
Never meant to play with the devil sold my soul out of vanity.
Now my life is broken and I can't find the pieces
Temperature drops as my heart rate decreases and seizes
I'm all out of words in feelin so speechless
I've dug my own grave I stare down in the deepness'
I sense death and fall to my knees
Empty thoughts, its peace Im at ease
Spirited meeting, don't faint
Real or surreal, it is momentary, as cannot stay long on the same plane
Want to protect from mirthless life's winding chimes
Only if it was easy as mending the book's spine
Rarely lurking demons underneath the bed
Don't waste yourself peeking beneath the bed
Blindfold daydreaming,lines you up to heaped relics of unsung martyrs in a sepulcher
Starkly outshine rabid prince makes shy away the vulture
Never be too soft or daft
Not completely at fault, for programmed specimen of the mightier craft
Amidst the bantering on lease
Just don't succumb to the whisper of inherited guilt please
In summation to any wrong answer
Even rustling waft of your ashes will be sneezed at
Don't plug out the sound of closing doors
Sign to focus on the right one just designed for you
Betide as it was destined
Brush frivolous talk aside as choice is destiny's invoice
Essential to periodical diuresis of precarious enslavement
Rejoice to all sensations, before obfuscated by life's retirement
My unusual physical appearance
Was enhanced by a striking thinness,
And enormous long-lashed blue eyes.
Less charmingly, I was also the kind of
Deliberately malicious little hooligan
Who'd remove some periodical
From a neighbour's letter-box
And then mutilate it before reposting it.
The sixties' famed social and sexual revolution
Was well under way, and yet for all that,
Seminal Pop groups such as the Searchers
And the Dave Clark Five;
Even the Fab Four themselves,
Were quaintly wholesome figures.
And in comparison to what was to come,
They surely fitted in well
In a long vanished England
Of Norman Wisdom pictures;
And the well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service and World Service,
Of coppers and tanners
And ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers
And window cleaners.
At least that's how I see it,
Looking back at it all
From almost half a century later.
i am at the part of unfortunate decision
fake flowers in hand and a dusty prayer
hesitation has a cup of warm pintos with country ham with me
i am the defiant source of a sticky glue's periodic periodical
nothing else matters for i make myself inanimate
precious memories are pickled in a jar of overtly potent vinegar
i am a lost soul feeling frigid in a deserted desert foundation
windchime sandstorms bully me with its unevenly rhythmic syncopation
since becoming an unbalanced liar, i have become a role model for truths untold
i never thought that my ice box character presentation could be so calmly bold
i have been zombie with a bad case of bubbleguts ever since that morning of "the circle ride"
i am at the part of unfortunate decision
heavy exhalation standstill experimenting with a lever similar to a disoriented h. george wells
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