Midnight groans so quietly
From a churchyard far below,
Sky within the pathway
Gives off a charcoal tinge,
And darkness roves, alone
Farther than my throbbing glance
And moves back into a shade
Like the deepening of these eyes
Where pale nocturne withers
Past ghastly streaks of mourning:
Like nibbled ashes through late dusk
Setting the sun to be gone
Constellations peacefully gather,
like acrobats falling to sadness
The moon peruses a small light
Overseeing time's twisted face --
This agony evanescing into another trail
Besieged...pierced by stars.
Pumpkins are made
For pies
And pies are made
For jack-o-lanterns
To
Please little girls
Who ride swings high over the city on
Cold
Mornings when others
Have found the schoolhouse
Under the ghetto waiting to transform the little leftovers
Into Wallstreetbogeymen scaring the country into
Unwanted
Growth claiming ‘More Pumpkins Are Better.’
The swing's chains are cold in late October
The seat can be wet
She
In her own glory does
Not
Notice the silence. Dreaming of
Dancing at the Met exposing truth to the music of Mendelssohn.
We linger
On the damp cool October morn
She peruses the skyline looking for the
Spot she might run to
As the swing finds a higher plane.
Thus
the
pure flow
peruses
bounds of avarice
flowing highways and typewriters
Smeared Sign
Snakes’ slivering skins smothered in slimy oil of temptation
Immersed inundated intrigued of intricate ill tempered shine
Go forth and multiply your ferocious frolicking fortune
No - Neverland promiscuous parody peruses the pear’s peril
Or was it a precocious apple appeasing Adam’s adamant appetite
Furnaces’ flames flow from fields of plenty in the desert of doom
The ‘game’ is rigged resembling steel structures stealing resources
Hallowed be thy name Lord Trinity - material riches glory and power
Extract what you must muster maraude marshal the miraculous sword
Time will tell unless the timid clock retreats and hands fall off in the sand
In Nothing we trust but tentacles of terror and in glorious gory greed
Marooned midst the Midas Touch the ‘salubrious’ sign shivers solemnly
Embraces us humans in silence while the oil rigs stutter and spill
Salutary messages spluttered and soiled and the snake wins once more
23rd April 2018
Paralyze thinking to hide in shadows
Tremored breaths of relentless thought
Changing haunts but remains constant presence
White creeps of dark illusions create false imprints
Putting scary intellection in front of everything
Seeing all doubt and failure
No fate nor destiny chimes in, just loss and void
Pysche peruses mind and conquers reaction
Summoning freak energy and screams as rationality
Racing breaths and full- scale chimera controls altered perceptions in right mind
Frenzied shouts and gathered gasps bring fearful to life
Creation of horror is manifested to scary reality
Ever present, ever happening
Fear not..
Heather Turner
Alone he sits
with the copy
he owns
of the Zohar
on the table
He yearns for unity
with the divine
the Cabalist
seeks to understand
the permutations
of the ineffable name of God
He calls the names
of the angels
to aid him in his quest
All night he peruses the book
of Splendor
For he must learn how
something came from nothing
and how
the truths of eternity
reveal themselves
to suffering humanity
and he carries his burden
to the end of days
when the light
of the universe itself
will be revealed
to the faithful
He gazes upon gracious beauty
perform my ripe flower, my willow,
for him only, who pays, do your duty
dressed in your kimono of wild indigo,
play your melodic tunes, dance, sing,
while he survey's divine innocence
as seductive pleasurable tones bring
lustful thoughts, holding him in suspense,
desire heightens, he peruses your face
ruby red lips, masked white skin
eyes of darkest night, with stylish grace
You glide across, pleasure to begin,
you serve him with such affection,
dignified, delicately choreographed
routine, giving all without exception,
beautiful Geisha of pleasurable craft,
oh my beautiful Japanese courtesan,
your immaculate shimada hair style,
you have made him a very happy man
with artistry If only for a little while.
Gardens – After Dark
Buddha sits stoically observing his garden.
The Gnomes snore as the Fairies toss and turn
asleep on the soft petals of flowers. The impish
Pixies party with the flashy fireflies.
Nocturnal seekers. Mice, forever paranoid,
scurry to and fro in a break even carbohydrate burn.
The raccoons, mask-wearing felons, are more direct.
They have already “cased the joint” and are sure of their objective.
Le Skunk, “but of course”, Pepe LePew, he fears no one,
boldly waves his white stripe, slowly peruses the menu.
Monsieur Owl, something of a Maitre d’, oversees the
dining arrangements - while planning his own.
The first hint of sunshine will trigger “last call,
dew will form on the flower petals awakening the Fairies.
Fireflies will drop the pixies at their three story walk-ups.
Gnomes will snort, stretch, and scratch themselves.
A gentle breeze will cue the wind chime.
The Buddha yawns, the birds sing morning prayers.
6/20/2016
submitted to – Little People – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Shadow Hamilton
A mature woman in Victorian attire,
peruses the works of Emily Dickson:
does her spirit speaks on every line?
Brightness is absent, only a glitter
of hope at the beginning of dawn.
A mature woman in a white and blue dress
peruses the memorable works of Emily Dickson
who was an unhappy person confined to a lair...
a poetess who narrated dire and loneliness;
no brightness was present, only a distant and faint glitter
of hope at the beginning of the unfolding, mysterious dawn!
And her inner spirit speaks as pages are slowly turned,
it's strange how that eager reader impersonates Emily's soul...
emitting a sadness that conveys regret for days not lived;
why does she see things darker than the blackness of coal?
Copyright ( c ) 2015 by Andrew Crisci
Late September the hills ring with bellows
as stags roar their challenges with gusto
collecting up the does into large herds
ready to give battle to the very death.
Walkers be wary as you too are an intruder
many have been pierced by their sharp antlers
The nine pointer in his full prime paws in anger
this is his land he is master of all he peruses.
No tolerance for the young contender
they briefly spar and the youngster flees
it is not yet his time maybe in a year or two.
The master stag bellows out his triumph.
A rustle in the undergrowth, and a loud crash
heralds the arrival of another stag in his prime
they meet with a ground shaking crash of antlers
locked in mortal combat they fight for hours.
The ground ripped up and red with their blood
they struggled back and forth, neither yielding
The challenger now weakened gives ground
as with a final clash he turns and limps off.
The master roars out his victory of this day,
gathering up his does takes them to water.
It will be his sperm this year that is carried on
His fawns that will rollick and frolic the meadows
She peruses the paper each morning, and the cartoons for laughs
Then she reads letters from the public
Most of these letters are responded to by her staff
She is briefed daily on matters of policy and politics
She meets privately with the prominent and those of fame
And gives out awards and medals
She is from a tradition of times medieval
If she knights you, Sir, precedes your name
When meeting her, women curtsy
While gentlemen bow to Her Majesty
She has reigned with grace
And is loved by people from many places
The daughter of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth
Her accession to the throne was in 1952
After her father's death
In 1953 she became Queen Elizabeth Ii
(Creative Writing School)
Whoever enters this door
and sits on this floor
Has gained mental health,
sought-after wealth.
Who peruses into another
from cover to cover
True inner self is the other
he will then discover.
For, those who gain all,
First, enrich th' top ball!
WINTER
How wondrous…
A cold winter’s day
Frigid air snaps the face
And wakes it from comfortable warmth
Blanketed white…
A winter’s ground is tucked away
Smoothed, clean surface
Folds into corners of thickets
Lone track …
A small creature seeks repast
Imprints in the crystalline surface
Leave behind a trail to its destination
Pure white…
Punctuated with grays and browns
Beauty in stark desolation
Feeds the senses
Royal entrance…
Fluttered appearance of a brilliant red cardinal
Commands the scene
He owns the naked branch
Last afternoon vestiges…
Linger as long as possible
Brilliant red perched on a jagged gray line
Peruses the diamond sparkles laid at his feet
Night falls… this day is one of a kind….
Some ancient intellect
peruses the dreamscapes in your mind.
Havoc yet to be wreaked,
but promised just the same.
Can you access this encryption,
can you discern some meaning?
Your thought-stream reaches out to mine;
I feel the cold hand upon my neck.
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