The third one, Autumn, plods through leaves and nearly takes a Fall,
then passes off to Winter, who proceeds at such a crawl -
Inspired by, The Relay Race, by John Watts [2020]
Incessantly it trods and plods
perpetual the pendulum.
So long before the abbey bells
tolled and told of hours passing
before the ticks and tocks of clocks
or shadows crept with solstice gods
no one to worship at its start
that knew not of a perfect love.
The kindest heart left drowned in tears
and wrapped in gross deformity,
yet sheltered by cathedral walls
in disrepair as much as he.
'til Esmerelda's gentle hand,
he knew no love, just hate and scorn
and like the brand from tempered flame,
it's burning love that made him strong.
So like the edifice was he,
an ugly house that held God's love
and Quasimodo's lonely heart
who'd toll the bells that silence hears.
Then in the end he found her dead
and sacrificed his mortal life
to sleep with one who truly gave
the only love he'd ever known.
Interred, yet not forsaken souls,
whose bones became entangled vines
that turned to dust when first exposed,
then blew to heaven ~ found in time...
Its raven skin follows without a 'woof,'
no bark no bite,
darker than a shadow in sunlight.
It reflects in the mirror,
staring with 'Edgar Allan Poe,' ebony eyes.
At dawn it's at the bedside,
wanting to wander into the morning mist.
At twilight it rests its head on my pillow,
stalking, into my sleep.
It sits on the passenger seat,
without a seatbelt, unfocused,
unconcerned, like it has no need to exist.
It plods slowly around the office,
slumping forward, back curved like a 'jack knife.'
Colleagues ignore its obsidian paws,
sore from scabs, resting on the desk.
Its head droops with my sullen, dull ache.
Its tongue looks rough, no saliva drips -
a bit like my cracked lips.
We both seem to breathe in dry air,
as it feeds on my molasses mind.
It has no interest in sticks nor treats,
nor cares to leave my side.
A sinister magnetic faithfulness.
Unmoved, as I vomit black bile.
I wonder how is he a man's best friend?
An old man plods slowly down the rutted middle
Of an ancient dusty country lane, unmindful of his steps.
His calloused sandaled feet know the way,
As he has trodden this path to market for decades,
Or centuries perhaps,
He no longer tries, or cares, to remember.
Time has lost all meaning.
Bowed beneath the heavy weight of years and toil,
He wears the mantle of his life,
Not proudly as he once did in his hopeful youth,
But now the way he bears his cumbersome burden
Of broken limbs and sticks and twigs,
With a resigned and weary sadness as immutable and maimed
As the arthritic stumps and knees of old cypress trees,
Or countless other old withered and withering men
Like him.
Author's note: This piece, dear readers, was inspired by "Man with a Sack of Wood", a sketch by Vincent van Gogh.
My mind is in a death cage,
Time plods slowly forward
Towards its logical end.
Yet I have to look back.
My cold body lies pale
On a cold marble slab.
Dark corridors of memories
Echo with screams
Begging for forgetfulness
Imploring forgiveness.
A library of thoughts,
Of fears and torments,
Of hope and love,
Of reality and dreams.
The reaper of grief has come,
But not oblivion,
As a collection of events
Of my past marches by,
Inexorable fate,
Depressive images,
Luscious dreams,
Shady deals,
Delectable delights,
Greed and compassion:
All vibrating viciously
Within my tortured soul.
Why can't my mind
Be like a barren womb,
That I might die in total oblivion?
Forget my past, my loved ones,
My hated ones, my friendly ones.
Let me aim for the morning star,
There I'll find peace and love.
There the Mighty Son was/is/will be.
Mercy Lord, my judgment is at hand.
It’s getting cold.
I rub my hands to create friction
and my feet feel like they’re no longer here.
My ears hide behind my hair,
sheltering from the breath of air
that the wind throws at me.
Seven-thirty-five on a Friday evening;
I should be at home
digging into a chicken burger.
Somehow, I’m still here,
stranded.
Face it.
He’s not coming.
Thirteen minutes more
of waiting in the cloud of cold.
If only I’d listened to my mum
and put on that ugly fluffy jacket,
rather than going out in my top and jeans.
“It’s fine, he’s picking me up.”
But he’s just not.
I’m still waiting here,
still stranded.
Even the bus doesn’t want to save me.
Four minutes late
and only now, it plods round the bend,
pulling up beside me.
Home.
A ticket home.
A ticket home to tell mum she was right.
A ticket home never to come back.
A ticket home because he wouldn’t help me.
A ticket home to the warmth,
never to be stranded
ever again.
A spider thin calligraphy, a varicose script
upon the shallow sheen of mortality.
Are these the genetics of a divine act
arriving as green stems,
weeds and blooms all in a tangle?
A scratchy nib of doodled ideas?
Behold the dying and the replenishing,
the glory of the shedding.
All this upon a tumbled forest floor
where imagination plods daily.
More marks upon a blank page
developing slow
in the low light of scribbled thoughts.
More night flowerings and late sweepings.
Rabbit brags
crazily;
Tortoise plods
lazily.
Rabbit gets
sleepy, see.
Tortoise wins
Easily.
Work ethic
is lacking;
Rabbit gets
shellacking.
Relentless,
forward, there.
T’s out front
by a hare.
Nonfiction
or fable?
Decide if
you’re able.
----------
Using more dactyls seems a good match for the form...
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides
The mind is a long walk home,
dinosaurs unnamable
litter the green turf
of our travels.
Reptiles shrink to birds,
the larger birds collapse like balloons
eventually running out of sky.
Lizards rest in the top nest
of every reaching spine.
Some imagine waking up
still travelling with Walt Whitman
and other old guys,
all those long-winded words
sticking to boots
as the company plods forward,
while a slow-eyed crocodilian
lifts one bejeweled and crusty eyelid
watching for signs of new life.
Space returns to the surface
of the world
ancient and rootless
spreading an alien gossip
& streaking unmasked
through Area 51.
We are not home yet,
we are the infants of lumbering mammals,
more nimble and able
to see over mountain tops.
Let us walk the way the pygmies do,
leaving no shadows for the sun to eat,
trusting only in one naked thought
after another,
yet and all, still able
to pilfer the horizons of giants,
as if home where just one more
warming ice age away.
My Heart Revealed
Aim for spirited, boundless love of Christ
To flood everyone’s inner soul with light
Submerge yourself in God's ocean of love
Turn your face to His rain and soak it up.
Aid God's love to flow in waves over all
Tell of His words, behold frozen hearts thaw
Christ is calling, when answering His call
He shows one the road all saints walked before.
For those souls who live in fear of the worst
Expose their hearts to the scriptures fine words
Many a heart has a dream that's woken
Once those reverent words have been spoken.
God's there when He's needed, alert when not
Prayers are answered and never forgot
His love is an ever flowing river
Will twist and turn but shall never wither.
Life plods on by though things may rearrange
But there's one thing that always stays the same
That's the loyal love the Holy King sends
The gift that comes from our Hallowed best friend.
Wear an unseen crown of glory, that's blessed
Placed there by the Lord's hand above one's head
Share God's story, let the whole world be lit
His glory, don't conceal it, reveal it.
14th March 2021
Michael McGregor Nursery Rhyme
Michael McGregor refused to bathe
His mother says: “You’ll be sorry!
A monster you’ll be when you awake!”
Michael thinks “Fun!” – a monster party!
Michael awakens all hairy and gross
Roars when he talks, slobbers and drools
Green teeth, foul breath, long toenail toes
No friend sits by him when he goes to school.
Michael plods home, tears in his eyes,
Looks in the mirror –horrific monster he spies
Jumps in the tub – leaves hairy mess
Sees Michael next morning – monster now put to rest!
3-12-21
Contest: Nursery Rhyme 2
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Based on poet's story for children - Michael Becomes a Monster.
"He who closes a school door opens a prison." ~ adapted by poet
“Closed!” hangs on gate a frowning note;
Gusty wind scatters his neatly combed hair;
Mockery screams; love lost his way home;
Back to jail plods he, with a ragged heart,
For jailors with rifles guard the school gate.
“Closed!” pouring fountain of love, a nest,
A greener lawn, fawns run wild with glee;
A school of love, love heals pains of love;
Gate grieves; a road leads to rusty bars;
Back to jail plods he, with a tattered heart.
“Closed!” paused his feet, not seeing road.
A black bee rumbles, freezing a rose bed,
Petals flee; dusty floor wipes their tears;
Earth wails; sigh rises; softly clouds sob;
Back to jail plods he, with his battered self.
Feb. 15, 2021
They Closed The Brothel Poetry Contest
Kai Michael Neumann
Nature is an Autumnal thief; pilferer of clinging leaves
Each one rudely swept away, but a tree never grieves
Well knowing in Spring, buds will reappear as sheaves
Behold the dawn of sunrise as we begin another day
Enfolding us in the sun's warmth with every golden ray
Gray skies will often darken the horizons in our lives
Intrusive, yes, but with positive thoughts, one survives
Never give up, just start over, despite improbable odds
Nascence and a willing desire is the impetus that plods
Inside our hearts, leading us to pursue another direction
New pathways to follow, after soul-searching reflection
Garnering wisdom to regard the past as a mere bygone
Spurring us to a better life when it's time to move on
January 23, 2021
New Beginnings Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
He sweats, he grunts
he plods, he plugs
There is't a ditch
he hasn't dug
Works like a dog
and eats like a horse
Though most of his meals
are only one course
Had to quit school
when his parents died
Got married young
to his 'baby bride'
One kid after another
took away his youth
Then his health took a hit
Too much gin sans vermouth
Now at age 60
He's old and worn-out
Nary a field seeded
for memory to sprout
His
Twinkling
Kiss hisses
How he will miss
princesses when homeward tiredly he plods.
We see his sweetest farewell kiss; so I'll,
Letting them kiss
As they wish,
Gently
Pass.
Picture 2
Syllable Count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 - 10, 4, 3, 2, 1 http://www.howmanysyllables.com
*3rd Place* in the following contest (judged on Oct. 1, 2020)
Sept. 21, 2020
Double Tetractys 3 Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Eve Roper
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