Nickname by any other name
Ofttimes original and ovation-worthy
Most meaningful to proud bearer
Defining individal core and essence
Expression flaunted to the world
Poetic paintbrush signs an alias
Lingers an aura of identity
Unconventionally wanting to be memorable
Misnomer guided by a metaphor
Explicit or enigmatic nom de plume
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2026
*************************************
Insomania
Wakeful serves the friendless dark
Humming brain flaps its wings loud
Fatigued body longs to rest
I'm lain with my wearied soul
City rests, midst, symphony
Speechlessness screams in my chest
Longing to drift off to sleep
Last Train to Georgia
Wheels sing their final, slow tune
The great machine commences
Fade and rumble in the night
Lights obscure the platform now
Whistling a faraway song
Iron beast, turned: to a ghost
The last station has arrived
To Not Kill a Mockingbird
Gray flash flies from the high fence
A loud, insistent cascade
He steals from feathered neighbors
A tenacious performer
Mocked the world with its great song
Radiance sings a frank bird
Hear the joy of its wonder
Pace be the plume prime of a horse,
Austere man’s leanness, girl’s shyness,
Brahmin’s knowledge, king’s forgiveness,
Valour, whose arms be the sole force.
____________________________
Translation |26.10.2024|embellishment, horse, girl,
Poet’s note: Sanskrit has thousands of verses of wisdom called Subhashhitam. Bhatrihari was elder brother of the renowned king Vikramaditya of Ujjain. He had two queens: Pingala and Padmaakshee. He loved Pingala immensely but abdicated the throne and left for forest when he found that she loved another man on the hide. A learned man, he gave wealth of literature in Sanskrit. Among them: Shringara Shataka, Neeti Shataka, Vairagya Shataka, and Vijnana Shataka. This verse is one of his brilliant creations. The transliteration of the Sanskrit verse follows:
Javoh hi sapte paramam vibhooshhanam,
trapa anganaayaah, krishhataa tapasvinah |
Dvijasya vidyaa, nripateh api kshhamaa,
paraakramah shastra-balena jeevitaam |
So, he came and dazzled you with his plume
And you simply succumbed to his grooming.
Pregnant, he’s gone, what have you got to do?
This may very well be your undoing.
5th Place
Bird-of-Paradise Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Suzette Richards
Soft and feathery and illusive
Each word a woven world of fantasy
An artistic lair for the lunacy of emotion
Musical, distant and serene
Aesthetic shelters like seashells
Cast by the angst of the ocean
Through the Autumn storms
Blue children with seeming smiles
sings to the Angels
To the everglades
the children play
in the cove of the cave
Like bedrock
They are raised on hope
Solitude ponders the darker hues
feed by paths unexplored
Who's knocking like that?
"... in the light of a feather..."
and as bright as full noon
Brunette replies to HarleQuinn
"... is this your spoon?..."
Dialog established
Act three, Honey Moon
Then Pooh said to Piglet
"... it really is you!..."
a Mile works for Her
and her smile works too
"... you should never pull a brain out before it's time..."
So Harvey kept the jars
in a closet sublime
"... that 'ol Mason, was a friend of mine..."
Matters never falter
nor do friends over wine
so Harvey squared the cuts
24 at a time...
they agreed to win win
and wrote until dawn
they made great music
recording new songs
... and then they decided
to take Time for a ride...
"...It was Albert's birthday
so we headed in for pi..."
She was blind to her colors so her palette spoke in greys.
She couldn't trust her gut for fear of what others had to say..
In early May her colors burst, a glorious display, as vibrant as
a peacock's plume with out a hint of grey.
I feel the futility
after decades
of my fingers flitting
like dragonflies
over the keys
my once hopeful heart
shriveled and shrunken
as a plum into a prune
Shakespeare and Miller
Marlowe and Pinter
will never again
pick up the plume
to pen another
poem or play
yet they live on today
while my words
wither in the womb
Stillborn they are silently
whisked away unread
without a funeral
to the tomb
It’s important
what you get called
has a name,
one you can take
to the ivory
border
It’s important
what you’re called
is remembered the same,
today recollected
tomorrow
reordered
A mark on the stone
no longer
unknown,
your history and
legacy
rendered
Sapphire crystal
overlord set,
the past
eponymous
the future
—kismet
(The New Room: February, 2021)
Babe you know I’d walk a mile
And wrestle with a crocodile
Even spend a year or two in exile
If only just to see you smile
The light I feel when you’re in the room
Is enough to make a flower bloom
And all the ladies start to swoon
But I’m the one that holds the plume
I’d show you all my cards at once
For your intentions are upfront
I’m silly dear yet this is no stunt
The heart’s a mystery babe, don’t grunt
I love you now and let you know
It never could just be for show
For the longer I live this life I sow
Is shining for I love you so
I’d run across a great big desert
And swim the oceans to find your presence
And love you till you feel quite pleasant
Until my dear you are luminescent
Written- 11/18/2020 11:28 AM
Alias
Also known as (A.K.A)....
No judgment
No regrets
I hate with fury
I love like no other
I have been called a bastard & S.O.B
Every name in the book
My mind travels to undiscovered places
My words most likely will offend
My choices aren't always right
I will own any of those choices if asked
No explanations given
Ryan is the first
de Rossi is the last
That is me!
6/25/20
Peering from Behind the Plume
A verbal sketch by Martin Braun
June 15, 2020
Peering from behind the plume
witnessing my brethren lofting from ethereal vapors.
Who shall share our divine song?
Not I!
Who shall sit on the right side, with you at my left?
Not I!
Look below, their gaze is transfixed on my wonderous down,
and enchanted by my song.
Holy, holy, holy I shall sing, not for God,
but for vanity that harmony my voice doth bring.
Laced with apples that you desire,
I serenade the Gospel entwine with earthly eloquence,
and lick your lobe evoking emotional undulations from head to toe.
I seduce you in God's own house, not for His glory but my own,
for it is my desire to sit up high, on the thrown.
Let the world burn, what do I care.
From the ashes, I will rise, from their dispair.
And your lives, I will surely protect,
who else will remain for my worship and pay their debt?
Branches of an oak tree bend and mourn the fall of its last acorn,
itself left wanting the warmth of chestnut leaves. Comfort in cupule.
Winter searches for mittens lost, misplaced during last year’s snow
below an eagle hunting for feathers - naked now, showered in goosebumps. Chicken.
Ivy crawls blindly looking for brick walls to climb,
as a rainstorm cranes its droplet heads upward, hoping to find a cloud to call father.
Eventually, that same fallen acorn sprouts limbs
which welcome ivy along its bark
and sips at rain, quenching the thirst of roots;
the acorn, stronger now, nestles an eagle’s eyrie with plume for blanket,
whilst warming winter with a springtime canopy, gloved.
(April 2020)
Quaintly dressed, his cap bore a plume
When a lady passed, removed it -- assumed
She'd acknowledge his gracious act
~ So shocked was he at her absence of tact
"Don't think I'm the weaker sex," snapped she
"Else I'll give you a kick to buckle your knees"
Wounded, he offered an unheard apology
Then walked across time to a kinder century
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