Attempting to think
As these reasoners of Greece
If I reason a
thirty-secondly
Of these, that'll give me peace
I must admit this
it is not how I
get my kicks, Reading all this
course material
so prolix, In all
fairness I must bequeath to
give my attention
to my teacher, To
study in waters muddy
Van Til and Bahnsen
make clear to reason
properly and retain a
child's ear, So don't
follow the world
Or seek its destination
By implication
Follow Christ and His
example, there is ample
Evidence for it
*Image of Purple Vanda Orchids Floral & Lei by EFC & Sziv.
Prolix Pageantry
Pulsations of veinuous royalty
courtesies yond the proverbial realm.
Majestic interludes flamboyantly
acquired vesper's affections, overwhelm.
Cupid cedes ecliptic earth's lauded star,
hauling affianced light neath golden rays.
Purple Vanda orchids in gild's wake are
velvety mosaic succeeding phase.
Proxy promises bonny lavenders
pealing gingerly as princely petals
induce a princesses verbs. Challengers
submit an amethyst crown ... all settles.
Hawaii's champ, amaranthine Vandas
laurel leis, like Purple Heart's ... lifespan 'twas.
2022 June 01
*2nd Place*
Purple Flowers
~~Nayda Ivette Negron Flores: Judged 2022 June 25
*HMS: 10 syllables per x 14 lines = 140 syllables
RZ: RhymeScheme; abab, cdcd, efef, gg.
He used to be:
wordy, verbose, prolix,
chatty, jejune, digressive,
tedious, long-winded, repetitive,
elaborate, grandiloquent, loquacious,
pretentious, comprehensive, circumlocutory
Now he is:
pithy
*Image of Sun by A Shared Soul.
The Fifth of July
(Pondering A Newness)
A gold sovereign wakes, dimly rises
afar, a relic of sorts once revered the
world round, except occasions when
a quondam ebbs loyalty, ergo, limbo.
Exchanging trenches, a vanguard of
patriots images shrugging dust off
their palls trudging a field of honor,
swapping expressions, ubiquitously.
The vestiges of DC prolix amidst ere
night euphoria, wane. Atonements
for our liberties are owed. A grateful
nation solemnizes.
2021 August 29
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND 1092
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 March 20
Dark night is closer, after your
Callings, callings from the half -seen trees.
Night owls are crying. A smile is
Ominous dancing in the branches.
Of slow time, night unfolds
Its ranges of stories, night’s regular acts.
All dead voices are laying ice cold.
My prolix is a wakeup call.
Night’s mysteries are awake with my poem
After a long cold sleep at Tirupati.
Foul smells hard, ghostly.
Time is decaying mundane trash.
One uncouth face conjures up,
Other unshaped faces, wild dark.
Only the hooded eyes, a simpleton
Strange sounds of howling. What a loss!
The art is moonshine.
My reason is homeless.
A few seeds have life.
My dead brother is back.
Nobody is awake at this odd hour
only a child’s unmasked hooting.
Spirits of the dead have a night out
for an appointment with the unknown.
The emperor of words, “Take care.”
No matter, how high you fly in the sky
You rain somewhere beyond a known order. Farmers
are waiting. Your water carries a bread of hope.
You paint houses with poetic colours.
When the world was youthful
spiderwebs sang as they were spun.
Language was woven in the air
as accents of winds and trees
conveyed by an eloquent sky.
Untrammeled meadows annunciated
upon the lips of dens and burrows
scooped by shrew, mole, and vole.
Fresh bathed daisies signed a speech
as they swayed,
buttercups birthed calligraphy’s of sunlight.
Giddy rills gave voice to fritillaries
that flew to the sun or moon.
Words were idioms painted upon
the melodious leafage
of the up-risen and rising.
Then that shaggy brat
the primordial ape it grunted forth,
translating its gripey gut
through the clack of a creaky tongue.
Guttural and gregarious
it learned to babble and
belch an oral discordance.
It yapped and yawped,
yawped and yapped
until a spoken language
verbosely pivoted to prolix
polluting the very airy air.
Then it was
that a nascent poet boldly stood
rhyming would with could
until even the dumbest of his tribe
understood
and cheered him fit to bust
while the green grown world
with all its idiomatic kin
lost the will to express
as before
for the fluent earth again.
Do not fall in love with a poet:
Breakfast would be a couplet.
Lunch would be a quatrain:
Personified, pithy and prolix on metaphoric train.
Supper would be a sonnet:
Smithereens of oomphs, entangled in esurience's enmesh.
On the spousal sunshine,
He would sew suit of slant rhymes.
For how long he would last in bassinet:
Measured in Troche, dactyl, anaspetic or iambic pentameter.
Advice for the shavers and doxy:
Lofty metaphors Clothed in paradoxical antithesis.
Talk more of many other things,
Your home is hyperbole of poetry.
19:05:05:13:51
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral piece. SOS
O'er dales and parched wells she flies
Come morning she'll blind
With her hypnotizing mist
And low whispers
Whispers that writhe the mind in agony
That have dazed the children
Of the Round City
As they prolix about the loud and narrow paths
She distills their minds
With the fermentation of grapes
Sending them around the fountains of despair
In a never ending whirl of noxious airs
Where colours collide
She proffers the hide of leather
For the blender of oils
To lend her a hand
To seduce the virgin bride
Whom she'll send to an abyss of evil
Where the resident sorcerer
Grows ever more indolent
As he feeds on boar
She twists in the sky
Upon the incensed wing of Hooriyah
A dear angel
Of the purest light
With duress she tosses her wing
Sending the djinn on a golden stream
It bathes the corners she inhabits
And showers the Earth
With the pure gold of the Celestial Chymist
And so the djinn speeds to the East
As the call of prayer
Shakes the land
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