S tars perfectly align [cohabitation]
e ndless-spaces posing, [a-vast] cosmic, ecliptic, dance of
[c ast], at it's (station parting as chaotic entropy).
P ulling g a laxies together, a [tapestry] in intrinsic entrance of (separate positions adorning culled existence).
A fter eons of celeStial [tide], weaving fate's intricate [thread of] abode to abide (stretching partition arearing capacities extension).
C osmic wonders emerge, in this theater that the universe has advanced as (spreading propellant aortic celled expanse) .
E nergy transfered, transposedly, written and read as (s-ystem p-artition a-spiring c-onnection e-xistensibly.)
When I thought of the fox he just escape out of the box;
The spider laughed while running on his hands;
It was heterodox insect with eight legs eating dark chocolate;
There stood a theistic hovercraft
They are perfumed from unseen spacecraft
Much I marvelled the propellant comet;
I am shorn of my vomit yet I sprew up the bird nest;
Somewhat louder than the grommet;
While I pondered, antinomian and palmate;
~
Run on little red fox
Run on don't watch the clock
Choose next line from the options below
Kayaking and kayaking with my chuck
Death shall bring hares
When I thought of the fox he just escape out of the box;
The spider laughed while running on his hands;
On a track the spider chases the fox
5/19/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
Place the void before me and I will cower
Fill it and I will pulse with awe
Neither pushes me down the path
The winding way, that greenish-yellow place
I once described in my innocence.
I'm mistaken, languishing
Anticipating some outside force,
Propellant, dependent on
Otherness to accomplish bliss
Folly filling my chance.
I wondered, then, if I would live
Laughing at the speed of one
Planetary body, cynical as Iago.
When I found time could hold me
Luck equals opportunity plus more: effort
Place before me a sheet of paper
I will cover it with echoes
Neither real nor imaginary
Ghosts that haunt my happy place
A stain excreted, evincing existence.
He's love’s anvil
Banging beauty with propellant power
Bends no ear for mercy--
Body batters tempo hour after hour.
He's love’s anvil
Dashing dreams into the dust
winds whirl them high
as clouds roll by
Never pausing ---
rhythm raging rhythm
hour after hour
like the cadence of the sea
drowning men are history
Hammer pulverizing--
Ferocity in nature can't be taught
like a crazy tiger
that can't be caught
He's love’s anvil
Seeming harmless with no outward hazard sign--
Beckons with a cold-beat
Fear and joy now intertwined.
Throbbing is love’s anvil
Elemental altar of no second chance
Sparks are remnants soul-burned--
whirligig of ashes spinning
in the dangerous splendid dance.
He's love's anvil.
Button up your lip.
This is not a story of romance.
V, Anderson-Throop©2015
At birth I started as an intense fire,
With no man, given authority, to tame,
For God, being my solitary propellant,
Makes Him alone, keeper of my flame;
But as burn time, on earth, progresses,
And God allowing me no logs to add,
My flame has now become a low flicker,
While burn down smolders, for a tad.
God alone knows my continuance of burn,
Time, is rendering me embers, without fire.
Too soon I’ll become ash as flame goes out,
Then shortly, my time, on earth will expire.
I see blank white snow drift expressions,
My mind flames to life with one little spark.
That is all it takes to wake this imagination.
Hand arranges words as brain instructs.
Mere thoughts create rainbows which color my world,
Arching my body I bow in reverence to gift-given.
To soar skyward from sitting position is awe-inspiring,
Especially when dreams act as my sole propellant.
To fly faster than any rocket with only a blink,
Tells me of the power one mind possesses.
Watched one tear soften a hardened heart,
Long before it reached end of cheek's path.
I have seen smiles melt even the coldest frozen anger,
Even my heart's been seen embracing cruelest agony.
Knowing to cry is to douse a consuming grief lit fire,
Bravery being just a word until facing life's endings.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn A.R.R.
It’s something of a miracle, isn’t it,
how words are plastic magic and can fly,
given the proper propellant,
which in my opinion is “need,”
a compulsion to commit to paper
or to a listener’s ear
or a reader’s eye
the gist and heart
of that maelstrom
of syllables and sounds
screeching around
in some very needy cavern
buried deep in that mine
we call mind?
Amazing...
the fuse is lit
a kiss is the propellant
our bodies are entwined
on fire from accelerant
and we burn white-hot
but we burn too quick
our liaison had
a very short wick
Being God's Pen
Written: by Tom Wright
2006
Thoughts Promenade inside my head
Absent of composition or direction,
As water dollops on a heated griddle.
I pass time exhuming notions
Thought long ago perished.
From night filled crevices of my mother wit,
I examine ideas whose propellant
is as monster bat wings darting to and fro.
Free flying, suddenly vanishing,
As if having been exiled from my psyche.
Their duration, analogous to griddle dollops;
Once vaporization has occurred,
I'm left to contemplate these mental aerobics,
In selfish tones, while examining my worthiness
As God's humble quill this day.
Conceivably, those concepts I've pursued,
Will birth in ink another time.
A time of God's convenience and choosing.
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