Mountains were made for poets --
for dramtic scales and harrowing descents. For
lofty subjects and deeper, fumarole vents -- many
are volcanic you know. Some active,
others sleeping, as those creative dry-spells~
no word-glows with the ashes. When carefully
placing my dots and dashes, counting often unruly
syllables, contemplating scriptor's tempting easy-rhymes,
word-candy, for poetic sound-effects, reminded I am of canned
laughter, not needed when Saturday Night
Live was yet funny. Had real entertainment substance.
My first book of mountains admittedly needed
more height, did not adhere to principals of careful oversight.
Honesty with self, and stacks of rejections have been
my maturing lifts and refining propellers. Don't give up. Lots
of knowlegeable-beans and more spicy life-seasoning has helped fuel my
linguistic evacuation. As Poe may have also been implying
when he said, what we "see and seem", do not necessarily equate
to a publisher's eclectic ream. What do they know anyway?:)
do you hear
subtle thunderings there,
the arrow shot of fired jumbo jets,
swinging propellers swelling lumps of cold regrets,
or is it all I wanted, a love none forgets,
home to dispossess layers, claim herds,
entice with foreign words...
winter birds
As the sun set, I wander around to find a place to sleep for the night,
clear dark skies allow me to see the different lights that follows me
It look as though they are the astrology constellations in the sky, but I
only can make out Cancer (Y). I don't believe in stars. Hoping this is my protection as I sleep in this cold unsafe world of hate and war. Lights in different formations, while flashing of green and red of the drones follow
the lights; watching the lights watch me.
I notice drones everywhere I am during the sunset through early sunrise;
can be frightening at times. Being alone all of my time makes me feel like a project of some kind. Watched by what/who is the question. Distances approximately 30-50 feet high. Living alone they always came around the outside of my home at late night hours. I would always hear the hovering of
the buzzing winged propellers outside my bedroom windows. Then I could of thought stalker, but what about now, I'm homeless.
I'm really concern, but no one to get answers from unfortunately.
Surveillance or protection?
LIVE FOR THE CHEERS, DIE BY THE BOOS
"If you live for the cheers
you'll die by the boos"
Ephemeral joyful pool of tears
exterminate joy and invite foes.
Deceitful applause and wrong peers
are both companions of fools.
Don't live for the world's cares.
Apply your mental tools,
the cheers are thorns over the years;
So, rather be alone than in twos.
"If you live for the cheers
you'll die by the boos";
Same cheerers, being your propellers
will slate you on totem poles.
Refuse to live by the cheers
and focus with the eye of bulls.
VickManuelPoetry {VMP}
Copyright©26thJuly2022.
Bringing luck to all on whom she lands,
her six propellers tickle the hand.
With spotted Elytra of red and black
symmetrical patterns to say stay back,
to predators who would harm this beauty;
the Ladybug will always be a real cutie.
She has a sense of smell within her feet,
her sense of direction you just can’t beat.
A farmer’s friend she keeps away aphids,
and she won’t harm crops like katydids.
Though beware hungry birds little armored girl;
hey gardeners give this sweet helper a whirl.
1-13-2022
Insects Poetry Contest
Angela Tune
Up at the crack,
the crack of Dawn,
thankful for a new day.
Light peeks
from behind the trees
rubbing its eyes,
yawning, sprightly smiling.
Soaked in the spring
of life-giving yolk -
no ordinary bloke.
The whole world longs
for this daily visitor,
its blanket of support
for growing food, for
getting along with all
mankind. Vampires
hide in the shroud
of black-cape, artificial
flames in their red-coal
eyes. Moon after midnight
often frowns, pinches
the clouds until they cry.
Patrolling blues purse
their lips, flip their lids,
care for the underlid
of the chain gang fence.
Bellies filled with gold,
sour liquor; mangled knuckles
tucked in from sun to sun.
Dayrisers bound out of bed,
surrender to their faith,
prompted to love of sons
and daughters, mothers
and fathers. They are propellers
on their jets at work. Rejects
of night haunts, necks pulsating
with clean thoughts, peaceful
dreams, wired
for eternal serendipity.
8/25/2021
A tugboat, a ferry, a Circle Line cruise
All chug by on the river, for me to peruse.
A breeze gently blows as the waves settle down
As I soak it all up here on my side of town.
A ‘copter flits past with propellers a ‘whirl;
A scooter glides by with a helmeted girl.
A yappy white dog trots, his owner in tow
And sitting here clinches the truth that I know:
I’d rather be out on this riverside bench
(For no vista but this will my urban soul quench)
Than be anywhere private, with similar sights
For this cityscape fills me with all that delights.
Meanest Bouncer of visiting oxygen
Like a scarf of coarsest jean,
Ever keeping it and the nostrils at arm’s length,
Displaying its suffocating strength.
Oxygen keeps loitering at the fringes of the nasal chambers,
For as long as Septembers are from Decembers:
Kind of dreading an entry into them,
To the sufferer causing a paradise of problem.
Catchers, like a cross, hold their inhalers:
A pathological fear of everything parading propellers;
Tasty meals are robbed of their appeal,
Stylish dishes of chefs not a Big Deal.
Justifies the banging of doors against cold
And auctioning of freezers, not to be cold:
A pointed sealing of windows seldom shuttered
And shutting of the ears to sopranos shattered.
Mending
by Michael R. Burch
for the survivors of 9-11
I am besieged with kindnesses;
sometimes I laugh,
delighted for a moment,
then resume
the more seemly occupation of my craft.
I do not taste the candies...
The perfume
of roses is uplifted
in a draft
that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans
which spin like old propellers
till the room
is full of ghostly bits of yarn...
My task
is not to knit,
but not to end too soon.
This poem is dedicated to the victims of 9-11 and their families and friends.
Published by Poetry Super Highway and Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: 9-11, victims, survivors, sympathy, surreal, terrorism, war, violence, stress, twin towers, knit, craft, candy, candies, sweet, sweets, tribute
In Juneau, it's thrilling -
The air's always filling
With seaplanes, propellers a'whirl.
They glide on the water
And land where they oughta,
As smooth as a necklace-grade pearl.
The cruise ships are looming
But business is booming
In stores selling t-shirts and gold.
The tourists are buying,
In their way complying -
More crowds equal more items sold.
The world's surely changing
And life's rearranging
In towns, even those quite remote,
For travel has let us
And ships and planes get us
To any location of note.
His oars (mind, arms, and legs)
were insufficient as propellers to earn a living.
In the underground´s nasty passageway;
or was in his life´s nasty passageway?
Anyway! There, he, like an imbecile, sat,
another torn mendicant, holding up his hand to indifferent passers-by,
asking for a gaze or just a word of hope.
Hope! What hope?
- The hope that remains as a candle into his heart.
the little flame that every day fights the Almighty forlornness -.
At night, unanswered the pray
the candle would shrivel;
and he became the symbol of a supplicant without faith,
hopelessly holding up among his hands,
and offering the burned out candle and misery of his life
to others indifferent passers-by.
There, at the underground´s nasty passageway.
Or was it his own life´s nasty passageway?
he huddled and covered with the black cloak of failure, remains sat
in the midst of despair.
Just till tomorrow.
I OPENED A DOOR TO A CHAOTIC SCENE.
THIS WAS THE FUTURE YET MORE LIKE A DREAM.
THE FIRST AMENDMENT
HAD CEASE TO EXIST.
FREE THINKING PEOPLE
WERE ON A HIT LIST.
A MILLION SCREAMING PROTESTERS,
WANTING TO BE HEARD.
ELITES AND POLITICIANS
DON'T WANT TO HEAR A WORD.
MILITARY SPECIALIST,
DRESSED IN ARMORED GEAR.
KILLING PEOPLE LEFT AND RIGHT
HERE BOTH FAR AND NEAR.
A MILLION MICRO ROBOTS
FLYING IN THE AIR.
ANOTHER MILLION ON THE GROUND.
IT SEEMS THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.
SOME ARE FLYING JUST TO SEE,
WHILE OTHERS ARE SPRAYING GAS.
A FEW ARE EQUIPPED WITH AMMUNITION,
UNLEASHING MICRO BLAST.
FREQUENCIES ARE STREAMING,
TO ALTER PEOPLES THINKING.
THE GOAL OF ALL THIS CHAOS,
IS TO KEEP THE POPULATION SHRINKING.
PEOPLE SPRAYING SEAWATER
ON THE FLYING BOTS.
HOPING THAT WHEN IT DRIES
THE LITTLE PROPELLERS STOP.
PEOPLE SPRAYING TREE SAP,
ON THE GROUND ROBOTS.
JUST CAUSING MORE CHAOS
FOR THE PEOPLE AT THE TOP.
Helicopters dot the sky
Like dragonflies, but louder.
I wonder if the insect world
Sees them and feels much prouder.
For how their rumbles fill the air,
Attracting much attention,
Although their engineers would claim
That wasn’t their intention.
Still, I prefer the gentle buzz
Of wings to their propellers.
(Except for stinging insects –
I’ve no fondness for those fellers!)
Leaning on the rail,
Clasping a clutch bag of dreams.
Sea spray blends with tears.
Propellers churn memories,
Of Love betrayed and submerged.
Down the mountain river will flow
Through tall poplars wind will blow
Meadow its beauty will show
As flowers’ soul shaking smell travels with airflow
As windmills with their propellers cut the sky
Flowers are pollinated by a butterfly
Above horizon eagle will fly
There is something about this place spirit that will not die
Time seems to stop
Between the mountains there is a drop
In the valley wild horses gallop
Strange tree stands alone on a hilltop
They call that tree
Tree of destiny
It is of great beauty
And mesmerizing majesty
Among boughs of the tree
Large nuts one will see
One taste and one will see
Hidden beauty
If whether soul needs consciousness is a question
The answer to not a, but the question
Is answered when one tastes nuts of the tree
Revealing hidden spiritual majesty
The answer is always meaningful
Being of salvation, knowledge, and destiny tool
One taste and ultimate meaning from deep within Omni verses soul
Is under one who taste it control
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