Bare basalt bore no banner on its face,
Yet lichen kept the oldest song of rain;
The cliff received no chronicle of grace.
No cedar dreamt the patience born of stone;
A hidden fissure gathered gifts of rain,
Till silence made the heart of granite known.
No moss proclaimed dominion over shale;
It gentled hardness by the law of rain,
Till mountains learnt the meekness of the frail.
Then yesterday gave birth to one green leaf;
The hidden seasons kept their tryst with rain,
And time unveiled the provenance of leaf.
The fern arose where none had granted birth;
The dew restored the first bequest of rain,
Till forests claimed their ancient right on earth.
I left the valley poorer only thus:
The least beginnings outlive loud acclaim;
Stone learnt that quiet is the root of us.
If peace could only be
more than a fleeting wish
a dream that dare exist
through stamina and strength
It's provenance persist
If peace could only be
a fateful crush we'd court
a cherished lifetime gift
that war could never thwart
as spirit shall uplift
If peace could only be
a source of wealth and greed
that humankind did crave
whose riches spilled and shared
did keep souls from the grave
If peace could only be
the jewelled jealous queen
that all who saw desired
that love would praise and preen
and every soul admired
The consequence of discovery
is freedom
The circumstance of freedom
is leisure
The provenance of leisure
is vision
The assonance of vision
— is discovery
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
AUTHENTICITY
a
resemblance
confirmed
with
the
theory of truth
in
a
purported
pigmentation
of
flawed aesthetics
analysed
with
an
impecable
provenance
INTROSPECTION
reiterated &continous
an outpouring
to enhance trope
vetted &sublimated
exemplifies
an alterego
of
provenance&
credence
timeframed
in succinct
ironic layers
complementary
in
a relentless
genre
perennial
&
implicit
in practice
paralleled &
morphed
into sparse lines
relaxed &
intimate
as
visual statements
of solitude mode
yet
isolated
chimes
with self signature
&
is self streamed
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
I have the touch of viking in me
The spirit of the wild and free
I am the waterfall cascading
Across all nordic kingdom
My sovereignty undenied
I render lush abundance
Assuring joy to a parched land
Pride and glory to its clan
I am the gurgling source of life
That will not ever wither
I am Lin of the winds
The goddess of the meadows
I bring forth springtime’s magic
And the song of meadowlarks
I am Lin who hails from lands of reverie
Of the many crosswinds I am Lin
Read on air by invitation ~ January 9, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: 3rd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2021
We may seek a better life.
We may seek a better deal.
But what of the questions of this life?
When a life dies, does a soul choose to heal?
If our provenance is spiritual, if our existence is really this surreal.
Is it more important to choose a mapped out life or should we bend more on what the life is we feel?
Who yields the rod
Tweeked
You are ready to speak
Diligence through provenance
Your inner child stood with dominance
My detail perfectionist
You are my novelist
My successor
Through past failiors
Earning your promotion
Through your level of devotion
Love was enough
For you never gave up
No sweeter place than your mind
Skipping rocks across a deserted river
No notion of time
You have reached the Devine
When asked to explain
Do not refrain
Do not fear change
For it is written within your name
A kingdom now found as the king scepter sound
Jesters will kneel to the ground
The knights will line up
No one will dare to talk
Your triple rainbow you shall have
It is now your time to laugh
The love we share might rate no beauty prize
Aesthetics playing servant to its plot
Seen best through finger blinds drawn cross the eyes
A love festooned in Hallmark rhymes it's not
Still we alone stood witness at its face
The provenance of each disfig'ring weal
Inflicted wounds our tongues dare not retrace
Kept moving on and left the past to heal
For love is our reward for knowing such
That self-survival is a pauper's end
Without your love I'd not have learned that much
The richness of my life's to comprehend
Love's beauty's lies not open but at heart
You are my depth, my love my work of art
To know such distant memories are here with me now.
To conceptualize knowing and experiencing the roots binding me to this earth.
Painful and joyous.
Opulent phantoms.
Tongues I’ll never speak.
Stories I’ll never hear.
But these feelings transport me to an arms reach from provenance.
I’ve forgotten the details but I remember the love.
Roaming the earth.
A vagabond from above.
She reads Dave Berg and E.B. White,
John Ciardi and Henry Leigh –
My eight-year-old prodigy.
She sings Ray Charles and Jackson Browne,
Benatar and Robin Lane.
Her confidence will never wane.
She loves writing and drawing,
Painting and dance.
I’m proud to be her provenance.
There once was a man from DeBose
who had a gigantic nose
his nostrils squawked
whenever he walked.
When at rest it sat on his toes
The man got a job at a farm
his task was to sound the alarm
when the sly fox
tried the coop locks
intending to do chickens harm
One night his nose fell asleep
lulled by the bleat of the sheep
fox took a chance
interrupted romance
of two lovebirds, now the one weeps!
The man with the nose then got fired
The farmer now wished he had hired
a man without clothes
not a nullified nose
so prone to be slumber inspired
As the nose and his man went away
Nose saw the sly fox in the hay
with much boogie-woogie
nose hocked a great loogie
and splattered the fox where he lay
The farmer was pleased to be rid of the pest
though the hay loft was terminally messed
Everyone cheered
nose grew a beard
and moved to an ashram out west
You may wonder, is this tale is true?
I assure you it is, yes I do.
to doubt the nose
would presuppose
this story is nothing but poo
The legend of the hero nose grows
if questions of provenance pose
look on the shadiest side
of that big chunk of hide
for only the shadow knows
a perfect world, those words get so swirled
is it all perspective, or just selective rivers
do i dare deliver such a crazy prayer
as the mayor steeps, the angles creep
conscious yet asleep, fishing in our ocean
wishing for our promotion for a new way to recieve speech
some say naive yet our provenance from stars is belief
sometimes it can be hard to say, what feels my way
maybe i lack the confidence, to portray today
but if our rhymes could touch the soul
we'ed all be singing on grassy knolls
until then this tinker must remain a free thinker
enjoying every grain, unraveling every chain
A clean slate onset
With the superb volition
That states out a provenance
Bring the best of you
Assume the reins of your life
Allow the world know your worth
Nayda Ivette
12-17-2015
ol' news
and on the strife rages
across the heated lands
a blog papered main stage
bombs & beheaded are planned
victims and vicissitudes
captured on handy-cam phone
talking heads with platitudes
of thugs, their cover blown
pride in mankind runs to core
to prefer right over happiness
so slaughters settle some score
ignoring acts magnanimous
always wars and rumors of
to accuse and chide and blame
no cheek turned, if only for love
and long for change still remains
is Darwin's theory still alive?
can mankind evolve into kindness
or will only the weaponized survive
will civility fall from our blindness
pray if that's your provenance
act if your actions can better
our behavior has its consequence
let good life be our treasure
© GoodGuySoul 2014-11-20
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