Blue sphere
Bird's blue yonder
Rainbow stage
Sun podium
Cloud cradle
Rain well
Sunset canvas
Moon forest
Star garden
Rocket racetrack
Dreamer destination
Dead man’s dwelling
Far off, it has begun to walk the planet,
first it must be buried in a nearby field,
while flights of dreams migrate
from unrealistic expectations.
Meanwhile,
worms' imperceptivity reshape reality.
Fresh perceptions
bloom like cherry trees in Death Valley
neglected vineyards are resuscitated
one vine at a time.
Tomorrow will show up darkly,
it may forestall or bolster,
we may only know for sure
when the roof of the sky is raised,
even so, night still roams somewhere
weeding out exhausted stems of light.
It is just diurnal time
dipping in and out of our eyes,
it’s only the ever displaced and ever prodigal
exchanging old and new testaments of hope
upon a circular racetrack,
one not at all of our making.
They stretched out their arms
Ran with the wind
A circular flight
No beginning – to end
When they came back
Sat down to a snack
Then took a quick spin
Around the racetrack
Onlookers wondered
What would it be like
To do all those things
From the seat of a bike
To fly like a kite
On the end of a string
Climb in a tree
Join the bird's sing
Hide in tall grass
Become a small bug
Say goodnight to a bear
then give it a hug
From interstate
to racetrack
cars build up their speed
racing past troopers
who don't know
which one to pull over
Maybe we went fishing
Under the country sky
Then maybe we went camping
Counting stars and fireflies
In the city maybe we played pool
Restored a car, played chess, bowled
Maybe we went to the racetrack too
But mom isn’t supposed to know
Maybe we emailed a lot
Because you work so hard so much
Yet every word or call I got
Made me feel your love
Maybe I broke that window
With your favorite autographed ball
Maybe I was so simple
To think you know it all
Maybe to me you are
The greatest of all men
Maybe in my teens
I think you don’t understand
Maybe in my forties
I appreciate you more and indeed
It is because you are who you are
A unique Father is everything
Heated by sun and rock
a mottled snake licks the morning air.
Last night, stones were its eyes,
a blood-chill had frozen the flavor
and flicker
of tongue and taste.
The daylight is already sun-crushed,
heavily it crumbles,
dry churning a scant green
to withered acres,
grinding all beneath its hermetic heel.
A rabbit runs a racetrack behind its eyes,
long whiskers sightlessly search
reaching far from their hidden hollow,
its brown pelt dreamily brushes over
a rounding horizon.
Snake uncoils, breaking boulders of blood
between warming bones.
A cage of hoops unlocks a hunger.
A blushed mouth is snugged around
translucent fangs,
bodkins that smell out
all small-pawed scrabbling’s.
Rabit ears twitch as eyes leap awake,
it hears the serpents lithe unhinging,
senses its scaled unclasping.
An immediate pulse quickens,
vibrant tendons of awareness
animate joy and fear.
On the quiet breath,
visions of life or death arise
as speculative ghosts.
Now the sky must record
while the earth forgets.
A push-button blood alarm
scans the receptivity of softly ticking ears.
It is the ever-wakening
never snoozing
internet jungle calling.
Fasting birds as large as velociraptors
insist on being called parrots,
a raucous conversation hardly heard
as it filters through
3-D printed flugelhorns.
A cell awakes vibrates within an ear socket
demanding its early morning diaper change.
Little silver bells are clanging,
A sub-audial cacophony of eager voices
discharging their erotically-charged salvos
Devices cry to be fed.
Now subliminal texts tattoo
a finger pulsing moment.
Thumbs are itching to be mugged, in-plugged,
abused in a bath of warmed-over news.
The scaly parrots are now too loud to hear,
we are near
our minds nailed to a printing block
and tapping impatiently
as reality is swiped this way and that.
The racetrack is galloping,
white rabbits are being
yanked out of top hats so rapidly
we can only blink our replies
in a hand-held, wide-eyed chameleon sky.
Like a deadly drug, it makes us dance
Put our nose in the air, turn our backs .
Craven souls, want another chance.
Walking over friends, we call hacks?
On, yes we sign, love, but mean it not!
How many trophies can I win ~ I want!
More flattery, please, as we do begin,
On this racetrack of pride,self loved sin!
Classical poets here, very despised.
Only new poetry forms have a place.
We want only our names in the skies.
Self-aggrandizement, a sad disgrace.
4/19/2023
*Image of Winnie-the-Pooh Spoon Race by the sponsor.
AUDIO: by Ka'au Crater Boys singing 'House at Pooh Corner' popularized by Kenny Loggins
Christopher Round-Robin
Christopher Robin, whose name bears o'er song,
strained mid per sideline crowd of the racetrack,
praising those three most skilled entrants along,
Piglet, Tigger, plus Pooh Bear hears soundtrack.
Strained mid per sideline crowd of the racetrack,
ah, the well-versed Rabbit and his small friends,
Piglet, Tigger, plus Pooh Bear hears soundtrack,
Owl talks and sees while y'all listen, sight lends.
Ah, the well-versed Rabbit and his small friends,
praising those three most skilled entrants along,
Owl talks and sees while y'all listen, sight lends,
Christopher Robin, whose name bears o'er song.
*Photo #4
2021 August 01
*2nd Place*
Pantoum Rhyme 1
~~Eve Roper: Judged 2021 August 13
Runner
completes racetrack,
winning over others
because constant training denies
failure.
The distressed damsel
A circuitous racetrack...
Sheer Liberation!
- Ansar
2/03/21
The antique clock is silent
it ticks and chimes no more.
The old leather satchel, redundant,
hangs idly by the door.
The kitchen table is dormant,
devoid of function or chat,
once the hub of the household,
around which the family all sat.
The fireplace in the living room,
dead, it’s function defunct.
A newspaper idly strewn nearby,
a cup, in which biscuits were dunked.
The walls, once vibrant with laughter,
silent, a cold carapace.
The halls, a place of adventure,
a racetrack where children would chase.
The old house settles and creaks,
it’s memories locked in time.
Now no one speaks of the family,
as the old clock gives one last chime.
a narrative with alliteration
Royal radio reviews the Rainbow Raffle Rally planned to raise rubles
for the rugged racetrack recently recommended ‘round Rybinsk Reservoir.
One rich ruler, who runs the Ragweed Railway resists with red-ribbon resolve.
His rogue reaction to a ring of rubber stamp rednecks
left realistic Regnum reporters in a rush to rock their readers
regarding the rift between the Ragweed Roadblock and the Rainbow Raffle.
Rather like a rabbit racing a rhino, such rivalry is not reasonable.
Rally is off the radar - racetrack has been royally rejected!
February 10, 2020
Brian Strand, host
STRAND Select J, contest
Turbocharged you refuse to stop at the sentry
Full speed ahead on the racetrack of manipulation
Safety belt suspending the breaks in free flight
Airbag punctured long ago in rapid disconnect
I put up traffic lights for you at so many T-junctions
Set boundaries and barriers on both sides of the road
Built bridges and roundabouts and paid traffic fines
But violations kept coming and you crossed the red line
Some say you are too young to have a driving licence
And recite chaos theory for your very own highway to hell
De-rooted yield signs lie broken next to strewn promises
Sweet child now it is time to gather your scrap heap alone
I won’t be drawn into further collusion and enablement
Must wave the chequered flag of surrender of abused trust
You will crash on and on until you take consequent charge
I will not rescue you any longer but secure my own lane
30th January 2020
the minutes
the hours
the days
in wild frenzy
whistle by
before long
weeks turn
to months
to years
on the racetrack
life in a blur
careens at
headpopping speed
i can barely hang on
yet
every once
in a while
it pauses
for a rare
precious moment
i take a deep breath
and thank god
you’re still here
by my side
AP: 3rd place 2020
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