Sunlight morphs into the elixir moonlight
dusk wearing a sequined black silken shawl.
And the daylight truckled the way to twilight,
for embracing the shadows, captivating all.
Nightingale heralding serenades to usher night.
A soothing symphony of cynosure sway,
Empyreal cerulean sun, fanned by the moon.
Finding riddles while gently a lissome display,
haphazardly scattered amid a sea swoon.
Shadows glide in a lithe and untamed way.
Thrusting past the unbreakable shield,
they celebrate an undiscovered world.
Silences emerge, mystery in the field,
untold secrets are saved with a sword.
In exquisite ariose, they swing and wield.
The whole earth is suffused in a golden hue,
depicted in ambrosian strokes drawing the sky.
As the sun costumes, relentlessly renew,
palimpsest marvel raveled in the yarn of day.
Inviting us to explore the mellifluous view.
The Road Less Traveled
Know yourself and what you believe is right,
Then follow your path with all your might.
Sometimes you'll be alone on the road,
At others with others, yes quite a load.
Don't let the crowd define your way,
But your sense of right be your sway.
Some say to take the road less traveled,
Yet at times, for some, with your tribe stay raveled.
Each day we have a plethora of choices,
Make yours based on internal, belief based voices.
You'll find the same as I have dear,
That each night you'll sleep with a heart and head that's clear!
--End--
The rugs in the living room
Are thin in places, and
The dog has scratched
The painted floors.
The end tables are crowded
With family pictures
Instead of knickknacks
Some of the bath towels
Have slightly raveled edges,
And a washcloth is left in the tub.
There are books and newspapers
On the coffee table and
Hardly a place for a coffee cup.
But the house smells of
Fresh baked bread or cookies,
The lights are on, and
The welcome mat is out\.
Friends feel free to just drop by.
It may not be fancy, but
It’s a house that’s happy
And comfortably “broken in”.
Enlightenment eludes the mind.
Some search within but never find
reality’s enlightened face
adrift in voids of inner space
that leave the touch of truth behind.
Self-titled sages are inclined
while blind themselves to lead the blind
a merry chase that claims to trace
enlightenment.
Yet those misguided can’t unwind
illusive notions intertwined
nor insubstantial views displace
with wisdom’s fathomless embrace
to thus reveal for humankind
enlightenment.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * *
The poem is in the form of a rondeau…
Inspiration was derived from the teachings and writings of Nichiren Daishonin…
“The sutra and interpretation make clear that the path to enlightenment lies within the two elements of reality and wisdom. Reality means the entity of all phenomena in the universe, and wisdom means the perfect manifestation of this entity in the individual’s life. When the reality is an infinitely broad and deep riverbed, the water of wisdom will flow ceaselessly. Enlightenment is the fusion of wisdom and reality.”
~ Nichiren Daishonin (1276)
From: “Admonitions Against Slander”…
With timid steps and a trembling heart
I walked through verdant barren paths.
Toward a rusty gate it took my feet
Into a garden of roses among the weeds.
Carmine flowers, dripping in blood
Wrung my heart in pain of fear.
They caught me from every side
With their lithe and sharp thorny fingers.
Raveled in clutches of copious wines
Turning and twisting I struggled to escape.
Evening shades pirouetting ghosts
Trapped in light tracing fiery faces.
Pouring perspiration pooled my feet
Shedding grappling thoughts I decided to run.
Back to the sinuous path,
Away from the puzzle of life,
Till I reached the black bricked wall,
Beyond it I lost my memories,
Maze of mind closing behind me.
First Place in Maze - 10 Word Challenge Poetry Contest sponsored by A Dear Heart
my mind
as empty as this sky
lingers in the depths
of yesterday's thoughts
now buried in blankets
of fresh fallen snow
my footsteps
lead me to the path
yet untraveled
but raveled
in the depths
of my dreams
hope sits still
frozen like icicles
on these trees
awaiting the warmth
of something i know
will never come
in this frigid air
i close my eyes
trying to regain
a momentary glimpse
of you and the warmth
you always bring
yet all i can see
is the same darkness
as this night
surrounding me
Happy Birthday “Prof” Franklin
Ninety-Fifth
Written; by Miracle Man
11-27-2019
Happy Birthday “Prof”, and at number ninety-five,
I believe your agile enough, to put down some jive.
Your life is a testimony, to how we should be living,
You’ve harvested less from life, than you were found giving.
Most past students, are quick, to shower you with praise,
When recalling fond times, dating to your classroom days.
But beyond teaching students, there were times life was raveled,
You’ve negotiated speed bumps, that most haven’t traveled.
I didn’t have the privilege of knowing Prof
or sitting in class under him since I’m eighty.
But through chance meetings and reputation
I’m proud to call him my friend.
a man who has influenced many lives.
Tom
THE EDGES WERE RAVELED
I COULD MAKE OUT THE
AUTHERS SIGNATURE
I MEASURED THE SIZE
AND FOUNDED WHAT
I HAD CAME TO SEE
THE ORGINAL " DUEX dE gRITT"
BY dIZZIE cAULIER GRUMP
I cOULDN'T BELEIVE WHAT WE WERE SEEING
A VISION FROM tRIMPP's " sUCCI"
IT'S A OIL PAINTING OF WHAT THE MAN IN
dRIPPERS " NIGHT IN bRIPPLES bAY"
THE PICUTURE OF THE HIDING WAR THE
cANADAIN gOVERMENT HIDE
FROM IT'S CITEZENS.
THEY SAY IT WAR ALWAY DOWN THE HOLD EASTCOAST.
THE WHALERS FROM THE PACIFIC THOUGHT THEY WERE IN THE PACIFIC
THEY WOKE UP ONE DAY IN THE aTLANTIC
AND STARTED WHALING.
tHE CANADAIN gOVERMENT
FOUND THEM OUT IN THE NORTHWATERS.
tHEY SIGNALED THEM, BUT wHEN THE WHALE SHIP GOT
SPOOKED, THEM hULL-HUSSIES LAUCHED
AN ATTACK ON THE FRIGGETTS.
THE OTHER PIRATES AND FRIGGET ALLIED
AND THEY STARTED AH WARRING.
THEY HIDE THIS FROM US IN SCHOOL.
THEY DON'T TEACH THIS STUFF!
poetically sees
rubescent threads of life
enmesh me in its tortuous hold
as it stings me
with the venom
of a thousand bees
i taste its poison
through memories
raveled tight
in life's intricate grasp
as each victim
became prey
within the
clasp of death's
atramentous fold
i dangle on the threshold
within the labyrinth of mind
between the stitches
of life and death
where i struggle alone
trying to free myself
before i become
the next victim of fate
July 11, 2019
picture #3
Poetically Me THIS PICTURE WHAT CHA' SEE
Sponsored by James Edward Lee Sr
In the dark of darkest night, the demons always start their preying;
preying, hidden from the light, on minds of souls whose lives are fraying.
Fraying into tattered shreds from games deceitful friends are playing;
playing in their weary heads without a care the price they’re paying.
Paying with their sanity, these weary souls are ever weighing;
weighing inhumanity by demons and the minds they’re slaying.
Slaying all their lifelong dreams, destroying hope that leaves them swaying;
swaying souls with raveled seams, as demons of the dark are preying.
May 9, 2019
. for public domain
Humbling Grumble
(in the presence of "What have you been muttering?"
Like Laura Wingfield and her glass figurines,
indulging her comfort in daily routines,
so near to the living, so far from being alive,
resists drawing breath, no matter how I connive,
cajole, entreat or entice, beckon or reckon;
commits no sin, not she, no, not for a second.
A force of nature, yet to me a chilling bane,
distorts light, like shards of ice on a window pane.
I sit and wonder, should I share life's living breath,
with someone unfeeling, and much closer to death,
than a cold corpse long asleep in a coffin buried?
one who Kharon has across the river Styx ferried?
And then I fondly remember, and sigh with shame,
how we each once celebrated Life's long living flame,
and vowed to fidelity, for better or worse
not to abandon each other's side until the hearse
arrives, and onto our own separate ways
we travel and let go of our long raveled days.
This, our sworn bond and cause for present tenderness,
keeps me quiet by her side with muted and humbled acquiesce.
In a spring kissed field with clipped wings, feet are tied
Never to display beauty and appeal where all men ride
As golden wheat field conceals my broken appendage and sheds
Forgotten as the seasons pass then slowly morsel fed
Imposing vulnerable disintegrating reds, oranges, browns
Embedding in my coils, nests of tendrils, leaves wearing down
Leathery cracks stain and smell of mold sun kissed rain
Dark green velvet moss conceals my frame
Friable distant by fate a hostelry
Obliging nature's creatures haven
Restfully sounds without words
Garment bent in the undergrowth
Orchard grass and wearing morning equally lay
The roads to diverge a wood hidden away
Traveled by unruly Sun that never stops and seasons run
Evanescent fleeting images through windows wind you call on me and make fun
Nature's changing course untrimmed I am meant to stay
6/17/206
From the confines of this, as safe a harbor my needs afford,
I began my journey.
My mind leapt to scale these walls of raveled thoughts
into shapes and colors I have no claim too, for places never seen,
at a pace to thrust a lifetime into moments
with burgeoning fears that it may end without the end
that lends any credence to reality.
I share no hope of altering its heaving arrogant breath of fear,
of joy, of pleasure, of mischief, of pain and loss.
It was if I could touch the chill and at the same time
share the wonder of its warmth.
This dream, the rarest of possessions, never shared,
was for a moment as clear as the first ray of sunlight.
As I dare open my eyes, it was gone.
Leaving me with only a faint and distant memory
like the soft echo of sweet perfume
and the tragedy of loves lost.
The Showing—2015
(Apropos an Exhibition of the Times)
The hand of time paints
Upon the canvas of fleeing life;
Each stroke, a unique highway traveled.
Choices of both happiness and strife,
Chasing unanswered complaints:
Leaving weary twisted minds raveled.
Faith hangs audaciously on the walls of hope;
The easel of truth wobbles on uninsured slopes.
Gone are the masterpieces of peace. Gone
To rotten fields of shattered dreams;
Unleashed wanton terrors freely roam;
Justice torn apart at its tattered seams;
Yet liberation gestates in the galley of redemption.
Days of injustice are numbered and without exemption.
This vicious cycle invades masses,
Deception overwhelms their human eyes,
Little ones grow up before you know it,
A mothers lies,
Become her cries.
This disease of the mind keeps her raveled inside,
This pretense, in bulk, spins her like a tornado,
A decade goes by,
Now she could die,
While perceiving her current devastation.
This last chance is all she’s got,
For the threads have been sniped,
While the tables are now flipped,
Overwhelmingly aware,
As she gasps for CLEAN air,
She kneels by her bedside,
with a crucifix in one hand,
Now her only hope
from this endless
Quicksand.
By: Sabina Nicole
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