Evenings what reddens
The outback's skied
Peace of parrot watches, bloodies
No such, hereabouts.
War, its effects as
Presageful of -
Across that, any bird one sees
"Angel of Death"! shouts.
Listen to the wind:
it roars, it murmurs,
righteously chants --
In gusty breaths, exhales, rants,
tempestuously pants.
In tyrants it wails --
tearing sleeves
and billowing sails.
It reddens, it pales
the ruddy faces of non compliant seamen
and blithering, pompous beached whales.
Perhaps this poem, too hastily sown
Should have read the rules
before breeze and blown
and not so far from the guidelines would
this pen have wont to roam. But in hindsight,
wind stirs in many out of main focus ways
blossoms beyond bordered-grid of a well centered garden
in orphaned airs, for some, yet, may glisten their sways --
EVIDENCE
See here, this object that I found
Surely belongs to you
You may shake your head and look away
Yet I can tell that you recognise it
Now your face reddens
And I am ever more certain it is yours
Something of great significance
To you especially, I think
Take it, hold out your hand
Let me please return it to you
Merely a small blue glass phial
Containing the residue of some liquid
With which you are familiar, no doubt
A lethal weapon in your armoury
Poison makes no sound, except an escaping sigh
That you must have heard so many times
Go now, I shall hold this a secret between us
For one day I may have use of your skill
- in those moments, it shines.
The nostalgia of an upside down
world glinting up through hourglasses of years,
a mark impressed upon flesh; a scar harbouring
simple childhood games inside a jagged
line now faded. Occasionally it flares,
reddens from a twist of skin uncomfortable,
or in the tightness of early morning dressing;
the twinge acts as an echo, a ripple, a call from
back then, years ago, an era lost like sand
through fingers sweaty from summer heat,
lemonade with ice cubes clinking. The scar,
the mark, that narrow margin of error, a
Faultline physical memory running like a border
along my skin. And you were there, holding my hand
- in those moments, it shines.
Unpredictable
is the predictable crowd
It might
as a flash-mob
sing as one
or as one throng
it will cheer
Nothing is wrong
the herd is happy
but
then again
most predictable
are the horde
it may be bored
it may be
ever so mildly
irritated
by a passing cloud
Unrest prods
the mass and press
One may infect the many
a parasitic worm awakes
in the collective mind
in the multiheaded monster
The worm is rampant
it is insane
It will kill at will
it will scream and run
tear down a village
a town or a city
The worm devours
reason
a blood-lust
reddens every eye
The once human
becomes
a killing machine
suddenly
the mob subsides
sleeps and snores
the terror trickles away
One day
it comes to its senses
and makes a new law
It seeks out
just one person
just one or two
It will most righteously
lynch that one person
or two
The crowd will burst out
once more
as one
it will burst into
an inspiring song
and much uplifting
merry cheer
Once again
predictably
happy is the herd
as it sings along
Nothing is wrong
Here it is again, the nightfall,
To stay for its allotted years
The entrails heeded the call
Attuned to their primal fears
In the alleys, in the pavements
A dark lie is a shining honesty
Old axioms the devil laments
Tears to prepare his destiny.
Where to after the nightfall,
This darkness has a contract?
The bells of hell now loudly toll
The funeral song of your fact
Monstrosity to take back the spoils
A face reddens not in shame
Rape in new ways the gut that boils
Coming back in rebranded fame
Offering hope by perfumed name
Sins disowned, loots to reclaim.
Here it is again, the nightfall,
The hearts that refused must endure
To wait till the morning call,
It will be long, tiring, but it is sure.
Bestrevolver, May 18,2022
The physiological damage they can do
Make your the mind think that you’re the fool
Discolour your blue sky until it reddens to black.
Instantly cause a panic attack
The quiet stares through dead eyes
The gravity of the weight burdened by a cold, calculated smile.
Shredding the skin with razor sharp words
Drowning in ice listening to the whispering memories untold through long, long, long night verse.
Threat lingering in the air controls your breathing as your mind rips itself apart in silent despair.
The person that you one day thought you loved - the demon who controls your every move.
Guará, the Brazilian Ibis
as our guarana...
from the atlantic forest
what's left for us to
enchant !
Maned, chromatic summary
of beauty...
the passing black
when sprouting with all
shed on its threshold...
White Guara
almost virginal in the morning
youth... as well as
if for life
if you showed...
In the finale, or in maturity,
biological chromatism
again shows...
resembles, reddens
even though it is not the case,
adult now in life...
Guará, free wonder.
majesty in the Serra do Mar.
Gorgeous nature... !
Love
blossoms
firm buds burst
branches bedecked
with resplendent green leaves herald love's joy
spring turns to summer as love grows and glows
leaf turns yellow
love fades fawns
reddens
falls
"Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces"
John Ruskin, 1853
A scrap of sleep, a lopsided sky
A slip of verse that wandered by
The universe of a minute, an hour's lag
A poem scribbled on the back of a paper bag
Fragmented lyrics of lost words
Coaxed into song by hummingbirds
Where sapphire moons rise at noon
And ivory dawn reddens too soon
But for lonely love of poetry
Cast aside by conformity
Cloistered, salted tears consumed the sea
Drenched in magnanimous misery
Masking shy scars to look the same
Calling pain by prettier names
Peeled pages from the diary
Of the once and future me.
8/29/20
For 'All the Little Pieces' contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
On a cool March morning...
With the sun shining dim behind the clouds...
A full-moon fades slowly
As I look into the horizon...
Starring at nothing- stuck on thought...
My mind begins to drift into at tranquil state of mind
A cold breeze reddens my cheeks...
As I stand in my moment of quietude
Sudden chills goose-bumps my flesh
Privately, I asked the lord...
"Father, can you hear me...
I cry each night to you...
For the safety and good health of my loved ones"
"Take my hand first- 'fore my loved ones
I ask, the lord
Suddenly, upon my cheeks, as the sun begins to shine bright...
A warm wind breezes my nose ...
Sending yet another trail of chills upon my flesh
It was he whose heard me, for that I am sure
In warmth, I close my eyes and thank our father...
For hearing my cries- peace of mind settles in
Pick a Title, Vol 14 Tristich Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
3/7/2020
Weird things make me happy
The man who talks more with his hand than mouth
The child walking a broken wall
as if upon a tightrope
The puddle spray that reddens the suited business man
The rebel because
The universe flaws
the he that follows the haws
The intertwined fingers of blackened trees
lost within the blanketed darkness
Softened showers simper under summer sprays
Mountain meld with midnight's melancholy moans
Up and coming comeuppance
Karma shows it face
O beaker of blood
Enticing red cabarnet
Blood of the saints
Tears of the brave
Baptised in the river
Her artereous rush
Now pumping in my veins
Reddens my lips
Whispers Thy Name
Rose of Sharon
I cry to my Maker
I am so little
Make me a little like Thee
It still hurts from the cutting train
And I can’t find my bleeding legs
I hate this unbearable pain
So I pass it on to my “friends”
My blood seeps out with cold hatred
As I draw out my crimson scythe
Their slow, brutal deaths awaited
In the same way I lost my life
My victim’s eyes grow wide in fear
When I swing my starving weapon
He bleeds a single unseen tear
The cloth on his stomach reddens
Half his body slumps to the ground
And my next victim has been found
As lamplight flicks on the side table
Grandma tends a pan of lukewarm water,
And moves into the room toward the bed
Wishing my fever would cool down sooner .
Her hand clutches old tin cans, quite dented
And pours out ginger oil, raspberry in a bowl
With vaporous mix of weed as fire reddens...
The brew, the potion simmers on a tray
While she chants chants this ailment out the door.
How the frames open wide to drink the evening
Of mystic Moon.... Grandma's power dressed in light:
Fingers that once were silky and young
Brush my forehead, as though to soothe the quiver.
Until sips of this ancient elixir clear the air
While she murmurs thanks...embers ablaze.
Gradually, I find deep relief from such alchemy;
Wise woman's gift, healing cans from her secret bin.
Contest of john lawless : Dented Cans
1/9/2018
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