Riffle Poems

Core Coldest

Rhythm, rhyme, and resonance.
Riddle, riffle through.
Red run roundabout? Last chance.
Buried deep in blue.

Stifle, sound of silence?
Better not ask why.
Victory bequeaths violence!
Somebody must die!

Pool up, silk thread, on my spool.
Thunder, fly at once.
Help the boy to keep it cool!
Goblin, grinning, guns!

Tyrant of the ancient waste?
How does success taste?
O ye virgins, art thou chaste?
Turkey legs a-baste!

Lobbied for, O hobby? When?
Now or then again?
Gods of death, a death! Try ten.
Dragon, from thy den...

Rattlesnake, thy timber.
Cone of volcano.
Hurry, Blizzard! Cause shiver!
Bloom, thy bungalow.

Dun the skies on Martian soil.
Fate, must we embroil?
O ye serpents, thus to coil!
Water hot to boil...

Figure eight? It's gotten late.
All men hate to wait.
Cross the desert or the strait?
Limestone gone to plate!0

Is This Love

butterflies flutter in your presence 
bluebells ring the sound of your voice 
bold moon gives bright sun a turn 
fireflies light when you smile 
streams riffle your name 
my heart hammers 
in my mind
is this
love

Voyage Through Pages

 
Book pages riffle dance
Feeling its steady glance
 
Thoughts soaked up
Dreams turnup
 
Time doesn’t halt
Nostalgic vault
 
Somber fingers
Forehead expression lingers
 
Outside world nonexistent
Substantially existent


1/29/2025

Mystery Breeze

Sometimes a breeze can be
a pleasurable presence.
It makes the curtains shimmy as
it creeps into my room.

They ripple with a twitch and flutter now,
pleasant with a warmish ruffle.
But that breeze becomes a wind,
the curtains wobble, riffle, ripple.

Warmth has become wintry:
a wobble and a ruffle bestow
violence now with a blow.

Close that window and tell
that gust to go, quit, take leave.
Yes, it does have a name I try not to utter.


(30 Nov 2024)

Repetition of irremediable calamity

#Repetition_of_irremediable_calamity
Stare the dark gloomed space of shooting casanovas, blurred with shades of karma, coated with deja vu, I was here the mind says, my hands mired with more dirt, contaminating my hard work and effort to never to pass through this hind streets of lingering pain and regrets, a rotational oozing of ghostlike tormenting shadows of my yesterday, and feel pacing in slow motion in this circles of no exits, no matter the effort pores punches all over my hope, feel drowning, suffocating and my soul ebbing, dilating in volumes I can't contain any further

My calamity takes everything out of me, regret there be nothing to identify me with, after it's taking, invisible blows shatters me from every direction, how can I not give in when I too was made from the very dust of this earth, a human like the rest

Here I'm tested to never rise again or to man up and prove the naysayers and those who have written me off even before my birth, spirit lead my me to faith without borders, pass me a riffle to eleminate every doubt before me, face up, faith on, and irremediable is just a word in my calamity
#Poetic_Ink

wind dreams

Naught but a billowed vagabond
A breeze longing to shriek
Soar on an eagle’s up draft
Plunge, predator-like, to earth
Riffle the grasses as I pursue
The limitations of my fate

Jousting

The plain song moves 
Drifting on the wind
Flags riffle
At its passing
A nervous horse
Prances and kicks
Death pauses
Wipes his plate 
For rich feeding 
Combat approaches

War

I am a civilian at war
I do not know how to hold a gun at all 
I hope to return home a warrior

I am a civilian at war
facing giants and the world
I hope you hold my hand when I stretch it for help 

I am a civilian at war
My feet are swollen and my stomach as well
I hope you feed me when I won’t be able to lift my hand 

I am a civilian at war
My uniform has rugs 
I hope you dress me when you see me naked 

I am civilian at war
Confused by man’s religions 
I hope you guide me if you see me my friend

I am a civilian at war
My riffle has run out of bullets 
I hope you recharge mine if have some in excess 

I am woman 
alone in a labour room
I hope you come to my rescue if you hear my voice 

I am a man
Depressed 
I hope you talk to me when you see me drowning

I am girl child
sexually Assaulted 
I hope you protect me next time you see me alone

I am a young person
Caught stealing and swindling my loved ones
I hope you employ me next time you read my resume

FOUR PLAY

As daylight crept away, defeated
A darkness called me to be seated
Beneath a tree that was no more
Beside a silenced, absent, shore



a cold wind chuckles
passersby turn from her greeting
cul-de-sac trash swirls



a fallen sparrow
feathers riffle in the cold
a bitter wind howls



their hats now tilted
snowmen lean into the sun
carrots sniffing springtime

Drone

A drone be, a male bee,
useless in hive of she's,
except at mating time!
Expelled when job done.

A drone is monotonous hum
of sitars and bag-pipes,
mantras meditating,
prayer wheels.

A drone is now an aerial vehicle,
an unmanned helicopter
used for surveillance
and dropping bombs.
A modern form of warfare
whose hum is feared
for the terror it brings
anonymous and remotely
with the sender
out of harm's way.
Just as the bullet be,
when it leaves the barrel
of the way off shooter's riffle.

The drone is still so masculine
but hardly humdrum,
anymore.

Thoughts of Nothingness

Thoughts of nothingness embrace the moonlight
caress the emptiness of pilfered light
drape it across the meadows in dull gray
to light a path for lover’s gone astray --
        as crafty shadows hide their sin from sight.

A distant riffle mourns the tree strung kites
that never lived the dreams they thought they might
for something on the wind made them betray --
         Thoughts of nothingness…

Cold stars will mock the stillness of their plight
as on a crooked moon their tears alight
to haunt a saddened mist upon the bay
adrift upon a tide that could not stay
but edges ever closer with moon’s height.
        Thoughts of nothingness…


©4/19/2022

Your Favorite Theme Poetry Contest

November Steelhead

With the weak November sun
           and high treed bank
                    the deep dark pool waters 
                              reflect no light nor sign 
                                      of silver fish beneath the surface

Silent save for the murmur 
           of a downstream riffle
                    and the kingfisher’s rattle
                              then a tug on my line
                                        the screech of the reel’s drag
                                                 a splash, a glimpse of a fresh steelhead

The tug now a frantic upstream run
          I bite my lip and taste my blood
                    then my line goes slack, the fish is free
                              and the reel stem cold between my fingers

Luck

Fathering a baby after surrendered hopes,
Alive remaining after wearing the ropes,
The Surviving Staff of a job- relieving Shuffle,
A beggar winning a million dollar raffle.
 
A chance to live again from a charity medication,
A missing valuable finding in a busy location,
A free ride t a far- off town,
Whose trekking would we invited a frown.

Free bottles of one’s choice drinks
At a time of aggressive thirst but no chinks,
Fortune smiling at one in a neighborhood
One Next-door had yet to oblige one brotherhood,
Goodies at one ceaselessly rushing,
After dumping a job and about thrashing.

Grace-driven luck makes a somebody,
Of a written-off nobody.

Storm On the Hill

the lavender upon the hill
drifts through my open doors
supple chords of a stormy day
to riffle my hairs to rising

the purple bends my eyes
as it folds but does not snap
against the fit of summer wind

in the temple hands are lifted
to join trees murmur of concern
safe passage from this world
not always one of choice

a thunder claps inside my womb 
echos of an unfinished harvest
sending me to sit within the heath
surrounded by tempest song

i’m held tight in bended arms
buffeted by testosterone
loved by mother’s estrogen
the lavender will survive this day
…until the summer cutting

with blessings, so will i

Our Own Style

I riffle through memories of days gone
    Like a junkyard of photo boxes
        When viewing the past again sees the dawn

Of course, my favorite time it surely must be
    Living in my GMC van conversion
         Just my big Chesapeake dog, Cody and me

Gave up the rent and then gave up the job
    Pursued a life of the struggled artist
         Wanted to do what makes my heart throb

See new mountains and see new skies
    Every night a new front door
         See the world through different eyes

Expand my wings with my artists hands
    New teachers mold a seeking mind
         Make new friends across the wander lands

Those happy days with my very best friend
    From Alaska to the New Mexico dirt
         Excited as we looked around each wide bend

My dog and I lived the miles for 3 years and awhile
    Hiked winding trails and swam the lakes
         Many memories we happily made with our style
written:  10-5-2019

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