Before midnight ticks, I turn to my
interior world ,
One that cradles myrhh
of reminisces and sagas,
Allowing breaths to inhale the agony
and radiance of loved ones' trails
now beyond my physical reach--
Watching the decrepit portraits on
the foyer, July air greets the dew
on blossoms, monarchs flitting in my yard
then fading softly in the shade--
reminding me how age- torn, tattered
past seasons have turned this manor down
I am stilled by the rustle
from maples breathing as if their
whiffs understand my untold ancestry...
Perhaps, I am getting old,
or maybe wise enough
to scrape my pen amid bundled journals,
unearthed by many vintage pages
still to come. And go.
1st place
Light years before
history began to take itself seriously
we commenced to spin our myths.
We carry these unread books,
to where this ancient world
has erupted from the molten
to solid ground. Enter this malleable
and imaginary planet
speaking of improbable odysseys
and sagas.
None may advance
unless the impossible be made possible.
imagine such,
and re-weave tapestries,
of an on-going mythology
from newfound visions.
I also convey this free-range poetry
as a gift to myself,
planting seeds of fable and fiction,
knowing that the unthinkable,
the inconceivable,
can, and will be born
into the willing womb of tomorrow.
The
Impersonal
Is a character
Appearing in the
Sagas of life...
The impersonal
Appears as personal..
Nothing personal...
as the sea serenades
sorrowful symphonies
of marine ruins
I listen to the crashing
crystals within
sun-drenched sapphires
married to
the memories
of once
upon
a castaway prose
blissfully blocked
replaying an
unwritten
reality
for silence is my siren
luring mermaid
moon-flowers
to an island of
spiritual embers
emanating emerald anthems~
a storm
of
slithering sepals....
yet unfair is the tide
hollow and cold
p u l l i n g
at fragile silk
of whimsical waves~
a skewed ambience
lost in mythical sagas
amidst stranded souvenirs
sighing
and weeping
vulnerable verses
forever yours,
never mine...
The spices release their scent to ease my heart,
numb ~ yet tracing glasses brimming with tears,
aching for a touch of chamomile wisps,
beneath a sky that reeks of regrets
and words unspoken ~ too afraid to rephrase,
like smoke incensed with sulfur,
like blue cheese and old pickles,
tickling the curves of this melanin melancholy,
urging these fingers to purge forgotten rhymes,
as if there is no ingredient for healing,
when loneliness creeps like a slow poison…
But must I thaw the ice within cups of compassion,
infused with clovers of peace,
when I am a mere reflection of your mistakes,
a table adorned with plates of bitter weeds,
listening to the sagas of the rain and sun?
They taste not my pulse of patience,
as I remain, the feeler of phasing appetizers,
rotting in ruins ~ objectified and rejected,
by the twisted tongue of vanity and silence…
A Poem by Any Other Name…Should Smell Like a Poem
I ran out of time
to post my lines.
So, as I compose
I hold my nose.
Acrid alliteratives,
malodorous odes,
musty metaphors,
putrid pantoums,
reeking rhymes,
stinky stanzas,
smelly sagas,
obfuscate our olfactory organs.
So, as you read this poem
pour a stiff bourbon
and do your postmortem!
Oh, tundra vast, where winds do bite,
Where summer's day is winter's night.
A land of fire, ice, and sheep,
Of brooding skies that rarely sleep.
We thrive on lava, moss, and pride,
Though sometimes feel the world outside
Forgets we’re more than Björk and Cod—
Our quirks, our quirrels, our Viking squad.
We’re quiet folk, a tad reserved,
With humor dry, and smiles conserved.
But toss us in a thermal pool,
And see us giggle like a fool.
The sagas sing of ancient might,
But let’s be real—our greatest fight
Is finding sun mid-April gloom,
Or not discussing weather in a room.
Our horses prance with double gait,
Our language traps the tongue of fate.
But if you try and twist a word,
We’ll clap—then mock you. (Yes, you heard.)
Our homes are cozy, clad with turf,
A shelter from the glacier’s surf.
Yet in our hearts, a paradox:
We’re mighty trolls, and fragile rocks.
So here’s to Iceland—quirky, bold,
Where glaciers carve and geysers scold.
A tundra tough, yet tender too,
A land of dreams—and “aðeins þú.”
There you are
gazing into the water
as it coils around the pier,
hoping to decipher
its tidal language, divine
a message in the slow lift
and fall of the swell,
the soft lapping sound echoing
through the dark shadows
below.
But whatever is here
seems to have withdrawn
deeper into itself, far beyond
where your senses can reach
or your uprooted mind can go,
severed as it is
from the origins
of its own creation.
You are of this age,
utterly modern,
purged of myth
and deaf to the spirits that once
moved here in the water
and roamed the land,
the sung sagas
of your ancestors.
In the isolation
of this cleared world
a terrible silence has fallen
in which the only sound
now is your own pulse
imprisoned in the confines
of an ear.
In the sagas of a self-fashioned icon,
I craft provocative verse,
defying the boundaries of anonymity,
to script my legendary demise.
In this alteration of mindset I find peace
and tranquility along with passionate hums
across my flesh and skin that make me feel
like I am a million shards of eyes
looking into the same glory hole of desire…
I feel like I am everything
and everything is waiting
for me to open the doors
and show the world isn’t perfect
but it is still beautiful.
The glossy acrylic smell of new editions
is cordite to my nose,
an explosive mixture of - need to know.
I finger trawl over dust covers
mindreading unread masterpieces.
Movies ransacked many of these novels,
hearsay and word of mouth
account for aisles
of open secrets and
commonly revealed revelations.
I should obtain a dozen or so acclaimed sagas,
display them on a prominent shelf –
because, well, one really ought to,
or maybe just read last chapters,
if not too long.
We all have a story.
We all have drama in life.
Some sad sagas are unbelievable,
And others are much less dramatic.
When I was very young,
There was never enough
Of the summer rains that
Always freed me from pain.
But I was never more appreciative
Than when those cool showers came,
Because it meant that we could refrain
From toiling in sunbeaten fields of summer.
Long days of heat, humidity, and sweat.
Long hot summers of too little fun and play.
Obvious wrongs that no one wanted to make right.
This kid prayed and longed for much better days.
Sometimes, it hurts to think about it.
Childhood labor was simply inhumane.
The economic system could not feel or hear.
But the summer rains were answers to my prayers.
Repaper the walls of the loo
Bob got messy, covered in glue
Such sagas to be had
So Bob rang up his dad
But Dad’s busy lambing a ewe
His dad said, “I’ll visit you later”
As Madam ewe, I must sedate her
In my racecar I’ll call
Help repaper your wall
By noon the ewe will be a mater
Dad writes articles chock-full of stats.
Just refer to his latest on rats!
Both my brothers, my sis,
Mom, and I all say this:
We'd prefer sagas starring cute cats.
Name now one man but Dad who would say,
"Evil rats on no star live" today.
Next, I'll make you say 'WOW!'
with my ana* on cows,
Then my top spot award, I'll display.”
*a collection of noteworthy information
EVE DAMNED EDEN, MAD EVE
Madam, I’m Adam, to which Eve then replied
You’re just a mere man, not to be deified
I am not born from any bird rib
Evil, a sin, is alive - no fib
Ignore dogma: I am God, the serpent lied
God, so angry with Adam and Eve, felt raw
Said, No, it is opposition to my law
Eve’s face got redder and she knew why
The sagas will say I did, did I?
Live not on evil, it’s a tenet for sure
Upon her last sighs, she narrates cosmic
sagas flowing within poetic veins.
She still remembers
those idyllic evenings,
engrossed in raining confessions,
influenced by her shipwrecked heart,
expressing scarlet
sentiments that sail in silence,
across unruffled ink-stained waves,
amidst the endless oceans between
their untouched silhouettes.
Her every desire to reunite and
cast away midnight blues,
float within perfumed love notes
written by the silky seashore,
placed in crystalline bottles
of timeless lyrics,
that shall be carried through
estuaries that lead her
to his sacred island
with everlasting roses~
where pearlized shells reflect
saline left as tropical memories
of tomorrow with him by
her sun-kissed innocence.
Related Poems