The grown Dove searches for mud
to disparage its mother
who granted them this pure white.
Lord endow me with divine purpose,
help dry this dirt on the earth
a brown ocean, swelling, percolating.
A window pane snaps from the pressure
I remember the day I was born.
I weep, I weep, I weep.
A bird scurries ‘round my neck
it is a little pigeon
it will serve no purpose;
it suffers a century of burden,
the weight of its child.
It weeps, it weeps, it weeps.
it has bore too many
Beautiful, fecund, yet meaningless;
its children will be born in mud.
Aunt Maise was a decorator, not well known, but fine.
Her attitude was catchy, her enthusiasm crossed a line.
I loved being around her, and remember spending a day
Where we ran from store to store, looking for a toilet for play.
She had designed a bathroom in orange, not tan or black or gray.
She wanted to include a tangerine toilet, a splash of happy play.
We found one but it was not “the utmost most gorgeous or sublime”.
She kept going until she had procured ones in tangerine and lime.
Not always but
The Search is often
Engaged In writings
Of the past..
Such writings may be
Handed down from
Sages who have
Weathered the criticisms
Of the centuries..
A deference to their
Words is accepted
As the search ensues..
There seems also
The appearance of
A realization that
All of this is story
Equal to other stories
Of searching in
Other climes...
Aunt Maise was a decorator, not well known, but fine.
Her attitude was catchy, her enthusiasm crossed a line.
I loved being around her, and remember spending a day
Where we ran from store to store, looking for a toilet for play.
She had designed a bathroom in orange, not tan or black or gray.
She wanted to include a tangerine toilet, a splash of happy play.
We found one but it was not “the utmost most gorgeous or sublime”.
She kept going until she had procured ones in tangerine and lime.
loud cracks and creaks permeate the silence
inferno’s roar is heard in keen ears of wildlife
terror is felt throughout the forest
animals flee, but many do not make it out
the blinding smoke and their fear leaves them helpless
some curl up, waiting for death
the fire walker trots through the forest looking for her young
not realizing she lost them several decades ago
she is the only soul stuck in this purgatory of flames
In the bejeweled sky I don’t count the stars,
for whom in the dark void do they shine, I ponder.
In opaque nights I search for the stars in vain,
but discover them in child’s eyes, I think why.
On the beach I don’t count the rolling waves,
for whom under the blue sky they break, I reflect.
In the serene sea I don’t find the waves grow,
they are wrecking the dislodged hearts, I reckon.
Dripping from leaves the rain drops I don’t count,
how big the drops should grow to fall, I wonder.
When the storm surges the clouds will melt, I think,
trickle in rills from the eyes unrestrained, I imagine.
Deep in psychic depth my mind wavers unsure, I envision,
thought searches for meaning of the seen in contemplation.
March 20, 2021
Contest : Contemplation
Sponsor : Craig Cornish
My heart searches for your love.
High and low,i search for your love.
As the universe turns around.
I still search for your love.
I wonder why i can't take a breath
When I'm around.
I try to hold your hand..but you fade
Away from me.
Your love is like the wind that blows
Away.
As the wind blows,i can see your smiling
Face.
Thank you for your smiling.
Thank you for your hugs.
Thank you for your hope.
Thank you for your kindness.
But you are my perfect lady in
My life
AN ARTIST SEARCHES
FOR THE MEANING OF LIFE
BETWEEN THE CANVAS
AND THE PAINT
IT’S ALL W/HELL
Blake found a webpage on the internet
Smiling at wife, "this will be fun, I bet"
Wife grudgingly came along
Blake sang a fun little song
“How much trouble can we really get?”
“It will be grand…we can make our own wine”
“And honey”, Blake said, “It is about time”
So to the vineyard they went
And too much money they spent
Broke but hopeful, drove home feeling sublime
The grapes poured out, his aspirations soared
Website steps printed out, oh was he floored
He stomped and stomped…yet instead
Slipped in the tub…cracked his head
After his service, the vile wine was poured
Sorrowing
she sadly searches
shards surface
soon
sedations sends
sin scurrying.