Short Blanching Poems

burrowing critter
burnished red veiled cloak
blanching blighting winds...

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Burnished, bronze steeples
Early-Autumn, hoary frost
Blanching, falling leaves...

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A short ditty
Or a simple wee verse
Ink barely spent before creases form
And then the darkness comes.

Jeans in the laundry
The scent of powder and softener
Blanching colours
As forgotten words wash away.






Form: Free Verse...

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As blossoms come forth
from covered seeds,
by blanching the shell of self
in time
the dawn of true understanding
will brighten effortlessly
from within-
rising high,
transforming to Light
the dark
of all our
bleakly imagined horizons.......

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'...the thorn in sharpened shade
     weathers all loneliness.'  Hart Crane

     

Branches scratch the sky
blanching the twilight
pale and gray,
the day is dying.

My way is dark and dismal,
the nightjar's distant cry
my only solace,

as I wander washed
in reveries of her, and wish
with all my heart
it could be different....

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"...the thorn in sharpened shade
     weathers all loneliness."

      Hart Crane


Branches scratch the sky
blanching the twilight
pale and gray,
the day is dying.

My way is dark and dismal,
the nightjar's distant cry
my only solace.

I wander washed
in reveries of her, and wish
with all my heart
it could be different....

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There are no words
Only emotions
Raw and unrelenting
A petulant obsession
Blanching sight
My hands
Tools of asphyxiation
Choking prudence
Squeezing pulsating pens
Bound to a mute mistress
Who can read my mind
Like a blank piece of paper
Do I bed my muse
Or lie to my mother
Who held my trembling hand
When fear stole her slumber
And unspoken words
Her son...

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Zimbabwe
 
 
From shimmering oil
of ebony still
 
will come flailing of limbs
will come hacking
 
quick slashing
of hands now untied
 
tattooing no pattern
not even a maze
 
depriving gray walls
of their stone
 
will come spittle
wild churning rivers
 
agush from slack jaws
of blanching gray hounds 

till one day at dawn
will come quiet
 
 
Donal Mahoney...

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Mozambique 
 
 
From shimmering oil
of ebony still
 
will come flailing of limbs
will come hacking
 
quick slashing
of hands now untied
 
tattooing no pattern
not even a maze
 
depriving gray walls
of their stone
 
will come spittle
wild churning rivers
 
agush from slack jaws
of blanching gray hounds 

till one day at dawn
will come quiet
 
 
Donal Mahoney...

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'...the thorn in sharpened shade
        weathers all loneliness.'
                               -Hart Crane


Branches scratch the sky
   blanching the twilight 
      pale and grey,
         the day is dying;
my way is dark and dismal,
the nightjar's distant cry
   my only solace
      as I wander washed 
in reveries of her and wish 
    with all my heart
        it could be different....

Read More

'...the thorn in sharpened shade
        weathers all loneliness.'
                               -Hart Crane


Branches scratch the sky
   blanching the twilight 
      pale and grey,
         the day is dying;
my way is dark and dismal,
the night jar's distant cry
   my only solace
      as I wander washed 
in reveries of her and wish 
    with all my heart
        it could be different....

Read More

Life Choices
Written: by Tom Wright.
7-20-2016

Tangible success or inner gratification,
Were the choices in life that I once faced.
My life could remain just an aberration,
And the family name, become disgraced;

Then I arrived at my road’s branching,
Firmly entrenched, I faced a life choice.
Trembling, I stood, with color blanching,
Jesus had given me cause to now rejoice.
...

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Iris blue eyes that bright, azure beams strow
Lilly white neck with a radiant, translucent glow
Rosy cheeks blanching cotton swabs of milky snow
Viola black hair coiffed; silky strands strung in a tidy row
Magnolia-crescented bosom with a soft, silty furrow
Camellia-shaped paps that with sweet nectar flow
Butterfly Orchid legs; slender willows with tawny curves that billow
Anemone-cupped hands with graceful seams that her dignity doth sow...

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The frozen voice hangs on the
door. A crowd waits.
Midnight explosions
will start soon
to herald a benevolent sky-
for squatters.

In rise and fall of an empire
I won’t put any label
to generation drift. The
changing geography will
take care of the ashes.
A ragpicker will tell the story.

Ambulatory moon
had become economical, blanching
the stained dreams only
like our land’s wounds.
The sea of hate lies naked before us
to sweep the carcasses. I know not
how to become omnivorous.


Satish Verma...

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