Short Blights Poems

Sound bytes, brain blights
Ignorance is our calling
Stupid reigns supreme
Let us not Think for ourselves
We are the cattle we raise....

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Listen to poem:

as days fade to night
the season blights to winter
dearth of light brings haggard chills

landscape bedraggled
shriveled to black then bleached white
cries ice tears then hibernates...

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Hanging on my own cross
All things I’ve counted loss
Through my parched lips I pray
As darkness blights the day
“Father……Forgive them,
For they know not what they SAY.”

Eileen Manassian Ghali...

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Beneath the night;
Is the daylight, sleeping;
Brilliant blights;
Sunlight streaming;

It’s alright;
To dream about night;
In the mornings time;

3/8/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©...

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Beauty

A rarity chanced by one who sees
But a multitude by one who looks
Its pleasing hues to calm the mind
Scenes of charm by nature’s hand
Unspoilt, unmarred in natural state
With liberty to shine and flaunt
In uncorrupted habitat
And escape an urban ruination
Where human trespass blights 
The rules of nature’s kingdom...

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Judge Not

Judging human parasites—freeloaders
Foul fodder feeds these plights.
Judges accost not mans flights.
Homeless victims feel the blights.


© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 26, 2010

Poetic form:  Englyn

References:  Englyn Unodl Union (Straight One-rhyme Englyn)
http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/zoebrigley/entry/the_measures_of_1/
http://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/411009...

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Short spates of workaholic spurts of frenzied work.
A burst of starlight
That ignites the black,
Blights the black,
Fights the black,
Rights the black
Until the dark silence returns,
Until the frantic moments
Are usurped 
By doldrums of daunting inertia,
A vast swathe of offensive nothingness,
A vapid vessel of pensive emptiness,
A quagmire of numbness,
Blindness, dumbness
And a brutal sense of futility....

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Is this malady true, or a trick of the night?
Wallowing through perceived blights and blows
Should I turn towards that mirthful morning light?

Is this unease even mine to behold? who knows  
This milieu plays to me rehearsed and contrite
Still bulbs flower and the spring wind blows

If, in time, I cast off this cloak, a fire shall ignite
Perchance even inspire in me a lighter line of prose
But who will remain if I permit myself to burn this bright?...

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