pale silver sickle
hangs in the grey velvet sky~
a silent vigil.
stars begin to gleam
tiny diamonds scattered far~
a guide in darkness.
gentle light descends
touching sleepy, dreaming earth~
a hushed, soft embrace.
One mystic blue night dead still,
I’ll steal the silver full moon,
break it into sharp shards,
and stow them in the backyard
under the shadow of the creepy cloud.
The dark devils will enter with fiend
my anguished heart beating vengeance,
hit hard by the moonless dreary darkness,
and make my boiling enraged blood
turn into lacerating incisive lancet.
The sinister scarlet elixir in my veins
the night will drink like wine,
the shining sequined full moon lost,
it’ll make a black one hollow,
darker than the dread of doomsday.
When the impious wolves will slash
the neck of the frozen stillness,
their ominous bark in the chilled air
will shred the nocturnal chastity, it's time
for moon plucking from sordid shadow.
They cunningly ensnare in an instant
the naive malleable minds unaware,
skillfully wrap with mute trance
the innocent hearts trapped
in the travesty tangle of love.
I’ll slit open their deceitful throats,
slice the reveling saccharine lips
with the harvested sickle moon.
Moon by day, a sight to behold,
Myths and legends, forever told,
Spiritual growth, transformation,
The gibbous moon is a stunning creation.
Sunrise and sunset, a time to reflect,
In the stories of the age, we must respect,
For under the sickle moonlight,
Mythical transformations bear flight.
Werewolves howl, vampires roam,
Mermaids swim, unicorns stir foam,
Shape-shifters, fairies, and shore,
All come alive, under the moon allure.
The sickle moon, a symbol of change,
A time of growth, to rearrange,
To shed aged skin, and embrace the view,
To transform into something true.
Under the sickle moonlight,
We too can alter, and bear flight,
Embrace our inner myths and magic,
And become something truly fantastic.
So let us dance, under the moon glow,
And let our spirits flow.
Written: June 06, 2023
Could it your fancy tickle:
The fluid you need does trickle;
Legs once free like vehicles
On Stopped Feet of Manacles?
Won’t it up get one’s hackles
That one often tasks tackles
Others’ Wrists not in shackles
For what one down to buckles?
You others tag ‘The Fickle’
Fit only for the sickle;
Expo sure to ridicule:
Lots of in Article
That you know “Just Bicycle”
Swearing on “No Icicle!”
Honestly, I won’t like it,
Though shan’t jump into a pit!
waves of golden wheat
interspersed with red poppies
falling to sickle
first Place Winner: A Brian Strand 2 to 5 lines Contest-8/23/21
Third Place: JCB Brul- Traditional Haiku-6/5/20
We had dreams of being who we wanted to be
I still remember we playing around the backyard and riding bikes
Imitating our various superheroes and everything seemed possible
Strong and happy we were and we fought through every day fiercely
In the back of our minds nothing could stop us
Now I am drenched heavily by this daily reminiscing
All these faded on the day the harmattan before Christmas showed up
When Aunt Martha and Sir Mark rushed you out of class to the hospital
And that begun the end of our episodes as kids
I sat there wondering if you were going to be fine
My mind plagued on the worst but I only hoped for the best
Aunt Martha explained you had an illness and said you will be fine
I remember how I asked mum if you were going to be alright
She kept saying your condition was special but you were going to return normal
She kept on saying you might not be the Mike I use to play a lot with
I just hoped and prayed you never changed.
Man With Sickle
By: Tom Wright
8/13/01
Man in black armed with death's sickle,
God, gave thee charge of time.
Man's time on earth is but a trickle,
Diminished, by each timepiece chime.
Naught on earth can stop, nor slow,
Though through our vanity, some may try.
We rush as springs to and fro,
Gathering things, and know not why.
White gold, mist beams, Earth’s cold eye.
Red blood, haze stars, night’s dead sky.
Orange flame, clear rays, heart’s hope known –
Black tomb, ink clouds, soul’s doom nigh.
Written 28 February 2019 for Newman Prize for Chinese Literature
BETRAYAL - FICKLE DEATH'S SICKLE
Life is short, death is sure,
Much is better left unsaid
In this painful life we endure
Many thorns we may have to tread
As death freezes,
Loved ones fall prey to deadly diseases,
Death with His sickle cuts as He pleases,
Sparing no one, He runs rampant,
While we survive, our lives stagnant,
Reminiscing those absent...
For Death's betrayal, what is the cure?
Blood tears that we shed??
Fickle Death's sickle displeases
Our will to live in torn fragment...s...
11/08/18
Fragmented Rhyme Contest-November 2018 Writing Challenge
Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
Old Father Time offered for sale
Used scythes Death designed to impale
The demos were free
But if you ask me
Those buyers looked woefully pale!
When Women Like a Sickle
Women are not from a rib or bones
Nor curved or crooked
You need a metaphor to understand truth
Said a sage his name is Aristotle
Don’t straight a stick
Or make a spoon flat
They will be broken and become useless
If a woman appears like an angle
Or looks like a moon, sickle
Find them a corner or a swath of grass
You will get her the best
Or see the best of her
In cutting and collecting while brightly she will shine.
What is it like in that moment before the end--
When the abyss stares at you through and through--
I'd think you'd not know--
For Time makes no sound when the sickle reaps
To hear the sickle reap
To hear the sickle reap
5/25/'14
reaper’s sickle flies…
far above battlefield cries
scorched and bleeding skies
By Robb A. Kopp
Sickle moons have shone above me
In the dark of night,
Standing on the mountain edges
Writing by their light.
Fall with eagle wings of colour
Soared the starry skies,
Called its sickle moon of copper
To enchant my eyes.
Winter passed with silent footsteps
In one silent night,
left the world a stainless canvass
And a moon of white.
Spring woke as an early blossom
Blooming in the snow
never was there such an artist
Made a green moon grow.
Summer, daughter of the morning
Let the world behold,
As her fingers formed the perfect
Sickle moon of gold.
So the seasons passed before me
Still I stand and write,
In the dark on mountain edges
Sickle moons my light.
Our ancient hermit leaves
his mountain cave,
weaves glad tales of freedom
for every slave.
As sickle-sharp moon slashes
silken sky,
dusk darkens purple, deeper
when lights die.
His eyes, black portholes
of a sunken ship,
like embers casting
a hypnotist's grip.
His voice, dried leaves dragged
along the sidewalk,
drones on in your sleep, you still
hear him talk.
Vanishes like an off-season
monsoon,
back the next night
of the sickle-sharp moon!
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