Wisdom’s words are being whispered
like the wind, sounds carry far,
excited words, blessed and dear.
Secrets voiced under willow trees
secrets about peonies and ants.
Vivid voices, I overhear.
Where moons and stars shine at midday;
children are not restricted by the norm
Bugs and flowers star in paradise’s play.
Nighttime shadows never fall,
for spirits fenced within God’s pale.
Artists called children fashion clay
into notions way beyond adult eyes.
They serenade past the outside walls
of prison halls that hold adults in place.
Conversation with imaginary friends;
sidesplitting laughter fills the air
as they say good-bye with swift embrace.
July 8, 2019
Verse A Favoured Theme Any Form Poetry Contest by Brian Strand
I’m a revelation, a mutation, a mutilation,
Divine will and hysterical damnation.
One nation under a spell of castration.
I’m the chemical, you’re the academical,
Condemning the notion of free motion.
Polemical
Hearing
Healing
Break through the gold ceiling, persist to steal it.
Stuck in the system.
Dreaming
Not feeling pure.
Imagination ain’t real.
In my defence, I make sense, making cents, on innocents.
Coincide your incense with my expense,
Our expense is your offence.
Picket fence. Pick a side
Why so tense?
Test the tide
Have a drink. Will it quench
Nuclear war on my doorstep?
Divorce
Death
Drugs
Forceps
Forced steps, first steps,
Towards complex subjects of the same sex
The safe sex.
Ain’t safe sex going through glass bars
In a sidesplitting suplex?
Forced ideas. Safe paycheques
Forged ideals. Save apex.
Stereotypes
I’m the two time two sided too tired top model.
I’m the type to go mono.
One nation under one channel.
That’s our new motto.
Dreadful Fairytale
Stay away from the paint.
You’ll kill yourself on the swing.
The green VW cannot contain all of you.
Change into something more modest.
Sequined slippers sparkle gauche.
It is the pink and kerneled
lures me under the tent of
impossibility. I do not fathom
aviaries of peakcocked humans
reaching for a canvassed sky.
Danger lurks behind the
masks of frantic made up clowns.
Large red lips and big flat feet
horrify me amidst others
sidesplitting crazu glee.
I am with the hawkers’
cotton candy, cracker jacks
until the ring is darkened
and I leave this pit of panic.
All to pay is a stomachache
much too very real.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
May 12, 2012
For David Williams Circus contest.
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