Sieved Poems

Pink Flamingo

Pink hue flamingo it must be due to all
the carotenoid pigments feasted on 
algae and crustaceans
An elongated  neck spirals 
and filters such sensations
Sharing color is Okinawa salmon sushi,
bolster lobster and shrimp scrimp
Graceful qualifiers primp poised tropical dwellers
balancing effortlessly on one outstretched leg,
A ballerina’s pirouette in fuchsia tutus’
Statuesque stillness in shallow water
Rosette feathers flair flamboyance
Passionate plumage, blushing boas
Webbed feet tap and stamp below, 
an aquatic burlesque show
The flamenco dance named after you
Rose-tinted creature tranquil, wader
Hook-billed blackened lamellae
sieved nobly, an intense look in a print
Cluster buster of pink with lengthy legs that sprint

WHAT ARE WE

WHAT ARE WE

What are we, but all merely pretenders
Living a fantasy that our evolution’s done
For sure, we do exercise a conscious mind
But we are not unique, I think you’ll find
We have emotions and do experience fun
Yet where will progression then send us

But is it what, rather than the softer who
As identities are transient and short-lived
One’s name often can’t tell us very much
Although genetic profiling helps a touch
On a dig site we are but eventually sieved
As one of many rather than a famous few

And where are we, in the scheme of things
Perhaps insignificant across time and space
Some have however, walked on the moon
And even taken a ride in a hot air balloon
Yet never be prepared to know our place
As I will just love it when the fat lady sings

Insomnia

Deprived of sleep
the mind revolves
in a slowly turning gyre
of thoughts, 
capturing the past
and future
in its spiral
to feed its want
and taunt the will.
Dawn becomes 
a cruel mirage dancing
on a distant horizon.

An exhausted self
is sieved through the gauze 
of a semi conscious dream
as it masquerades as sleep,
sending bits to float off
across the room
until a sudden noise
or a sharp pain 
brings the mind back 
into the wide awake 
prison of itself…..again.

Soldered

Path walked measured with words,

Stripping the unwanted ones down, to be newly clothed.

Lost swooning over how much happiness the heart can take,

Felt those properly sieved emotions flowing through.

The words kept coming as the path was walked.

The farther the path was walked, the heavier the words were to strip off. 

Could either take it or take a hit.

Feeling both the warm and cold inside.

The hovering cost of being myself for too long. 

While it seems like it is a lot of work,

The control over the words I embrace makes it all better.

That I can choose the words I take a hit for.

KOMOREBI

       KOMOREBI

        Pushing dense bush walking in pathless forest
        under tree canopy, continuous.
        At dawn sun rays penetrating at best,
         torching dark tunnel , making luminous.

       Sunbeams filtered by leaves and foliage
       interplaying sheen and shade to astound.
       Komorebi  cast on dappled image
       forming lovely lattice on forest ground.

        Komorebi caused by leaf lamina.
        Pretty patterns to adorn forest floor.
        Sunlight is sieved by leafage patina.
        Wonder and dreams of sunbeam to adore.

        Morn glow of Komorebi ! End of night.
        Dark shadowed tunnel on opacity,
        finding flash of thin shafts of twinkled light.
        Profound pure pristine tranquility .
        
        When sunlight shines through tree in environ
         Contrast of light and shadow to receive 
         on re-energised radiant ion,
         Komorebi  to charm at morn and eve.

Brain Filtering

This reality is not one dream world
but a collaboration of all our choices.
Multi-layered it is,
but it is not as infinity plural
as the actual spiritual cosmos.

A dog walks into a bar
one full of hard drinking squirrels
It's a Sports Bar
kangaroos are playing baseball.
This is nothing but the truth
filtered through a billion individual perceptions.
Eventually it gets sieved through a common
and collective view.

Now excuse me,
I must see a man about a dog,
I have heard a squirrel has chased it
into an alternative universe.

Quilling the Spill

At last,
Education stood to teach.

Acres of agonizing memory.
Hectares of Hecate,
Tripling in advance of nonsense.

Peering round and round in vertical cylinders.

Spun web-less in a lore of forgotten before.
And after, for the sake-less now.

Trudging on to prevent neither from creeping upon the self.
The worry.
The memory of anamnesis to approach.
Guided by prodding pasts and redundant fates.

Ghosts are pasts pretending themselves futures.
Watching the agony unravel from the serfdom of their such.

A medium simply sees the swirl,
And laughs at the penchant for unlit prospects.
Adorning torches to hide lights from contemporary photonics.

I've sieved the lumens. 
Sheathed it for sequestered seconds in advance of past, present, and posterity. 

Commas written in Oxford language, knowing that a next is sure to follow.

Pretentious: yes.
Shallow: may-haps.
Yet perchance the parchment rolls on, flicked by feathers of ephemera once deigned to be feared.

Feathers quacking on in timid and oily idleness.

There's no point anyways, to a quill, without the spill of ink.

Broken Sky

The air seems broken today
low and high clouds shred and fracture.

Breathing has to be sieved
through a fine mesh of mindfulness
and bellows worked
by the laboring hands of thought.

The cracked face of the sky
will be blood red by the night
until then

we sip the honey out of the dross,
last-out these daylight doldrums,
wait for a free-sailing,
and vagabond wind.

In My Twilight Years

In my twilight years I have grown silver, 
weaved inside my hair and aging thoughts.  
It reminds me of the first time I saw a star 
beneath the first aurora hint of a bran new dawn;

All the firsts of my life have been sifted 
like panned up gold between my fingers 
Sieved through, held brief and then let go 
inside this aging heart the memory remains ;

I once was ever altered like the shades of my hair 
today I'm much more constant and alert  
as I watch the passing storm from my window  
I feel like a lamp post blazing in the snow 

Lit up at dusk and closed after dawn 
I feel like an iron metal post, though I am water,   
holding up a dam of love inside my soul,  
for all the ones I love, loved and continue to love. 

Your Vienna

A Recycle of the Spiritual Life

We dump waste 
To recycle, remade or reuse
But we hide our feelings deep in the heart
Never mean for recycling
Happiness to be appreciated, to be remembered
And sadness to be discarded
Or to be transformed into an experience or a lesson
We keep our knowledge in mind 
Never to be polished after retirement
But the world is changing every minute
Some old knowledge have to be 
Recycled, improved, reused or discarded
We adopted old habits and beliefs
Without ever dropping them
But old habits and beliefs have to be sieved
Those beneficial and true remain
Recycling will yield experience, new knowledge and truth
Which will indeed lead to a happier life

Stand

High on a blustery jut
he flouts his fear upon a buoyant swell.
Breathes in the tang
of crowberries and storm clouds
aroma’s sieved through wind and limestone,
sheep piss and heather.
Way down on a lower sky
rock ravens spiral.
This is his land, his free blown air.
There he declares himself
the very image of this scudding world;
and he magnified and upright,
somewhere between
a twirling gnat
and a new begot God.
© a day ago

The Springtime Symphony

Spring is a time of rebirth and rejuvenation,
A vernal season of whimsical invigoration.
Admiration is conveyed through this way,
It relishes a bit like freshly fallen rain spray.

A scent of lemon, aloe, and sieved steaming,
Like ambrosial rosebuds blooming in spring.
A glass of polished ruby bears serenity,
It's saffron on silk with a resolute divinity.

Colorful gown of yellow, green, and blue,
Shimmering in harlequin-inspired hue.
It divinely glides over meadow and field,
Where silky lobed rugs swarm with their yield.

3RD PLACE CONTEST WINNER

Written: April 27, 2022

Spring Rhyme - 8-12 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin

High Country

The tang of crowberries and storm clouds
sieved through wind and limestone
sheep’s piss and heather.
Beneath the high rock, ravens spiral,
swoop through a flying sky.
This is my land, this moment
I declare myself the very image of the One image,
magnified, upright, somewhere between
a wind-blown gnat and the rocketing reach
of a reckless God.

The Sky

Clean like a glass
Dirty like a smeared rag
Dark like a sponge soaked in black
Shining like a powerful lamp
Sieved by branches, broken like a cracked glass
Busy like a swarm of swallow flying across
Naughty like the burning sun's heat
Cunning like a sudden heavy downpour
But the sky is my love
When I am free from work
The sky is everyone's friend
If you stop polluting it with dirt

Light and Shadow

LIGHT and SHADOW
                                                      
           Smooth and coarse green leaves
                  in thick and thin foliage
                 show light and shadow
            sieved by pale or bright sunshine
                as Sun moves from East to West.


   06/01/21

 
 ' Bite Size Poem no.7' Contest by Line Gauthier

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