In Arabian singsong, the dancer began
Searching for tempo in desert sands
Torso twisting and turning to the rhythm of time
With a toss of her head and a shake of her mane
Tambourines rang, spectators clapped
the dancer transformed, shot into his lap
Wriggling her belly and lighting his fire
she struggled to control her desire…
… At the end of the night, slumped over, frail, spent
too many years barely paying the rent
Autumn twilight remembers, breathe
Shadows envelop the singsong colors of dreams
Who are brisk as the purgatory where summer’s grace
Quietly cheers as the impatient feel of autumn
Replaces the sun with waves of orange and gold
Mahagony memories, bold – flames of the season’s tears
A short eighty years is long.
No bells singsong tears, darling.
The stern coaster loops, be strong.
We’ll join murmur of starlings.
No bells singsong tears, darling.
When it’s our time, no complaints.
We’ll join murmur of starlings.
Heaven’s waiting with the saints.
When it’s our time, no complaints.
The stern coaster loops, be strong.
Heaven’s waiting with the saints.
A short eighty years is long.
Hate is a feast for crows. Feast your eyes, instead, on love.
—by poet
Singsong of Spring
Caw of unseen crow and chorus
of potentially pretty wings.
Singsong may have interrupted
the murder - melody was sweet.
Tweeting torques communication;
hate fades with unflappable faith.
Cold dissipates as the Winter bird tweets.
Perpetual treat, that enters my ear, singsong
merriness, retreats all too quick, completes
its assignment, to the next neighbor, gets along.
Stillness of second Winter, naked oaks.
A seasonal painting as my window frames.
Upcoming Spring, the loss in April, brushstrokes
that paint a vivid scene, purple in flames.
Summer and Fall wedged in between, poking
the embers, sending smoke up the chimney hole.
On this side of heaven long days, never revoking
the pact to keep sealed in her urn, memories toll.
Still heaven is hope, hopeful days of endless sun,
seasons without pallor and pain, holding so soft
hands, hugging eternity, leaning on Tree of Life; one
family in the Lord; my mother’s eyes…I look aloft.
Turn around and you’ll see 360 degrees.
Tipsy or dizzy, dazzled and unbalanced.
Jumping over the obvious, skipping.
It’s groovy how you can can,
over and over again, become one with
the shellac or polyvinyl.
Its circumference everlasts, but the spin
is slow or fast. Some ride high but scratch
and waste the singsong space, the sizzling
stellar and crucial becomes psychedelic.
Two feet planted on the recording, soaring.
Sore their plantar, blistered by the hiss.
Do resist the shake and shiver of insane.
Tears ruin the score…Noah’s symphony.
How romantic, the fall, so far above the pleading waves.
The heights, the depth, to look the deep in eye and weep.
Air space between the lovers’ arc and shallow graves.
The tangible singsong of wedding bells and tragic leap.
Imagine it, the harp-like spray, the call of gulls, the fangs
that scared it up - the fade of white, of pearls and lace.
The cleft, the crags, the foaming ebb and flow, the overhangs,
the rage and misery one cursèd night, of love’s erase.
Romantic and tragic body of sea, a bride set free.
for she’d not live eternity of blood, thus spills her own.
He has no heart, but tears. Before his fate - a honeybee.
The heaviness of weight, the sea frothing with moans.
The scene has wings that fly and dive and sweetly catch
the widower’s debris. Invisible, the flight of ghostly light.
From precipice, how many tears do claw and scratch…
Hell laughs, but jealous witch wished bride to be first bite.
Above the public pool
a volleyball so cool
stuck for years
in the rafters
Someone’s
breath of life
trapped in
it’s bladder
Evidence of
their lingering
presence, me
wondering
if they ever
pondered the
relevance of
the essence they
left behind?
Singsong thoughts
turn inward …
What about me?
In all the places
I’ve been,
pieces of me,
residual traces
of myself
left behind,
cast away!
Small links, unforgotten,
faithfully preserved
by old friends—
threads of connection
reinforced by timeless bonds—
who keep my words,
moves (dancing!), and
shared memories as
precious cargo,
cherished keepsakes,
A clear reminder that
I exist! I matter!
I’m something much more
than simply air I breathe
on an unremembered day …
Like that beautiful volleyball
in the rafters
W I L S O N ! ! !
You make me feel so much –
Joy, thankfulness, courage
You whisper hope into my spirit
Remind me that affection is a quiet wonder
Like a dream coloring my life
In grace and kindness, reflecting
Serenity, a smile…
Poured out over the silence
Screaming light through
My most intimate embrace,
A kiss – sweet and passionate,
Starlight shimmering into darkness,
Parting the wistful night –
A lesson of laughter’s
Singsong voice, telling
The moon to guide each
Feeling through the shadows
Into the winsome autumn
Leaves, vibrant and bold
Healing summertime and old
Moments, praying for wisdom
To know love’s sigh, breathless
Abiding in the trembling
Echo of a touch, the magic moves
Me so much!
You make me feel such deep –
Love
Poetry, You are Illumination!
Not the point of descent
but the ascending apex of
God's triangles – you come to
me, a bride...after the dutiful converse,
you come to me, dear wondrous composition~
wearing your verbal gown of transparent
white:
Why do I write? And why breathe, make
love? The in and out of creation somehow
such death and resurrection becomes us
both, the draw of life despite the often
editing crosses –
We are best when up against the wall...
that writer's block, that impasse, that
paralysis!~ poetry my sledge and saw,
the reason for eyes and hands, power
to transcend vision into new horizons
however they defame you, my lyrical
rib: abuse you with singsong cords
and hackneyed personifications, even
the erudite who only basically attend
to me you are nearer perfection...
Always, a divine lover and friend!
O the warmth and the depth of the sun, o’er us,
for the yellows and reds, as they throw their shine
on the maples and oaks and the pines, caress
of the pale and ebon - all the blossoms stress.
And the flit of the robins, and rest on boughs,
as they lift up our spirits in singsong light.
We’ve a glimpse of once-paradise-sourced delight.
The long rays of God’s arms - they lean down to rouse.
Each new day, flows our way, and it fits like glove,
and we stretch out our arms like a child, and smile,
as we’re wrapped in the Dayspring’s colors and style.
All our senses awake, as God pours out love.
8/23/2022
Blessed be your song
tranquil, heartfelt, bittersweet
a moving song of delight
a singsong-sunshine melody
God’s giving-basket with a fruitful song
fresh every morning
they’re looking for love
the pleasure of their singsong —
a broadway duet
4/30/2021
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Hope you all are going great. So , here I am with a new poetry on #friends and #lovers who are fading as the days are passing??. If you have got one , the one who is frightend as much as you with even the though to lose you, YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST??
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easily puzzled
perplexed and bewildered
confused in a variety of ways
her pyrexic mind
encouraged latent pyromaniacal tendencies
dementia gone wild
house devoured in flames
singsong ritual and nonsense words
confusion and dementia
pieces of self scattered
easily puzzled
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