Bonfire branches
swaying in summer
dress
At the riverside
playing with the wind
A long tress
Snaking curves
In the rippling river
A summer spree
Leaning lips
through the vapour
A cup of tea
Sizzling heat
ripening the mangoes
Juicy delight
Swimming feet
in the evening pond
In the sky, a kite
Rendezvous of
eyes and tresses
With the author
Continues the
cloud nine trip by an
Ecstatic elevator
____________
July 4, 2025
Sitting by the river
There are lovely urban views,
But it’s more fun to people watch
And check out the tattoos.
A dragon snaking up an arm,
Some flowers on a calf,
An eagle near an elbow
And a wizard with a staff.
A Yankee logo on a neck,
Some words etched on a chest,
A tiger and a postcard with a stamp,
Neatly addressed.
A bird, an anchor and a leaf
And much more, I suppose,
Well-hidden from the public,
Meant to privately expose.
stairway
to heaven bound
has step-wise tiers
strewn with slippery slides
snaking down to land head first ~
rung hamstrung
POTD~
In the misery of a paler grey nightfall
she blinks like citrine glazed along walls,
Ivy of Boston flaunts her shimmer without guilt
as palette of amber claims her lustrous glides
slithering with her bohemian lift,
rosette flesh blushing in chilled breeze.
Social climber this paramour, whirling
among plants wanton wild ,
trickles of mist freckle palms of curled leaves-
stem for stem-- translating the language of time,
of how branches relish herbage flow
as my wet hands paddle my dusky breaths
through mid-evening's freeze.
How her alchemy draws gasping sighs
more red than red could ever tease,
and that gypsy's heat...leaving mortals
in awe-...that her fluid pose seems to jut out
from a glass frame to rush forth with all
her womanly senses gushing, snaking,
writhing in the middle of ghastly, boney winter
meant to return on the edge of wild abandon,
enticing men with her faceted charm
never ever the same each time.
Slip sliding from chilled breeze
Slivers of flurries waltz
Softly mantling old trees
Silver-coated by rain:
Snaking down down glossed yard
Soon...frost will enchant you
Smile! Crystals peck your cheeks.
Mist covered tall trees
Myna on a wire
Sunshine mugged by clouds
Smoke of factory
Road snaking uphill
Cold numb fingers
Chill wind on face
Dry thirsty throat
Eyes yearning more
Humming wind
Rustling leaves
My breathing
Wet soil
Wet wood
Bread
It rained for three days
Constant outpouring awakens
The dry river to life again
A little farther besides our home
I hear the rumbling sound
Of water slowly snaking though
Descending, bulldozing its might
Pushing those like foam and debris
Downward plaining going farther
I can't wait for my outburst feeling
Whether I be sad, fear or happy
Sad cause by the inundation
Of what if it will go to flooding
And cause damage to land and properties
Fear of natural disaster to happen
Happy for our root crops ration with water
The rain did not stop its fury
I was tamed for three days in seclusion
Looking outside observing the effect
Slowly the rain die down its anger
Slowly also the river begun to calm down
Almost a day also the river dries up
And it goes back to totally back to sleep
That's when my fear and sadness also cease
Back to normal, life goes on to live.
I Form - Imagism 9-18-24 6-20 lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Golden Kiss
Summer bows out and leaves a golden kiss
Maize dozes in mellow aster afternoons
Orange glows on future jack-o-lanterns
Multicolor bumpy gourds ride snaking vines
Yellow corn silks dance like razzle dazzles
Apples drink in the fading crimson sun
Sunflowers sigh -autumn storms breach the sky
Geese with twilight on their wings see new stars
Ruby gems of cranberries swim in bogs
Purple grapes soak in the warmth for harvest
Twirling leaves leave frosty lace skeletons
Fuzzy bees bid adieu to yellow days
Tawny acorns shiver in the cold nights
Fall wears an amber blush of jubilee.
Natural death licking aims
Now our bleach seasons heirs
And the pubis of public lore
Intrauterine spinning blue dream cream
Roils rushing a rock star’s semen searching
For golden lands of rum and sable ladies eyeing
Blown ear-drum truth percussive
Hand-grenade vibrator lipstick hash
Recall spinning reams in a hyperinflation
Of love overture blend ground night hues of whispers
Meaninglessness long snaking verbs of silence wilt low
Screw worm elect obscene emotive drooling apocalypses
thrust up from
desert floor
like a snow cone
icy mountain
dripping winter's lace
... Mt Lemon
only fifty miles from
this maze I'm
threading through
cracker box houses
snaking sidewalks
parks
playgrounds
groomed gravel
desert trees
...barking dogs
most pleasant 78 degrees
I've felt in forever
fifty miles
and that icy mountain
is another world
looks so cold I
don't even wanna
be there
gimme the
groomed gravel
and snaking sidewalks
today
it gets 90
forget the desert
I'll take the mountain
that way in my mind too
only fifty miles from
feeling good about myself
or having work to do
get up get out
walk and
keep walking
so come summer
I can climb
Grit flies from spinning rubber,
the traffic is edging through roads,
narrowed, by the plowed and pushed aside.
Curb-side snow remains; solid humps turn brown,
in an un-melting light.
A lone chicken hawk circles an iced-over acre
of snaking roadway,
its black track attracts the birds eye,
as if it were the contrail of an elongated rat,
stretching into a bolt- hole of frozen sky.
Gus shook his head and began pairing
everyone up in teams...
Then, WailersWitch walked in.
Followed closely by EllenDegenerate
who was sniffing behind WailersWitch
and snaking the air with her forked tongue
between her fingers.
Degenerate had a shirt on that suspiciously
resembled buildings at Little St. James Island,
a resort for orphans that she contributed to.
Then, Michael Ofelellah walked in with RufePal,
"we're here and we're ...
we choreographed the White Houses Nutcracker
for the White Powder Holidays, now, it's time to get something black!
They opened a mini dome of the rock
box and inside was a demon.
Yes, from inside, popped out
WhoopieCushionPatsy, her dirty
dreadlocks dangled in the air
with filthy pride that reminded one
of a dust storm swirling magically
in a sewage treatment plant, swirling waste
and racing them like Americas Cup.
"Anybody getting a good view of my anti-white princessness, yes it is truly ME!"
Michael cut in, cut the crap Whoopie,
we have a world to subdue before Hillary hogs it all...
A snaking mouth sloughs two spines,
the rattle of small vertebrae
and delicate teeth.
A woman learns to ride them, feels
the trombone slide of a dragon’s tail.
A man lifts tugging fingers,
not wanting to fumble
as ill-illuminated aluminum rails
bite.
The zipper knits together lusts
or shuns and strips a thought away.
Body bags become bodily prayers.
It is a widening gash gleaming -
lip-gloss for unpainted desires.
Zippers may squeeze a tight throat,
or close an open face.
Buttons are collected or lost,
though once in a while rescued
from a box of other tangled trinkets.
From our bodies, dead and deceased,
of decaying flesh rotted off bone,
poking through loose lavish soil
flowers sprout and feed from the sun
From the corpse's arm, a reeling ranunculus
reaches toward the sky’s bright star
snaking its roots between marrow and meal
suckling the dew of morning’s break
From the heel, a snapdragon floret
promenades through the skin of carbon feet
folding petals, one over the other
drawing beauty from
From the stomach, a dahlia blossoms
digesting under a tree’s great shade
awaiting their repressed august-time bloom
only to wilt in a thickened frost
From the chest, a celosia blooms
budding across the lung’s final breath
and releasing into the atmosphere
a life, reborn from nature’s death
If this was the last poetry contest
I would choose to call the tall waves
from the serotonin molecules
Neuron by neuron in the snaking path
cleft by cleft in a cerebral dance
the resplendent response
to the sounds of the tolling bell
through the laughing waves
from the ventricles
The soup knocked on the brains
a stirrer in the currents
It grew lilacs in the garden
softening the hardened soil
The soup sent cordial calls
to rivers dormant in a darkness
In the soup we knew the footfalls
With every sound the tall t-waves
All these from the charged magnet
the Poetrysoup contest
In case this was the last
we know we wouldn't fast
The treasure of the Poeyrysoup-glee
would never be under lock and key
Whenever fidgety in the pursuit
of an elusive thought or image
or of a glimpse of poetic stanzas
We would tap on the verdant doors of
the dear storehouse of the jewels
that never failed an avid reader
of all the forms of English poetry
After all a river is born to end
Leaving almost permanent poetry
in every bend
18 September 2023
Inspiration: Contest:
If this was the last Poetry Contest
hosted by Silent One
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