We worship thee of glass and light
A flawless surface, polished and bright
Reflecting back at us like a beautiful lie
The truth trapped inside with nowhere to hide
Its flat surface holds so much power
We come back for answers within the hour
Designed for praise yet it stows defeat
The tears in our eyes, our own receipts
We seek validation through a shiny metal
Our pride as delicate as a flower’s petal
Between the reflection of a digital screen
Or the silver metal that reflects us so clean
It’s time to pick up the hammer and say
‘I hate how I see me, this isn’t the way’
Deliver the blow, witness it’s final days
Cuz each day you don’t, the stakes will be raised
So always remember that breaking the glass
Is the best way in life to stop being harassed
By your own insecurities, don’t ever let them show
Because you’re more beautiful than you already know
Historically the books are written by a well-known writer
The characters are formed to choose the sense of flight or fighter
The library of the mind stows away the facts from the fiction
The sequence of events unfold, memorised with restriction
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
The imagery of barricades in a crowded stark front room
Foreboding silence and tension create a sense of doom
In the old terraced house, there’s a closure of ranks
As the fighter steps forward and the other flanks
The pushing and shoving in the silent stark room
The circle decreases and a flash warps the plume
The memories jagged as they cut like a knife
As she’s hit by the boxer and fights for her life
The dry autumnal street carpets red and gold
The crunch of the leaves cushioned the blow
The flash of the memory vivid and sharp
Innocence held with such disregard
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
I am but dust, a man, haughty eyes will but do me in
And more when I gaze hours stark on my own work ‘pon fin’.
-Heights now I’ve reached, and skies I’ve seen- just a speck below.
He knows he’s peak’d past surprised feats when God him on low deck stows.
‘Tis not for man to reach such heights, and claim his own how-know!
Down goes the man past where he’s been until his pride’s pride goes.
And for all this- ‘tis still High’s right to make him. Even’s right to break ’im.
Midsummer vehemence stows heat for later
Solar film ominously watch hot arc
Tilt tracks trajectory, power cater
Stashes post sizzle to supply light dark
Socket slit subservient incubates
Arrow of assurance inserts cable
Voltage their pairing impressive creates
Self derived to electric capable
Autonomy admonished with a switch
Loins bearing in luxury breed evil
Informed about squalid impoverished
Ignore affluent vantage for reprieval
Overloaded homes groan under panels
Tainted rich roads tune rigid channels
16th January
Wealth rotten wattage
O children how beautiful the sea
with its white foam clouds,
its turquoise blooms,
its kiddish push’n pull,
its whirlpool, its briny drink…
salt like liquor — be careful of
where the sun beats you red.
…the brothel of the sea
don’t look for its meaning
…just mind me - stay away from
sirens and ethereal rocks.
O children take your pails
build your fairy castles,
fill your moats, until
it gets dark…when crabs
cut loose from the sand
and gigantic jaws comb the surf.
take your boats in hand,
wear your orange vest
in daylight, where the blue
kicks your boat playfully,
and like a friend, the waves shake
the hands of your oars.
be wary of shadows prevailing
upon the tendril waves, creeping,
daring to persuade you out
…just a little further…turns you about -
stows away the bread and buttery sun.
Sleep soundly in your cave,
under your sea-scented quilt.
remember mama always told you
…don’t turn your back on the deep.
3/4/2022
On satin beach rapture of waves roll with pearly glint,
stows away to marine oblivion my fragile footprint.
Twilight gleam melts in azure night of past called sea,
I search yonder for the silver shore to find a new me.
March 3, 2020
Stanza taken from : Finding A New Me
Contest : Rithimus Divisa 2
Sponsored by : Gregory R Barden
WINNING THE WAR
In tough action of war crawls the soldier
across the thorny ground riddled with mine,
charges with loaded gun on the shoulder,
revenge and rage in mind sorely combine.
Facing risk of dying any instant
flash of the face of his little daughter
he sees smile in his emotion dormant,
he stows for his mission is to slaughter.
His task is to kill enemy at sight
with hands that fondly caressed the daughter.
Fear of death is killed by the spur to fight,
to live for her, it’s not time to falter.
Become a bold soldier, fight without fear
you’ll live for the loved ones winning the war.
January 8, 2019.
Syllable count : 10 each line
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
On crests of waves morning sun glows
To blue sky its arms the sea throws
Breakers spread wet touch on beach dry
In joy the sands dance and leap high
Roll on ripples that come in rows.
Wind from hazy horizon blows
The swell in rising water grows
Melting shadows of the clouds lie
On crests of waves.
From cloud’s edge gleam of full moon flows
Splinters of moon on sea it stows
In blue night’s shroud the jeweled sky
Descends to lovingly apply
Stardust in the rhyme of rondeau
On crests of waves.
October 31, 2017
Form : Rondeau. Syllable count : 8 (4 in last line of stanza 2,3)
Why hurling above the wall,
In front of window,
Hits Missouri's cold air -
with hands, not by wings?
Walking on two legs
Like the blade between
The skin and the aorta
Then in a plastic bag stows
Sands of questions,
Polishing it by fire' lashes!
Why after all times and seasons
Flowing now, like a river of candy,
Behind the reflections of mirrors,
Then fades away and slip?
Sitting like a cat, looking
Toward the dark corners,
Yowling, as if jailed in
A coffin of candles pain
Why yowling now and again,
Above the wall, in front of that window,
Hits Missouri's cold air -
Without wings, my heart!
Written by © Fatima Nusairat
Oh, poet, whose soft tones the oceans bless
With their sweet songs and stows the summer’s clime
With all unearthly sounds, I can’t express
How much of worth your verse has been through time!
No matter when or where I drink your words,
My spirit rises on fair freedom’s wings
For with a passion, sweet, no bard affords,
Your voice, your tender tone, compassioned, sings,
And shames the songs of swallows, flitting by
Or nightingales, soaring o’er spring’s bloom.
Fair poet, let not your sweet lullaby
Wane ever in the face of time’s black doom
For Wordsworth, I’ve read lots of poetry
But never have they as your voice, touched me!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
A journey taken
Paddle wielder, not so graceful a feather,
there is a delicate balance
one must observe in a canoe
having to switch sides and currents
trying to control, nearly
an impossible goal, she stows the tool
letting her finger tips skim the river
as it takes her and every fantasy
she has ever imagined.
Yes there are shrieks and frights
as the boat spins
too close to what she can't comprehend
and she closes her eyes
ending on a calm shoreline
pulling the vessel close,
kneeling down, she knew
she wasn't alone in that canoe.
It's the wind that scuttle
Had it not left me troubled?
Bewildered and peculiar am I
The strange looks of the sky
Rains by as the day sleeps the night
And welkin seems
It broke down a frail sigh
Thus, emitted a shrill cry
Shuns the daylight as clouds gather
Entwined with poetic strife
As lovely clouds converge to safeguard
I have thought...
When the wind come hitherto from afar
Only shall it present
...more mellow mars
Suddenly fallen have I
...the prolific wind scuttles
It's the wind that scuttle
Had it, left me yet troubled?
Bewildered and peculiar am I...
Nevertheless...
Eyes of tomorrow shall come to pass
And mind of sorrow fall short at last
I want to make much...of my soul
However...the wind which tarry hitherto stows me much troubles
In which I composed a frail sigh from
And even I...I emit a shrill cry, with a voice, saying...
"Goodbye. That I may change direction from mellow mars."
And now...brother and sisters. Behold...now I am free.
While wearing the garb
Of a twenty year old
On a 50 something body
Her eyes rove hungrily,
Spotting her quarry
She pounces upon
The daily newspapers
Left by a prior denizen
Of the local coffee bar
Every word on every page
Is ravenously devoured
The lives of others
Happy or horrid
Fills her empty hours
Pouring over her soul
Like so many lattes
Prepared by bored baristas
When she's had her fill
She stows the carcasses
Under her cushions
Guarding them
For later gnawing
And when our eyes meet
She knows I lie in wait
For her to vacate the seat
So I can pick the bones clean
When the last of daylight fades,
and thoughts of you do muster, jade
so endless, like a fool's parade
is gratified with its tirade!
Some voiceless hurt sleeps for its aid,
for sooner than the eyes do close
and longer than a statues pose
thy absence nettles its enclose.
That senseless boundary expose
its vile urging, ever stows
as if a curse without thee knows
that pain, and sentences its dross.
This loveless world, of self consoles,
while thee and I, forgotten prose
lie in some verse in heaven's throne -
The soul, the soul... finds Hell, alone!
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