I’m twisted
into submission;
admission
to true world
of imaginary breeze
and coconut salt.
I’m a seed,
slipping into sand,
letting go.
The wild sea’s
crest and trough didn’t swallow me,
silence me - my thoughts.
Roots, a muse -
rest and recreate;
drudge baggage
ditched at shore.
The dunes spoil me with their grit
and pink hydrangeas.
Sunglasses
recover my eyes;
sunburn writhes
on my skull.
Hair in free fall, snarled and damp,
like anemones.
An assault
of coconut breeze
in true world;
admission
into twisted submission
of relaxing waves.
The sunspots
of Summer outbreak.
I bring pail
and shovel.
I shore up castle, today,
midst whirlpool of moat.
The true world
tries to interfere,
as I splash
cruel eyes.
My hands and feet completely
disappear…left - write!
A Place to
Be
I hope that Sally is where
there are cats that curl
in sunspots on a floor
and readers who peruse
novels slowly from cover
to cover through long
Sunday afternoons.
Or it could be Monday
when the washing is done
and the red beans are steeping.
I would make my way there
to make the memory mine
with a nice bottle of wine.
Red pill, blue pill, old pill, new pill,
Each tablet has music you can whistle.
Side effects and brand ones—we all have a shot,
Vitamins and sunspots are our health dots.
From headaches to heartburn, we seek relief.
Medicine melodies, the rhythm of our belief
Pills, syrups, and creams—a symphony of care,
Our bodies are the orchestra—with each note, we repair.
Some are sour; others sweet or hard to swallow.
But each one has a chance for a better tomorrow.
A chorus of healing, a choir of health,
Medicine melodies—our hardship is their wealth
So let us sing along with each dose we take.
A melody of gratitude for each pill we make.
Without them, we'd suffer in pain and strife.
But with pills melodies, we can live a vibrant life.
Black photograph
Naked eye in flight
I'm by the river's mouth
Where they drowned us shut
My life in shadows
I won't have it any other way
The will of sunspots
The chase between night and day
Black photograph
Evil eye against my plight
I'll be myself
See it with your own eyes
Moon shaped scars
And the blade that made them so
Tincture of blood in fear
Of prolonging your sacrifice
Rife with shadows
The edge of a corner
A salute to your deference
Piercing away the tension
Bleak is my bonfire
I'll wait for sundown
Weak is my conscience
Awaiting deliverance
Pools of blue moonbeams
Shimmer silver in the night
And rippling with rhyme
These words begin to write
Cascading rainbows
Are rivers in the sky
The indigos and violets
Sing a lullaby
The morning’s rosy fingers
Add a touch of love
And the golden glow of sunset
Is a psalm from up above
Memories and mirages
Are moments lost in mist
While sunspots and dewdrops
Add a pleasant twist
These are the tools of artists
Taken to the extreme
These are life’s ingredients
And the stuff of dreams.
Clearing dumb thoughts
like sunspots that cool my gleaming demeanor.
I am brilliant and shining brilliantly.
My light is dying the deep-blue sea
yellow; Laughter in its dark hungry belly.
Happy, dancing, rainbow jellyfish
wave long angel-hair arms back at me.
So what if the light only hits the water?
The ocean is my daughter and she sings for me.
When you look away to shield your eyes;
I have no disguises in which to hide.
That light dances and bounces off you anyway.
I'll find you any time of day you need me.
everywhere you are, you're seeing. You're seeing me.
I am shining brilliantly.
Look up to your sun
I am warming everyone.
Sunspots boil oceans
Cycles rage in ebb and flow
Rollercoaster life
04.06.22
Lin, a Chinese friend giggled at my feeble, say,
pedestrian attempt at Cantonese,
the Chinese word for butterfly or dragon even moth
just vanished down the throat of one
so eager yet befuddled,
turning egg shell noodles under spit fire lanterns,
our laughter rose and fell amid the sotto voce banter now in train.
Me, the woodland boffin, immersed in esoteric marshland plant life,
the sort that rules the grand designs of green leaf activists.
Lin, the restless late teen nomad,
who had yet to sink deep roots,
often dwelt in backstreet fruit and flora stalls.
On occasions even flexing sylvan muscles
on craggy mountain tops.
Her flawless English honed through years of rough sea ferry ventures,
on holidays abroad in trendy sunspots,
at major meadow festivals where gaiety and buzz words sprout.
We keep in touch through text and pen as often as we can.
Meeting up is fun.
I hope one day my knowledge of those mystic eastern tongues
will stray beyond the basics of some tawdry travel phrase book,
the one I’m prone to cart around the world but seldom use
Contest : YOUR PERSONAL FAVOURITE
Date judged with N/A : 4 th August 2021
the sunspots ensconced
behind howdy-do curtains
a cockcrow in lace
white watering can french blue
white sprouts of ivy deep green
unhackneyed eggs bright brown
the pale yellow sun flickers snow
and no one wears silk nightgowns
as knees fall, and wrinkles like weeds
are read on the backside of palms
that hurry the yolks and sizzle
the bacon, pour coffee into old cups
one for the geezer who grumps
but puckers up for his buttercup
What makes a weed a weed?
A wild plant growing
Where it is not wanted?
Why is it a pest when it grows
Such pretty flowers?
It encrouches on the garden bed
We so carefully cultivated on land
We do not own
We hate it becuase it dared to grow
Where we did not choose to plant it
Bright little yellow sunspots on the lawn
We did not give them permission to be there
Ugly little things
Uncontrollable lovely things
We pull out the roots
Of that which we cannot cage
They grow still
They rise still
Rise
Rise
Rise
To Erase The Memory Of You
To erase the sunspots of the mind,
The memories that are you,
The dotted sunshine through the years,
Enslaved in lover’s hue.
To rid the body of all the pain
And showers flooding through,
Grey clouds that dissipated
With your songs and rainbow view.
To have lived a life having never known
The warmth and deep connect,
The nurture feigned for access,
Prior to drought and harsh neglect.
To forget the madness of the love
And desire I felt so true
Would be the agony and ecstasy
In this garden made for two
To forgive and not forget
Is now all that will ensue,
But I forgive myself for loving you
For it wasn’t hard to do.
17th October 2019
Midnight Aurora
Lines of attraction gather around your face,
as your lips lift like an amusement ride.
Dips and dimples elude learned grace
and your forehead foldings coincide.
Deep rooted paths, like travelled lands
show erupted islands of warm sunspots
golden upon your useful hands,
tough but tender like dried apricots.
Your dove-like spirit is eager to listen
with childlike eyes, renewed and restored,
springing forth with mercy's glisten,
mirroring an image of your walk with the Lord.
We have sunflowers and sunspots.
Both brilliant, yellow, and dazzling.
You can sniff one, but not the other.
Both delicate, and powerful.
Moonstones with rainbow power
can be iridescent and comforting.
Moon landings, not so easy.
Mooning – not as appealing.
Word play can be delightful.
Thinking on paper.
Ideas popping out, escaping into yellow sunflowers.
Or mooning your audience, taking you to another world.
Your ideas might simply find themselves
turning into a nice crisp clean cool harvest moon
or a sizzling hot sunspot, blurring your reader’s eyes.
Never know where words will take you, until they do.
I feel sorry for the non-readers, who are missing
Tens of thousands of words, seeing squiggles and dots.
Not recognizing words at all – not conjuring sunflowers or
Moonstones. Glad we have photography and nature for them.
The windchill is 45 below sanity
a snow man has frozen snot
dripping from his 1 carrot nose
but the cold doesn't stop the gun toll
in my sweet home Chicago.
27 dead across the Midwest
Frozen solid in the echo of their final step.
A snow shoveling heart attack,
took out a veteran who did three tours in Iraq.
Still three months to go till the sunspots warm up my soul.
My neighbor kept me awake, wielding a leaf blower.
To whisp away little puffs of snow.
He knows I work the graveyard shift.
but tomorrow I'll give him my happy hello.
He's on permanent disability drives a nicer car than me.
He's the one who rolled the snotty snowman.
into form even with his bad back.
Clever little mother#%$&*$
He'll never will have a heart attack.
There's a variety of starvation and riots.
Thirteen wars going on at present.
but the primetime gossips are obsessing about.
Trumps big orange belly and wispy hair...
Mercifully they cut to a Kotex commercial.
It's a good time to coffee up and take a piss.
I've got a very serious case of the polar vortex blues.
and not to eternity the predefined will happen accidently
but to a cry
unheard and clear and the sermon that will BE
to shelter the torn off grains in the summer
the sunspots priest in the reflections
of the water
in blue
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