“The Ten-Year Drift”
Ten years buried,
Like a cabin under frozen snow.
Surface: A sudden knock at the door.
A return of ten years.
Suspension of consciousness
I am relieved. Twist of fate;
An icy chill on a white blanket
slate, fresh skin; a new life.
As the sound of snow sonic,
pillows over the cabin.
There sits our picture.
Fades to old blue.
Once a shared shadow.
Becomes an instant replay.
We sat looking out of the window
Sharing an age-old bourbon.
Stirring in clouds, inside clouds.
A jewel in this moment,
Old friends together again.
In the final moments of the cosmic rapture,
when the armada of flames subsided,
there stood the last defiance against Father Time.
A treacherous sea, beautiful and terrible as the dawn.
No solid surface, a ghost of the cosmos.
Internal pressure, yielding storms of diamonds.
A cold-hearted sentinel.
Restless, yet stubborn.
No sister planets,
no neighboring galaxies.
Only cruel immortality.
So, you have chosen to endure.
This eternal silence, this tomb of stardust and ash.
You shall suffer in silence.
What glorious purpose awaits you, O’ Neptune?
Insolent child, how dare you defy fate.
You should’ve let yourself fall quietly asleep.
Yet, in this forever blackness,
what poor, pitiful orbit do you take—
to justify this act of providence?
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles
cameras at the ready.
You find a small stone.
On its surface, a
crimp and cockle depiction
of wind and waves
has rucked up an impression
of an eagle in flight.
"Just water-wear."
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of divinely inspired crinkles.
Ode to the Ocean
All-encompassing, a vast blue might,
Billions of droplets, reflecting light.
Coral castles, where sea creatures roam,
Deepest trenches, a mysterious home.
Ever-moving, with rhythmic sway,
Fresh ocean breezes, greet each new day.
Glistening surface, a mirror so clear,
Haunting echoes, for all who draw near.
Immense and ancient, full of lore,
Joyful dolphins, leap from the shore.
Kelping forests, where life can thrive,
Luminous plankton, keeping dreams alive.
Mysteries hidden, in depths unknown,
Nature's grandeur, beautifully shown.
Onward currents, tirelessly flow,
Pristine waters, a mesmerizing glow.
Quiet whispers, from waves on the sand,
Rich biodiversity, across every land.
Salty essence, a taste of the wild,
Tidal surges, powerfully compiled.
Underwater wonders, a breathtaking sight,
Vast and vital, shining so bright.
Wild and free, where horizons extend,
Xenial waters, where life entwines.
Yearning spirits, forever it calls,
Zephyrs dancing, as each wave falls.
Picasso's fractured forms, a jagged, broken line,
A world of angles where my vision can't align.
I yearn for harmony, a smooth, unbroken flow,
But in your chaos, a hidden truth, I know.
Monet's light, a gentle caress, a soothing balm,
His brushstrokes whisper a calming, peaceful calm,
The water's surface is a shimmering, liquid dream,
Reflecting beauty, a world where all is serene.
Yet, beneath the surface, a current runs deep,
A hidden turmoil, secrets it won't keep.
The willow weeps, a silent, mournful sigh,
A testament to sorrow beneath a clear blue sky.
A ray of hope, a beacon in the night,
A fragile ember, struggling for its light.
I chase the shadows, but they cling to me,
A constant reminder of what I can't deny.
The beauty of imperfection beneath a painted sky.
In the attic of your heart, they dwell,
Like forgotten relics in a spell,
Their whispers soft, a distant stream,
In the labyrinth of your surreal dream.
Within this dream, your parents aged and wise,
Are pillars standing 'midst the shifting sands,
Their faces etched with tales of starlit skies,
Their eyes, two lanterns held in weathered hands.
Yet as you reach to grasp their fading light,
They slip away like whispers in the breeze,
Their voices lost amidst the fading night,
Leaving you adrift upon the seas.
Their love, a garden overgrown,
With weeds of neglect, left to roam,
While you chase mirages in the moonbeam,
Oblivious to their cries in your surreal dream.
Yet beneath the surface, a tempest stirs,
A longing to break free from selfish spurs,
To embrace the truth in the moon's gleam,
And awaken from this surreal dream.
In the gaze of a woman, beauty does unfold,
Yet beyond the surface, a deeper story's told.
For beauty lies not in skin's hue or grace,
But in the depths of a passionate embrace.
In seamless efforts to aid the needy's plight,
To feed the hungry, and shelter from the night,
Beauty finds its home in acts of grace,
A love unselfish, a heart's steadfast embrace.
The color of skin, a mere fleeting hue,
But the beauty within, forever true.
For it resides in the depths of the soul,
A virtuous beacon, making hearts whole.
External beauty fades with passing years,
But inner beauty, through joy and tears,
Leaves its mark on hearts, an enduring trace,
A testament to love, in every embrace.
Let us cherish the beauty within,
A radiant light, where true love begins.
For it's the soul's reflection, pure and whole,
That binds us together, heart and soul.
In the beginning, a tale so sweet,
A love blossomed, oh, what a treat.
He painted dreams, of us together,
Promises made, to last forever.
His words, they wove a golden thread,
In his embrace, I found solace, not dread.
But as time passed, his touch grew cold,
His love, once fiery, now timid and old.
I chased his love, like a fleeting dream,
But in his eyes, no love did gleam.
He held me close, yet kept me at bay,
His silence spoke, of love's decay.
A friend he became, in times of need,
Embracing my heart, with care and heed.
Yet beneath the surface, a truth did lie,
His love, a mirage, bidding goodbye.
Now tired of chasing, love's fading flame,
I sense the embers, whispering my name.
For in his silence, I find my release,
To let go of love, and find my peace.
By: Innantia Magcanya
In the realm where love intertwines with gain,
Bouquets and brands, a capitalist's terrain.
Gucci labels and bags, symbols of might,
Love's currency measured in material delight.
Flowers exchanged for moments in time,
A transactional love, a capitalist paradigm.
Dubai's allure, a destination grand,
An investment in passion, a capitalist's hand.
In the marketplace of affections, a lucrative trade,
Intimacy priced, where transactions are made.
Love becomes a commodity, a lucrative blend,
A capitalist benefit, where desires transcend.
Yet, beneath the surface, a paradox unfurls,
For love isn't confined to material swirls.
In the balance of wealth and emotions, we see,
The complex dance of love and capitalism's decree.
South Africa's tale, a fusion of hearts and gain,
Where love's richness isn't solely in the material lane.
In this capitalist romance, let hearts find their say,
For true connection transcends the price we pay.
There's more to it than meets the eye,
A look we can't deny.
Beneath the surface, a hidden plan,
A secret scheme, a hidden hand.
Behind every smile, every word,
A motive, a mission, is inferred.
A hidden agenda lies within,
A purpose that's not always seen.
Sometimes it's for good, sometimes for ill,
A hidden agenda can't be still.
It moves and shifts, it's never clear,
A game of chess, a strategy near.
It's the unspoken words that reveal,
The true intent that we conceal.
A hidden agenda can be sly,
It can deceive, it can belie.
It's a double-edged sword we wield,
A weapon that can't be easily healed.
A hidden agenda can be a trap,
A snare that we can't escape from, in a snap.
But it can also be a force for good,
A way to help, a way to understood.
A hidden agenda can be kind,
A secret that can heal the blind.
So be careful with the hidden plan,
For it can lead to either ban or fan.
Choose wisely, and use it well,
For the hidden agenda can cast a spell.
© Roseline Sunday
22/03/023
The lake is black, high country water,
ocular.
Beneath the surface, a species
reflected in an amniotic sky.
There are three here,
three progenitors
searching for the lost children
of mankind: -
water, sky and
that which watches.
Three wombs that wait expectantly.
The water stirs,
something born too deep
wants to emerge.
Let it!
Alabaster white, brazen in bold
can’t be bought or sold!
Silent as it is Sinister
somehow that alabaster glows?
Surface, a bony texture; cracks, fissures
like something living once long ago
in antediluvian halls…
A house sits in its red marrow, bone-white walls!
not knowing tomorrow only knowing what is heralded
of bone white, gold intricate
filagree serpentine, imagery!
Of alabaster, old brazen n bold like cast bronze figurines
of unknown deities calling out
to touch fingers tips…
Caress, seeing the texture of bones
cracks n fissures like ancients skulls at rest
this thing of alabaster, cold!
Silently sitting sinisterly.
…alabaster bold somehow defies eons that fold
alabaster white blazing of an unknown…disaster!
Cryptic life resting in antediluvian wombs
a forgotten world borrowed deep
in the red marrow…tombs!
forgotten by tomorrow pushing faster
unknown, cold, old encrusted in
Ancient
...Alabaster
Reservoirs harbor the shape of water ;
I that I am a body of water;
Encased in flesh bones and matter;
Am I
I am an ocean I am a rustic siere I am the sea maritime;
My body's a lake a river stream
I'm of glacier I'm Atlantic a Pacific Ocean;
Abreast significant accumulated body of water state;
Can be artificial maybe all natural form beneath land depression I am
I'm a reservoir arm of the sea beneath me;
A dry mass full with amongst channel narrows heavy rain;
I am a brook a small stream;
I am bright receding bay I am a bill along oxbox lake in Australia;
My body is a broke yet cove I circulate around inlet delta flow;
I a reservoir I'm a water body channel distribution;
A canal artificial maybe all natural heavy rains I draw a water flow
After heavy rains estuary of one more water body that I am
That, that I am a body of water
I stand upon this planet earth surface a water body
I am the shape of water
6/12/21
FOR THE SHAPE OF WATER POETRY CONTEST
Sponsored by: craig cornish
if I was just a drop
Would that it would be you could see that I was spot-on
Right on the surface I formed caught
A spot the positive on the surface formed
Just a spot
I wroth, I shoot I shot the surface
Soiled a spilled slots
On the surface a piece of gravity substance
Falling costs
As if it were it was just a drop
12/18/20
Written word by James Edward Lee Sr 2020
On its surface a crimp and cockle
of a purling tide have rucked an impression
on a stone.
We are here to find Eagles
but the sky is too low and the wind too high.
You show the image on the stone
as if this were the very thing
we had been looking for.
I look at it squint eyed:
could be a crow
You throw the stone into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand
won’t speak again
until I admit to the endless possibilities
of crinkles, tides and wind
to produce
magical eagles.
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