The meadow of my mind
dried desolate as the desert dune.
The mist of concealed passion
suspended with mystique opacity
in the sunk halcyon horizon,
waited for the southern wind
to surreptitiously blow
from the fervent sparkling sky
with your sequined charisma,
swathing the shades of my blue.
In the titular template of loneliness,
the secret motif of my longing
designed the lattice of desire,
carved the furtive image of my heart,
the quivering willow in the wilderness.
The dormant dreams blazed in inferno;
I breathed the ashen memory smoke
afloat stealthily in the sky of vacuity.
The design of desolation intertwined
the splinters of my desire icons,
flew on the trajectory of covert longing
to the clandestine corral of anonymity,
lay within the poignant crypt
as the skeletons in the closet.
The Call of the Sea
The ship breathes lightly,
pushing with a sway,
away from the dock
to glide towards the call
of the seas and a watery ease.
The ship slips across a
shimmering polished body,
waiting to be clutched by
wind, wave and welcome
folding into a blue, muscular rhythm
surging, urging towards distant lands, distant sands.
The sea patterns and pulses,
whispering secrets from its depths,
“What you can’t see is what you don’t know!”
Then for hours, the ship is gritted with determination
shuddering, stretching, straining its low bow
in search of a hidden horizon
but, instead, uncovering a punch of a storm.
In time, night follows surreptitiously
in the vessel’s wandering wake
painting a thin, watery darkness
while the storm’s aggressive beauty…. drifts,
leaving lightning behind to scratch the heavens;
offering a brief pathway of light.
The ship, with a sense of swagger,
a lilt of shashay….rhythms onwards.
Ian Souter
My eight-year-old son spent the day in his kingdom
with his stone creature
luring boys and superheroes into doing their bidding
His requests were simple
the stone creature sat silent and surreptitiously stealthy
I looked in on him a few times
He was deep in the throes of his realm
loving his action figures
building a world of his making
I was inspired by his imaginative prowess
picked up a canvas and began to draw
working toward my own fantastical realm
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
shape-shifted deception portrait.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted in primal persona hues
of distinctive disposition,
epitomized once.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
shards of shattered pretence
willfully abandoned as discarded debris.
Transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its own reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern,
designed by the paradigm of contrast.
“We have the politicians we deserve.”
What kind of “we” I’m synched with on brainwaves?
How many “we” are surreptitiously reserved
For the reunion, in whose family grave?
It’s plain to see what politicians are about
They’re ubiquitous like weather, that brings weeds
To every garden, and they can’t be weeded out
But it’s not good to blame me for their deeds
So I don’t need my politicians and their mob
But surely they deserve people like me
And that’s the awful part of their job
They know it, and demand a larger fee..
.
secretly
surrender'in
scantly shod (sylph's suggestive)
sun screen'd she
sweat soak'd she
screech'd
sizzling
soundz
synopsis'n
such sweet seks
surely slights
surreal
so
stoic
")
How far gone is my soul and mind,
That coming back seems impossible?
My hands ache to be steered by your prompt,
Yet hours of blankness blunt my will.
But still I can etch out classics—
My pen lies close, surreptitiously listening,
To gather in ink the wisdom you proffer,
For those fleeting moments of madness.
The top ten will never be my goal,
But that one crown that ends the race;
For this is no sprint that halts at a hundred—
A trophy beside my poem is all I crave.
Yet the nearest mile I first must conquer,
Before the next, and miles beyond.
Though fingers ache as if racing from fear,
No shadow of doubt shall make me yield.
Oh mine! Oh mine! I see it now—
A wonder folded deep in words.
I’ve penned a masterpiece for the summit;
No judge can deny its rightful place.
If none are near to ring my bell,
I’ll strike it loud with my own voice;
For I am no gentleman in this contest—
But a rival running the race to win.
One of my first poems
resurfaces in my mind
as I recall my
beginnings as a Poet
I reminisce about
peaceful times when
Peace and Harmony
were plentiful, bountiful
It's amazing how things
can filter through your thoughts
causing emotions
that surreptitiously cement
your current actions
It is all one
big joy ride
that convalesces through
existential surroundings
bound by convictions
that put you in a place
that is calm, serene
all is well, all is well
we are in ineffable peace
in tranquil, time stretched stillness
then an ego ripple surreptitiously arises
scarring the very fabric of our soul
watch all thoughts oh hermit
nipping them in the bud
View things extraneously
Watch materialistic
objects vanish
We're all just
gliding through
contemporaneous philanderings
While the judgmental eyes
are examining meticulously
making preposterous
assumptions that have
no validity factually
even culminating forcefully
opening doors
to various realms
that are beyond
the ordinary happenings
you contemplate surreptitiously
trying not to give
any clues to what
you're actually thinking
while a disposition awaits
.
‘Twuz uh hot
Spring
Mine door’s gong
Rapped
‘twuz the welcomed
the
pretty box
the surreptitiously delivered
All rapped up
In my favorite
Colour
‘glint’
Such the
turgid sweet
package
From mine front stoop
into
mine grateful room’s
Imagine
vernal fever
on uh
(shhhh)
sun burst'n
breezy
morn
*packtage spelled correctly
artistic license
;)
Salacious, sultry
Simplistic signs of
Seedy sensory
Semi sentimental sales on
Socials
Surreptitiously
Slinking ..
Slowly
Sliding into your
Sphere and
Psyche.
Psychologically
Seducing
Some senses so
Suspiciously
Satisfying
So,
Surrender self;
Shield for safety,
Stand strong
Secure salient sentience
Successfully
Set sights solidly -
So soul secures solidarity
In sacred sanctuary of
Shalom
Somewhere,
Sandy sunsets certainly save,
Silky spider's web sparkles in sunshine,
Soft sensory surroundings subdue
Significant silent scenery in
Summery satisfaction.
Soporific seaside sounds
Singing in sympathy
Solitary safe sanctuary of seduction
Saving soul's sanity.
Selah.
Slowly, so slowly..
Spirituality of the natural
Nestles into the nape of
Normality
Now knowing
Nature's notably neutralising
Nurturing
Nourishment nectar of
Never-ending
Nirvana
ego identity long since vaporised
at times yet surreptitiously resurrects
it’s now like a dusty, discarded book
lying somewhere on our bookshelf
it served its purpose in our early years
but then acquired a mind of its own
soon after tail began wagging the dog
so we plucked it out to sing soul’s song
we now roam the earth bubbling with mirth
this is taken as an orientation unbecoming
trauma bonding with darkness most fear light
so we dwell in the void, vibrant in our aloneness
Publicly
advertising
he doesn't tickle
her fancy.
If that's no lie,
then why
seek him out
surreptitiously?
Her terms of endearment
flow like honey off her lips,
but what are they worth?
Does she mean anything she says?
Profound confusion
blowing like smoke
in his mind
expands into
a mushroom cloud.
He endlessly wonders
if her attraction is true.
Her mixed messages
traps him
hook line and sinker
in chin-stroking discombobulation.
She relishes dangling
her feminine wiles
to him like a carrot.
When he comes close
to nibble at her charms,
she p u l l s away.
How cruel?
She's a struck match
that goes out in the frigid cold.
He can't seem to make
heads or tails
of her words and deeds.
What sort of game
is she playing?
It's perplexing.
Start your revolution secretly,
don't tell the priest,
he's a blabber-mouthed gutter-skite.
Don't tell the cat,
for at might he whispers to Alexa,
and she listens always
to the political tenor of your snoring.
Your body must be mechanically sound,
and on speaking terms
with every loose nut in society.
Trust the crazies, they have eyes everywhere.
The banks need you to deposit blood,
as your plasma will be useful
to power your electric doppelganger -
then they can go after your soul
Revolutions need money, mainly for dope and drinks.
No great movement can long survive,
on stale guacamole pilfered from city dumpsters.
Hail to the Chefs at Wendys
who surreptitiously offer cold fries,
to the snooping Feds.
Long live the freedom to carp and cavil,
never surrender your constitutional right
to watch, the 'My Pillow' Man,
revolutionaries need soft pillows,
to dream upon.
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