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new year d-i-t-h-e-r-s ~
psychogenic syncope
Running wild propelled by echoes of thunderous hooves clip clopping rhyme
A troop of stallions gallop in assonance over fields of pasture in adnomination
Display streams of collective unconsciousness un-trapped by stirrups and reigns
Apposition knows no boundaries when pairing takes part in euphonic neighing
Here in Nirvana they need neither hyperbole nor euphemism to cover lost ground
Para-diastole does not exist in equine paradise as syncope and solecism canter
Karma has no boundaries and parrhesia has lost the shadows of juxtaposed isms
Unsaddled from the weight of the whip the horizon bears no limit for freedom
The herd adheres not to the pathetic fallacy of tamed nature riding roughshod
Over rhetorical questions or self-styled syllepsis of spurs spurned on by clatter
When I look at the feast of mares and fillies following instinct and pure inclination
My path finds their spoor on track to a promised land of inhibition and pleasure
29th March 2020
Lifted is the fabulous February’s cover,
And I have seen you scantily dressed,
Now I see the buds & flowers all over,
Then by the wild winter camouflaged.
Cool breeze sends messages caressed.
Blame not if March makes me spree
Be assured, I shall be in April amorous,
Adoring you till Midsummer Day glee
Maybe June can make me ambitious,
Dear me, July keep me quiet joyous
The adorning August may make anxious
I am not certain of sensual September,
Lest I may be way-out but courteous.
What is conceived from September,
Gestation starts from sober October.
________________________________________
6th place win
Contest any poem goes by Skat-Love
How shall I refuse what I am now?
And even if I would not be a specter,
Whose shameful fists rake the
Chimes of your darkest night,
I’d still breathe the venom through
My thorns, and be undead…
Just hurl my spirit into syncope
If you’d wish not to be disturbed…
Neither with silence, nor with regrets
Or dusty shelves with litany,
Will I refuse what I am now:
A ghost, an apparition, a lonely
Journal of what we were…
Neither with stupor, nor with absences
That count away my years
Should I ever be prepared
To do you a little bit of wrong…
How can I restrain myself
When all I do is spiritually
Cheat through you… with you.
And thus my soul, a phantom, a ghost,
A cast upon this awful love,
Is no longer just seduced,
From persuasion I have saved my spirit,
Yet I still taste the venom…
© 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila
When the wispy willows wave
and the voice calls from the grave,
suddenly you're not so brave
in your damp and darkened cave.
Seeing things that cannot be,
defying logic, totally,
knees now feeling wobbly,
tilting down toward syncope.
Can you deny what you've just seen?
Convince yourself it was a dream?
What it meant, it didn't mean,
so vile, it bordered on obscene.
This memory must be kept inside;
anyone would think you lied,
words, you know, could not describe
the depth of fear in which you hide.
©Danielle White
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