STYLISATION
natural
myriad
scintillating
feeding
fluidity in
exemplified
opportunities
detected
exuberant
& ominous
empathy
Of
imaginative
dedicated
&exclusive
opportunities
of finished
d facets
MANNERS
direct
peculiarities
unrestrained
in joie
de vivre
attain
clarity
closely
modelled
on radical
orientation
of
unmixed colour
in
synthetics themes
closely composed
yet?
sketchily
suggested
by
inspired motifs
& etchings
in
corrective considerations
of multifarious
impressions
of
continuing
& intensifying
.
Awash . My clean hands. My paws
I pray with folded hands. I pause
I hold. No gaps in my fingers
I give. Receive compulsive
An Order Humility wish
Still...I ...Pray
for
all
for
Me
Free
in love
in faith
no fears
to receive
and to give
Unenforced.
There I hold thee
no fears ....nor guilt
Paradox to wash clean
in gallons of synthetics
Hold on. A spoof this
All the hand sanitizers of WHO CDC
will not sweeten this little hand. Alas
Now I suffer compulsive fear of giving
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas”
Or so the happy lyrics go
Houses decorated with wreaths
Bright red ribbons and great big bows
In darkness, lights glimmer beneath;
Outside inflatable plastic Santas
Tied to stakes in ground; held in place
Watching our to - fro momenta
In superficial shopping race—
Being somewhat apathetic
Perhaps we, too, need tied to ground,
To consider the synthetics –
Hol-i-day fun tends to confound
“O Holy Night…”
Bright lights and decorative trim
Softened by voices in choir
Ah! “Oh Come Let Us Adore Him;”
Beauty inside just as the stars,
Advent candle announcing joy
Shepherds like us sought the Christ-child—
Praise God for birth of baby boy
In a lowly manger so mild—
Christ holds us firmly in place
In the realness of our ponder,
Separating the rush from grace,
One is giv’n Hol-y-day wonders.
-Evelyn Pearl Carpenter Anderson
Saša Milivojev - ON A KILIM
I trembled when you were gone
Away from the terrors of time
Metal and synthetics
In the Near East
I float on a kilim
Down a gusting wind
Allah
Raises dust
Water, closer
The smoke of a hookah
That’s what we are
Shhh
Something's breathing
It’s me
It’s you
We are lost
Saša Milivojev
www.sasamilivojev.com
From day to day, minute to minute we each live our challenges.
Some have more now, some less and others are in waiting.
But whether visible or underneath the still lake, it's there.
What's the stitch that holds us together individually or as a group?
Is it a hope for a better future? Is that firmly stitched in our hearts and mind? Is it woven in fabric of cotton, polyester, wool, synthetics, and silk?
Can it withstand the changing textures of climate in the world?
I hope we all stitch well. Maybe that can be our common stitch.
A common stich
LET NATURE LEAD
refine our ways… let nature lead
define the paths of all creation
aline the equilibrium… succeed
fine weather helps procreation…
should we continue to live a lie
would lead to our total devastation
could be that all world life will die
good… no… but it could be a realisation
rife now… worldwide pollution…
life is facing mass extinction…
strife… mother natures solution
knife in her back… total dereliction…
can we… all life stand a chance…
plan a future… a new way of life
ban all synthetics… might enhance
l.a.n… working together… suffice…
pollution must be stopped this day…
solution… stop all wilful distillation…
dilution of the atmosphere… no way…
resolution… man… nature… reconciliation
why do I persist in shouting out…
cry I do… at all the hate… and greed
sigh at all in denial… why… the doubt…
rely on the scientists… please heed
~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~
LONGHAIRED GIRL
I'd like to take you. Stay with me,
and let me feel your flowing hair,
and look into your flashing eyes
to see if love just might be there;
to feel you pressing in the night
with no synthetics come between,
and labor in the heart of life
that makes our being clean.
My lady lying, just as I,
content, with dampened hair,
spreading, falling, pulling, we!
And joining wings, fly everywhere.
You! I! Go on silkened threads,
before a moment shoots away,
and chords that bind to other things,
intertwined, but not to stay,
And take me, you, my longhaired girl,
tomorrow will not know,
this little love we share tonight,
if you have to go.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
What stuff are we made of
We have eaten up greens,
Inhaled the best and given the worst,
The waste everywhere,
In the air, in water and heaps on land,
In name of modernisation,
Intruded woods and raw earth,
Colossal buildings, Material waste,
In name of science and research,
Synthetics and non bios,
Displacing all life, useless piles will eat space,
and for future generations, do we leave a deface ?
Is any other being on this Mother Earth,
Exploiting resources the way we do ?
Insensitive, what stuff are we made of ?
And generating the unending waste, civilised are we ?
Written June 18th, 2015
For contest "Stuff" by Thomas Martin
Second place win
Define keeping it real. Typed or text by fingers dripping with acrylic.Thought of by heads heavy with glue and synthetics.Spoken from a mouth that never stayed quiet long enough for the cubic zerconia laced ears to listen to the true definition. They alter the meaning to fit into they're profile or about me box.While outsides change with each new swap meet delivery, insides never should.Keeping it real should come easy.But for some its as hard as putting pampers on your babies.You should stop focusing on trying to look real and get real.Its a mask.Like the thick covergirl used to cover u girl.if your real it goes without saying. It beams off of u like the u.v.rays on your 10 minute skin If u were real all the things mentioned above would be pretty. Instead its a distraction used to take away the focus because your seriously lacking!
st pat
everyone going green- -
synthetics
© CGH Mar 17 2011
I.
I think on my shoes propped
on a wooden writing desk,
the leather synthetics, the soles, the
wear, and the feet they protect - feet
which take me here to there,
and, again, to here and there.
She walks in and says "hello", with
a kiss and the usual small talk, as
if to say "I love you" in the little
things (the home we've made, the life
we've built, the not-so-little-after-all
things, you know).
II.
I watch her lines as they move
in poetic form, her slope, her glow,
and the soul of a woman who takes
me here to there, and, again, to
here and there.
She's the fogged breath on my
telescope which blurs the
view of comets in outer space.
That is to say, she completes
me.
If I think on here ways, the
red-washed waves of her cheek,
and her blood orange hair that
licks the salty sea, I find it's too much.
She, lensed by angels and brisk as
ghosts, is all I know. We each breathe
fogged breath to blur the scope,
and like weathered boots in the snow,
from here to there, and, again, to here
and there she will be,
and, again, to here and there - that's where I will go.
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