Few words don't meet the same line.
But life still meets the final sentence.
Every thread of survival needs to be cut.
A few drops of voice need to keep it shut.
His head throttles to death.
Not every help is heard to be sent.
And all the flowers in the coffin laid the scent.
All his will that wrote had on his consent.
Today, the grave finally sleeps.
And every drop of penny has already kept.
Not a single gold has been waste.
Only the young widow found a night to taste.
I’m still dreaming, so I’m not shy.
Give me a corn cob for an eye.
I was born on a shipwreck, and myself too.
There’s shimmering under that-true.
I’m still dreaming, like a piece of flannel.
Turning over like a TV panel.
Feeling ice as if there is more.
I left my fingernails in the store.
Feeling rough and jagged too.
I’m still dreaming that it is true.
Dreaming like a piano does at night.
No noise, just piano-feelings and blight.
I’m still dreaming, that isn’t a loss.
I’m still dreaming, like swallowing floss.
I’m still dreaming, with a ball of yarn in my hand.
I’m still dreaming, without any rubber band.
There’s no noise, temperature delights itself.
Like the kitchen shelf.
Sugar, grasping, empty sauce bottles.
The hinge that throttles.
I was over in the corner, and myself was too.
Eating kitchen dust, that's true.
Turning over and nothing happens.
I’m still dreaming of vines within.
I’m still Dreaming, and myself as well.
I’m still Dreaming, starting to swell.
Shutters hang askew, redeeming guilt with two-way sighs,
Confessing what your forgotten vows and phantom memories deny.
Ivy throttles the porch in a desperate, strangling embrace,
hinting at peril in the wall's disheveled pale face.
The rank dark garden pond’s gaze reflects no pulse of sky,
it's a black, unblinking pupil that won't blink or die.
Window curtains quiver and sway where no breeze dares.
Echoes of stalking footsteps persist when climbing stairs.
Shadows crouch and slither beneath each creaking beam,
they shift when you look away — they're not what they seem.
This house harbors the twilight between dream and waking,
where spooky creaks unravel the curse in its undertaking.
Set sail in feathered ships.
Guided by shattered stars and bent sextants.
A little white tempest becomes a black water witch.
Hatched from a devil's chrysalis.
Sails are whipped and torn in half.
Fashion a crucifix from a broken mast.
Souls churn upon Poseidon's spitz.
Slothful morning arrives.
Amidst the frothy angel tide.
An armada of prayers ignites.
Unable to buoy any sign of life.
The last candle flickers in the reeds.
Search and rescue throttles down to recovery.
Angry eyes lurk in the forest
Deep within the Deathly Hollows
With unsuspected fervency
And malevolence it closely follows
An apparition from the grave
A vision from nightmarish dreams
With nimble hands that quickly throttles
And icy fingers that stifles screams
None who enters survives this realm
So menacing and devoid of light
In the Deathly Hollows murky mist
Still is the air and cold is the night
Every thought,
came back,
to you,
pitiful indeed.
Camping in my,
thoughts,
an unpleasant,
nights unrest.
Morning was,
no better,
the smell,
of hot coffee.
The wood fire,
burning,
last nights
desires.
The lake,
ripples,
with sounds,
I remember.
Can you,
hear me crying,
when,
it's storming?
Splashing in the,
waves,
beneath,
the sun's rays.
The smell of regrets,
repulsive,
like dead fish,
rotting on the shore.
The roar of motors,
out boards,
inboards,
the throttles of life.
Sleeping beneath,
the stars,
my heart forever,
aches.
Looking into the yawning chasm
trying to find the gem long lost
The shattered shambles of the sky
in the backscatters of the running river
The surreal sight:
throttles the medieval poet;
brings back unwelcomed nostalgia,
a forsaken evocation.
In an attempt to fathom the waters
has she fathomed out a truth unwritten?
In her hand is the pen,
but do the words listen to her?
Did she ask to be born,
nor the river did ask to flow
How would she end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
The surreal sight:
its voice echoes in her headspace;
How would you end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
Starting a new plan a project or a new business is very similar to taking a flight.
Once your plane gets off the ground, its smooth sailing through boundless skies graceful as a kite.
When preparing a plan for a flight, the captain always requests that we put on a seat belt for the beginning of the takeoff is the roughest part.
That is the roughest part where most of the jolts and bumps are felt.
In preflight inspection the pilot tests the sails and rudder of his vessel making sure that he has total control.
He throttles up with brakes engaged making sure that once he stops that he will not roll.
As an arrow drawn back aimed at a target, engine at full capacity, he releases the brakes.
With God’s grace on silver wings, gravity is defied over great mountains, valleys, oceans and lakes.
“Time waiting to be inspired is time wasted. When inspiration throttles your neck, go to your desk”- By Poet
With no cover ups, let me be frank
At times my mind goes utterly blank
When I sit down to write poems,
From topic to topic, my mind roams.
But nothing comes to spark off a rhyme
Often, I feel the words do not chime
Today I sat down to write something
And ended up conjuring nothing
No thoughts came up to stir my brain
And no topic I found save my strain
But I wasn’t wilfully ready to give up
And waited impatient for my mind to clear up
I don’t know how long I sat in meditation
On waking up I got a fresh direction
I must wait and need to be really inspired
And poems can’t be squeezed out uninspired
The sun had gone out of sight
The moon was beautiful and bright
It was already growing late
And I put off my futile fight
October.8.2022
The Poems I Never Wrote Poetry Contest
Sponsor-craig cornish
Lawn Mowers
Grandpa bought old junk,
and then he made it better.
He worked all day,
every day...
in the hot sun.
The man
never
complained.
I spent every summer,
just this side of Hades,
learning all about life.
There were lessons on gas tanks,
chocks and throttles.
There were exercises in
patience, tenacity, and forbearance.
My Grandfather,
was a tolerant man.
We fixed wires, changed plugs,
cleaned decks and sharpened blades.
These were all important points
to consider now,
and later,
as life present(s)(ed)
it's on questions.
Keeping busy helped Grandpa live long.
Showing me what was necessary
to achieve success...
was a value, immeasurable.
Shake a man's hand,
look him in the eye,
and never lie.
Do a job worth doing well,
and one that is not, better than expected.
The difference will shine,
in the light of day.
Thank you, Pa,
for believing...
in me.
The dark lake only buoys its own natatory denizens,
it allows some to swim, some to glide, dip or delve,
but those sombre waters pull down children
seeing them only as the cloud spawn of alien shores.
The waters are one unnatural creature, a sucking swirl;
a single stomach, that throttles, snags, and crushes,
it clogs the mind with the coiling swirls
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning, I fall upwards into a darkness
that contains no earth or sky.
The lake is a basilisk, it snakes into wide open eyes,
darkens the blood of small boys until they choke,
strangling on their own fear.
Decades later I awake, expelled once more
from the churn of its malignant maw,
still struggling inside a heartless embrace.
That cold lake remains within me to this day
It is a liquiform parasite that squirms in my dreams;
a submerged memory of my death - in waiting.
My body tenses.
The soft padding of footy pajamas
approach
tiny fingers grip my eyelid
lift it....
Bright eyes gaze into
the freshly opened eye.
A voice shouts....DA!!!
The other eye opens.
Yes I'm in here.
......And he knows it.
His PJ's had that
"potato in a pocket" hang.
I close my eyes...
reopen them...
he's still there...
he shouts again....DA!
Milk dribbles from his chin
as he struggles
to master the spoon
Cheerios dot his forehead
as he throttles a banana.
The "eye" sips coffee
tries not to laugh.
The dog laps up
his portion of sharing.
It was a good morning.. until
he pried my eye open
then....it became
.......A GREAT MORNING
John G. Lawless
2/15/2021
I listen to whimpers as duskfall nears
Finding a gangly waif rile from burnt skin;
My feet throttles along…his grin appears
With palm half-filled with dimes circling therein.
We talk warmly about this waif's despair
Of how prayers- heal abating such plight--
As he shares moist wheat-bread in hours that bear
A street child’s gentle spirit… on etch of night
Gazing far I see the boy wave his arm
As if to echo our words that console :
But from heart’s pit, he enkindles a charm
Restoring my sense of kindness… now whole.
*
3rd place
NA- Re-run 7 Contest of John Hamilton
Originally Written 6/9/2020
Judged 6/9/2020 Re-submitted 6/14/2020
I Almost drowned,
which is to say,
I fell upwards into a darkness
that contained no earth or sky.
Ten years old and a strong swimmer,
but that lake only buoyed up
its own natatory denizens,
it allowed some to swim,
some to glide, dip or delve,
but it consumes skinny 10-year-old kids;
that being the cloud spawn of an alien shore,
must be dragged down and chewed,
like the pale moons reflection.
The muddy waters are one creature,
a sucking swirl, a single stomach,
it throttles, it snags with cuffing weeds,
clogs with the intestines
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning,
then they pierce that lusus naturae
with a long pole thrust from a skiff;
yank me out of its crushing press
like bait from a basilisks reeking maw.
Years later I still awake
from that heaving ‘lac sombre’,
an infection of the imagination
I’ve been harboring parasitically
inside the moil of engulfing dreams.
Perhaps incongruously,
it takes some time before I will enter rooms
with too high a ceiling.
Can a poet know life who has not felt the call
Of malevolent sirens who cried "End it all?"
How could sharing of feelings not lead one to feel
Pain that's found all around us when people can't deal.
Their perception is love must have no place to hide,
Or exist, if not drawn to known vacuum inside.
Those alone (with no comfort) live strangers to sleep.
Is one drowning who throttles the tears he can't weep?
If the reaper of life should be shoals for your song,
Is your death my discomfort, or help me feel strong?
To me, death’s more a friend I don't bother to fear,
For if dead, am I missing the ones I hold dear?
But, of course, each friend's passing is felt like a loss,
And yet, mystery teases if you think God's boss!
It seems death's no more 'certain,' than 'faith' God is real,
But for me, life's provision suggests Death's ordeal,
Which lasts hardly a second (and lucky escape!),
Brings up less fear than tax! Misanthropical rape
Of our planet's the threat that kills 'Truth' and the past
Like pro-Nazis before them: the future gets gassed!
Long Tooth
April 23rd of 2019
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