my cat is mercurial and sound
she prances when she thinks I am not around
but if I notice her she does this slippery slink
her name is on the edge of my dendrites, just on the brink
Prancer seems too lively, Slinker seems unfair
The cat is now batting at an imaginary dog in the air
Why not call her imagination? The dog suggests.
I give him the roll eye, his ideas are never the best
Call me Crissy, Jin-Jin, Jakey, Petunia or John
The cat transports into my brain, and gives me a yawn.
You know her name, my soul work states in dream.
It has always suited her, because she is the Queen.
My voice is really unique
you'll know it's me when I speak.
Quite easy to recognize
even when I poetize.
I'll express my inner thoughts
prose or rhyme are my transports.
Therefore my voice shall be heard
loudly through my written word.
My friend from Trinidad
has swagger like no other
Grew up drenched in music's rhythm
surrounded by storytelling musicians
who'd belt out proud social messages
To this day he lives and breathes music
Transports him to that soulful party place
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
My red leather jacket
I’ve given away.
It wasn’t my fave
Though it fit me okay.
It’s hung in the closet
Unworn now for years
And a new owner likes it,
Or so it appears.
It makes me feel good
To hear someone enthuse
About something I’ve owned
But I no longer use.
Yet I still can’t give up
My suede jacket with fringe.
Its shoulder pads date it
Much more than a tinge.
I won’t wear it, but still
It transports me, and how!
To a time in my life
So much different from now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
out of the blue, a figure appears
a relic of the past, an old drummer, worn and gray
old drummer's heart still full of fire
his hands, still nimble, find their way
the park's stillness shattered by sound
as his drums and cymbals awaken
he beats and pounds, his passion pours
the music flows from his soul
park's inhabitants gather ‘round,
a curious throng entranced by his wild, rhythmic song
the rhythm weaves a spell, a hypnotic trance
the old drummer's music, a moment’s magic
his drums transports, transforms, and transcends,
a bridge spanning his years
connecting past and present, his laughter, sorrow, and tears
in this fleeting instant, his world is set right
he finishes, his drums grow still
the park is silent, but music remains
a lingering echo, old drummer's regrets and soulful refrains
The art of comedy's a sacred thing,
as fresh and precious in its gift of bliss
as when a worshipped one's initial kiss
transports us first. Like Fragonard, we swing
to Lena Horne's delightful rites of spring
on wings of wonder. No analysis
can pull apart a pleasure pure as this.
We humans laugh as nightingales might sing.
We're taught to think creators must be serious,
but humour's both unruly and imperious,
and ridicule's the boy-god's sharpest dart.
We laugh and learn, and don't let worries weary us,
for dreariness is deadly, deleterious:
thanks, heaven, for the comedy of art.
To sit by the river,
The sun on my face,
Transports me at once
To a happier place.
I know that so many
Would never agree,
But the city (and river!)
Are perfect for me.
The view isn’t private
And quiet, it’s not,
Yet this bench by the river’s
A wonderful spot.
A cat on a leash
Jumped up, looking to share,
But she left with her owner
To I don’t know where.
There’s always a chance
For a little surprise
When I sit by the river
With wide-open eyes.
The Cold Embrace of Death
The hush transports him to another place,
where peace and joy are swallowed by regret.
The sea allures him to his own disgrace,
Akin to earworms feeble to forget
The crashing surf now softly breathes her name,
and speaks of pledges, secrets still untold.
The wind relays his sorrow and his shame,
as old bad dreams before his eyes unfold.
Again, she slowly lets her body fall,
to free her life off fiends that proved too grim.
Each small morose detail he can recall
as hungry waves below try to reach him.
The weeds peep through as tidal waves recede
persuading him to join her and concede.
The sun rises, and the seeds start to bloom.
Resting on a table in the delivery room.
Emotions rise as a sign of affection.
A vibrant rose, picked for perfection.
Seen from afar, the lavish petals.
Thorns pierce the skin like jagged metal.
Fragrances are so unique that they cause a high demand.
So heavenly that one whiff transports you to a dreamland.
The fruitful flower shines with heart and soul.
To see you smile is my only goal.
White rose, red rose: remembrance and grief.
As the petals start to fall, we turn over a new leaf.
Echoes of the silent shore into our past it transports
Calling me to my memories long ago stored
Safely put away
for days like today
when I need you and my eyes are red and sore
Echoes of the silent shore make me want you more
than I have truly wanted anyone ever after or before
To have and hold you
wrapped in your arms too
when you want to hear then out my heart will pour
Echoes of the silent shore haunt me more than before
Prior to our parting, nothing about you I abhorred
all times I fumbled
toppled and tumbled
Besides losing you, is nothing I regret more
Echoes of the silent shore left me alone to explore
Regret filling my heart spilling over I can’t ignore
We’re not together
I’m iron fettered
Without you near all disappeared that I adored
Echoes of the silent shore walks us on the dance floor
You wandered into my life through the open door
I want you to know
I can’t let you go
Since you’re gone emptiness cuts me to the core
Echoes of the silent shore stay with me on your accord
When you were here each time you smiled galore
In my dreams you stay
Never go away
And every single day I love you more
What creates a mood
better than music
A tonic to fill
the empty spaces
and writer’s block
What transports the words
better than music
As Elton, Paul
and Cole have shown
— its gift to reign supreme
(The New Room: March, 2025)
He said ‘Saving the world’s in your hands.
Look how you sparkle, see how you shine?
So crucial the poet understands,
what pours out of your pores is so fine.’
Upon hearing those words I fell back,
I never believed that I was seen.
That focus on writing’s a fast track.
Sweet and salty breeze so dynamic,
transports you to any place you pick;
Nearby towns extend to far off lands,
you connect through a web so divine;
Across an endless sea to white sands,
harness the power of your coastline.
With a pen and towel in a knapsack
soak in the ocean’s aquamarine;
Step in the shallows make chaos crack.
Stanzas filled with lines so eccentric,
the Muse tends to be panoramic.
First you take the girl
up on the southern Downs -
on a day with light wind
and bright sunshine.
Then you unpack things
from your bulging back pack -
with emphasis on those
Picnic goodies.
Next you ask for help
stretching the fabric out
to fit the sticks inside -
looking in her eyes.
While she holds the tail
you touch her hand with yours
as you tie up the string
ready for the air.
You give her the reel
and offer up the kite
to the heavens where her
presence transports you.
Place your hand over hers
and show her how to let
the string free the kite to fly.
When she turns, kiss her.
It's very simple.
© Griffonner 2024
I ponder, lying pale upon my bed;
my head a 'roaring deep in notions... whys.
My thinking moves to plans for my demise
with comfort from my Lord in what He said -
I go to build your palace overhead;
just keep believing, death will loose the lies
of those who groan with transitory eyes.
Take note: I grant relief to you instead.
This body’s death transports my soul to God
and lets the dread of evanescence flee.
My faith persists, like leaves, although life dims;
God’s evergreening grace is no facade.
My hope is anchored on my Savior’s tree;
His resurrection weakened Satan’s limbs.
loneliness
does not sleep
weariness
grows
shadows
of
fire
flame splashes
sleep
in
a
field
of reflections
on a faded
sky
light dreams
caress &
surprise
me
simplicity
unveiled
shapes
to extinguish
then
multiplies
injustice
transports
me
into temptation
of leisure
only I'm alone
useless
in
the clarity
of
the
absurd
desires
dry up
& separate
me
to love
this ephemeral reign
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