Government voodoo policies
that fan the fangs of poverty
to forecast economic growth
Are yet unimaginable
Like one should go to hell to burn
And be there to dream of heaven
Is the government renewed hope
For its citizens doomed to hades
Citizens in misery lament
For a government of change
To bring that change that could not change
Their ill economic fortune
And in feigned triumphal entry
to aso ville, the rulers
Always hatched policies
Against overburdened citizens
Rather than expand production
reduce cost of goods and service
They ban subsidies, increase tax
Devalue the poor currency
Only to bask in extravagance
Against the rising tide of debt
And austerity drowning in
The masses in vanishing hope!
In the fabric of spring, the map of life renewed unfolds –
A vibrant painting in a blend of young shades of birch, acacia, and ash;
A symphony of colors that come alive in the effusions of triumphal dawns;
No fading like it – each ray reawakens the verdant glade.
Beneath the steps of Spring, the flowered carpet, dust of dreams and fruition,
The undulating tapestry – a living canvas of the blossoming present;
The seed of life sketched by merry sunbeams, now vibrant and vast,
Gathered in the bouquet of a new beginning – the fanfare of a fresh salute.
Spring stretches out its billowing dreams, yet a flower still persists
The fresh green has shed – the resting renewal blooms –
Radiance once yearning to grow – a network full of life revealed –
A delicate covenant of pollen, in an ode to rebirth, in fact, glorified.
DRAWINGISTA da vinci michelangelo
the
triumphal
arch
expressing
simp!icity
ready-to-hand
graphite
encased
pen
ink
chalk
charcoal
shaded
& crosshatched
imparted
by
tender
touch
The mark of a triumphal concert printed
On a glossy long-playing record sleeve.
The concertmaster's smiling face hinted
The acclaim she was entitled to receive.
She liked her drawing with her lock of hair
Falling on the strings of her violin
Like the violinist of the disk where
She held her instrument under her chin.
As always, her last stroke of a pen fell
With the last crackling of the old vinyl.
One day, she would be applauded as well
Louder than the winners of a final.
Her hope endured until the dazzling daydreams
Shattered into pallid scars of moonbeams.
How come you overlook such witty answers?
Those smashers, always hitting up too late!
They fluff the air with dust, like ballet dancers
Whirl down, like feathers in ethereal debate
Watch them in rapid whoosh, like flock of swifts
Triumphal answers, doing mortal pirouette!
Next second they are cloud, that slowly shifts
Before your eyes, like smoke of cigarette
They seek attention, poor useless answers
Profound depth and eloquence they bring
But time is over for the crucial nuances
Blankly they melt, like piles of snow in spring.
POETIC ESSENCE
a creative
impulse
on the spur
of the moment
in drops
of poetic essence
spontaneous
& prolific
from the workings
of the heart
to distil
into
another’s mind
A painting
with words
uttered
one by one
to another
an experience
of the wind &rain
of ordinary life
An
intimate invitation
to stroll within
& behind the veil,
’neath inspiration’s
triumphal arch
there
to share & participate
in the raw reality
of the creative
drive of another
A vision enhanced
by mutual
experience
of each
One thing
leads to another
translating
awareness of new
& deeper meaning
germinates
the empathy
orchestrates
the chords
as together
explore
the world
of the poetic
ALL ABOUT ART
The secret
of seeing
knowing how
to see
to stare & stare
educate
the eye
The appearance
evolves into
something new
as
we look & look
again
no talking
or writing
can explain
the emotion morphs
as a now experience
as
we walk within
up close or afar
we enter the mood
not seeking
to understand
but to be
The impressions
remixed reassemble
in our eye
expressions
in paint
now clear
through
drawing’s
triumphal arch
we see
what we see
passion feelings
evidence
but no conclusion
in abstract
scenery
without the scene
I was born
in the spring of the year—
a New England spring,
that comes only with reluctance—
a damp, gray chill
that clings to its pewter skies
and blustery winds,
unwilling to yield its frigid grip—
until the day,
that day in the middle of May
when I drew my first breath on this planet—
a breath of gentle air, perfumed with the heady scent of lilacs,
where triumphal shafts of blessed sunlight
bathed a world gushing with the birth waters
of a greening, bursting, exuberant earth,
trumpeting her joy in a torrent of birdsong.
I was born
in the spring of the year—
and even in the snowy silence
of a New England winter,
I shelter within myself
the glorious fragrance
of petals unfolding.
Wonderful hearing,
aleggro andante of the running river
in triumphal cantata,
I am one of the nearly men
Never quite the best
Not really of the crowd
Not quite one of the rest.
You see us in every photograph
When the prizes are handed out
Making up the numbers yet
Never standing out,
For we nearly men and dreamers
Just stand back and allow
The doers and the action men
Their triumphal bows.
We feed our children humour
And tell them it’s no disgrace
To amble along comfortably
In the middle of the race.
We don’t believe in heavens
Or gods at pearly gates
So we try with dignity
To accept our various fates.
We consume our allotted portions
And when it’s time to die
We face it not with a roar
But with a quiet sigh.
Nearly men and dreamers
Never quiet never loud
Trying their hardest not
To mingle with the crowd.
Lest the moon tip over and spill the blood,
With apocalyptic fury signaling the climax
In history as in the days of old Noah’s flood,
When the earth resettles like paraffin wax,
Forming new boundaries in the land and sea
With apocalyptic fury signaling the climax,
People of every nation will hopelessly flee
Before the great and terrible day of the Lord
Forming new boundaries in the land and sea.
Rising from below comes the thundering horde
Incredibly horrific creatures before unknown
Before the great and terrible day of the Lord.
Humanity never again occupying the throne
Nor understanding the myriads roaming about,
Incredibly horrific creatures before unknown.
Comes the archangel with a triumphal shout,
Lest the moon tip over and spill the blood,
Nor understanding the myriads roaming about
In history as in the days of old Noah’s flood.
Written October 19, 2022
TRANSIT GLORIA
turning surreal
blooming
imaginative
yet vintage
& compelling in loftiness
an influx
of euphoria
triumphal
yet unbowed
such contemporary
polemics
in
joyful shrieks
an embellishment
to reward & reinvigorates
yet
a contentious dream
obscure & curious
in an
endless
procession
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Off beam,along the circles rim then a creative impulse on the spur of the moment drops of poetic essence spontaneous and prolific from the workings of the heart to distil into another’s mind.A painting with words uttered one by one an experience of the wind &rain of ordinary life.This intimate invitation to stroll within & behind the veil, ’neath inspiration’s triumphal arch, there to share and participate in the raw reality of the creative drive of another. A vision enhanced by mutual experience of each. One thing leads to another,translating awareness of new & deeper meaning.Time germinates the empathy orchestrates the chords as together we explore new world’s of the poetic.
A twinkle within the polluted luminous starry sky reflecting a single star dangling of like on a skyscraper caused my eye to attract thee,
heaviness and relief fell with my eye slowly as I inhaled looking back at you due to a magnetic force field I couldn't help nor imagine needing,
thou conflicted as thee night obviously polluted as it was I found subliminal happiness as my eye meets yours,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star how I wonder came to mind but I could not finish the last verse until you blinked as your eye twinkled the rest of the night, my night was triumphal as I took more than a glance in those eyes,
yet I continue to look for that twinkling star night after night waiting patiently for this, that, here to twinkle again
Another sunset means another day by gone
Colorful streaks to end such of a Lovey day
Blending as much be so as blending as so much may see
Lightening to the right never as so question such
Nor asked by how such of a night could be such of a next LOVEY day?
Night upon us tends to glares us right back
Only for us to again relive another day
Suddenly as imitating time may be at times
Night falls yet triumphal tonight it obviously is so
May you see again for by seeking gain you may
Becoming upon these days may have turned night into another day
Lovey Belin is my Paternal Grandparent .Much Love and Respect
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