Atop a grassy hill I sit,
gazing at the rich azure blue sky
watching a few birds fluttering in and out of my vision,
slicing through the air like knives.
I lie there for what feels like an eternity,
wind turbine turning in calculated motion
out of the corner of my eye.
My rucksack ties me to the ground,
filled with a thousand weights,
preventing me from being like those birds,
majestic, elate and carefree.
But I can imagine.
The innocent silky clouds transform and bend,
producing a multitude of bizarre objects,
an army commanded by the wind
sauntering across the horizon.
A world with no end, limited only by mortal minds,
a mini-universe floating just above our heads.
We are the creators of this fictional world,
where human though unfurls.
I see an emerald dragon,
a group of chariot wagons, their horses galloping.
A circus filled with the most exotic animals,
an ivy snake laced with diamonds,
a canoe slicing through the sky.
A gnarly oak,
its trunk encased, fingers reaching infinitely high.
But each world is different for every one of us,
so tell me; what do you see
when you let your imagination
break free?
The rivers race, the rivers flow,
in great torrents and low oxbows;
the rivers flux, the rivers breathe,
small minnows darting endlessly;
the rivers deep, the rivers wide,
fishermen cast off from the sides;
the rivers cold, the rivers ice
runs jagged like a glassy knife;
the rivers press, the rivers force
turns the turbine, powers the core;
the rivers breadth, the rivers path
lets all the boats and barges pass;
the rivers curve, the rivers rake,
they give shape to the whole landscape;
the rivers breach, the rivers surge,
when water speaks, it’s always heard.
The afternoon was spent calulating
what would be misfortune to millions
as he calulated the winnings from
the online " Hoss lottree Game"
the odds were in his favor and
nanometers in the visible spectrum
wave lengths and frequencies
inline turbine which flows
he stood at the bbq pit a master with
a spatula in his hand bragging about
his odds and days later we found him right and rich!
He won and won big, from there he created
The Capstone Grill and invested in
Stemcell Meat production. Helping to create
a culture were affordalie meat
would be sold to masses of people
as an alternative to animal meat and protiens.
From the book Music Lover
Songs by Chancey
The veins pump blood to the heart like an engine’s turbine.
The brain controls the body like a steering wheel.
The eyes see the view like on a windscreen.
The joints move the body like wheels.
Bones hold the body like nuts and screws.
The body has energy similar to the one stored in a battery.
Finally we excrete waste as the cars emit smoke
To all the audience reading this and all my poems, thank you and God bless you.
Pro-Chore Wrestling Series and Extrudeur Pro Products
have hammered out a deal to
have the Pro-Chore Champion
go on tour with there company while they
conveince american homesteaders
to unionize and buy there Products.
They have partnered using Pro wrestling
to speak to the masses about the new
cotton powered batteries and wind turbine
that will revolutionize the world.
the CEO wishes to get Homesteader
to allow corpartions
to build mini apartment buildings on medium sized farms.
buildings with small stores and greenhouses.
they would have brickmaking capiblities and other works
that Produce Product all over the world.
He said if woorst comes to worst.
They will have buildings with infrastructure that will
last well into the next century.
We'll let you Know how it turns out.
Kelp Seaworthy Reports.
“Colour Codes”
sky blue
clouds hide
truth,
and you said,
I know you.
end story
remains open;
truth,
rain ends
sky blue
with,
or without you.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Cornfield Chase” / happy.wind.turbine
https://youtu.be/durLXZ2tFL4
"Writing Poems"/Ludovico Einaudi
https://youtu.be/ZBZtSwoBsng
"The Poet Acts" / Philip Glass
https://youtu.be/lgbuS8F2_gM
The solar farms, ugly and large
And props for the wind-induced snarge
It’s green they’re extolling
But blackouts are rolling
And, best of all, no EV charge.
—————
snarge - noun: (military, slang) The remains of a bird after it has collided with an airplane (bird strike), especially a turbine engine.
Passion of Christ laid bare for all to see
while he treads fire, we tread water in this land of the free
dark clouds gather to witness the falling of a King
while we on shaky knees follow closer beneath black turbine skies
to grieve His eminent death...
Persecuted and whipped he sheds all earthly pagan dress
and leaves through the shadows with bile on his breath...
a test of will not of body but of spirit
resting His weight on the spikes driven into His hands
He called out to His Father in heaven,
"Father if it is possible, please let this cup pass by me "
but as the heaven's rumbled Father crumbled
and said " My son, it must be done."
and so He offered one last breath and then, he died.
The yellow scraps perform a thrill during fierce storms.
The breeze turbine is a lofty pattern within local farms.
Amazed, I can spot concussive impacts in the wet stones.
Bursting a ball of fire to tackle to impel amply atones.
A golden ovoid floats through unfathomable seas.
In symbiosis, green clusters wave in the gentle breeze.
Portentous obscurities better the mighty sweep.
During this time, igniting was lit on cremated sheep.
Misty areas are evolving naturally to be wildly small.
Efficient turbines humming, the trees shriek as well.
The dappled shade of padded blossom subtly changed.
A tentative mid-year sunset will have utterly emerged.
Twirled, observing the shadow in youngster-like awe.
A rare bird split a point worm and devoured him raw.
Written: November 15, 2021
Out of the provinces, lies my line...
Toiling the toxic night,
Nightmarish lackey of the routine...
I, child of the leaves...
Left the soil,
My Memsahib detached...
My soul beats the sidewalk,
A drain to a city's sidewall...
Am a volatile turbine,
Urging my soul to rest in the shed,
Away from the jostled shadows...
Losing time,
I lose the fragrance of the sunshine.
The large Starge
Is a large 500 gallon
Water tank that stands
16 feet high
It collects rain water
And it has a value
a one inch value
Neath the bottom
That is connected to
A turbine, which creates
Electricity and the pump
Sends the water from a
Holding tank back to
The water tank for storage.
I put a five hundred gallon
Plastic tank in the basement
And ran a pvc pipe up to
The laundry room
I attached a handpump to
The top I use it in the
Summer and winter to
Save energy.
We practiced the orchestra
Does over my house and
This saves money in the long
Run.
You are angst poetry
played on the strings
of an untuned guitar
A smokers cough cord
that grinds like grit in a turbine
Clumsy fingers that slip
ungracefully on the flimsy stretched nylon
A coffee percolating flow
of words I do not know
A language of sophisticated agony
the core of your existence
is wretched from your gut
through the microphone
when my sense are filled with the crudity of your song,
I can feel the pain,
more than words,
you are the poetry that you perform
So I’m here in the bedroom.
Looking for what?
Fetching what?
How did I get here?
Before… rushing to the bedroom
Used to be a fervour of arms, pressing flesh, kisses
Caresses, tumbling to soft covers,
Clothes scattered in swathes
Heat and passion were here once
No man is seductively waiting for me now,
No sighing, whispering,
The climb up the stairs alone causes panting.
These days
A package of creaking knees and empty brain
I turn 360 rudderless, rotating
A useless turbine of energy spent
Thinking to descend and start over.
Ah,there it is.
The thing I came looking for
The bread!
Broken lungs lay siezed as the air no longer
drives through me on turbine wings.
Eyes rust over corneal layers
festering with swollen contempt
and grey-veined snarls.
Fallen muscle across macerated
fleshy mouth masks lost words
that become endangered species.
Whilst blood congeals within
this scorched corpus and pupils
become the blackend vessels
to my frozen soul.
The Sun stops its arc across the sky.
The sickle of the moon settles
upon my skin, travels its way to my heart
and cuts.
i hear you deep within me
sirens of sound drowning engine
turbine whistle pierce the drum
welcome have a seat he will be with you
in a bit, he will see you now .
the hall is long and dark
seems like i have walked this before
pause an look at the pictures on the wall
and they say nothing at all
where have you been ?
it has been such a long time
you must tell me how you been
no time for that now enter here
the room is sterilized and you in white
standing there looking at me saying
"i do" not now i have no time you
start the engine and drive off dust clouds
whip and bend
i hear you calling me ,"wake up "
you have been in an accident are you ok ?
mind beat up and sober back to where i was
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.