Lady in repose
drifting to horizons
pink and psychedelic
where dream dimensions
uncoil like ribbons
vibrant rainbow iridescence
circling moon spotlight
hidden fairy places
angel spun filigree
festooning domed citadels
of fantasy tales.
The Guardian of Hell: A Sinner's Slumber
The obsidian tunnels of this godless realm,
Uncoil like serpents where I blindly tread.
A shadow stalks, a nightmare at the helm,
Feeding upon the frantic steps I dread.
What does he want, this shadow in the smoke?
My ankles drag the burning chains of hell.
He stands above me, draped in misery's cloak,
The brutal keeper of a silent cell.
For what unknown transgression do I weep?
I bear a crushing weight I cannot name.
The dark is suffocating, fierce, and deep,
A blind expanse of agony and shame.
Then through the vault, his iron voice commands:
"Halt, sinner, halt! And face my burning glare!"
The Lord of Ash before my terror stands,
And flings me down into the deep despair.
"Wake up!" he roars, "The pit has claimed its prize!
Confess your hidden crime into the night!
Shatter the silence, strip away the lies,
And only then shall you return to light!"
They’re tiny spells
Little glittering magic pills
A hidden superpower to chill
Press play and let the world uncoil
Slow motion thoughts melting
Like butter on warm steel
I reach into the pouch
Expecting the glow
The soft promise of everything’s fine
But my fingers scrape emptiness
Cold
Hollow
Exposed
Breathe slow…
A rollercoaster drops through my chest
Psychological gymnastics
Brain yelling, “No way that was the last one!”
Checking again, again, again…
As if a hidden gem might respawn like a bonus life
But the package stays hollow
No power pellets left
Just me
Raw mode
Remembering how to chill
Without the magic
Some days, I’m still fighting the urge to light a cigarette—missing those rippling ribbons of smoke and the way they would uncoil in the dark, humid air. I’ve been coughing so much lately, and my lungs will hardly expand for any air that isn’t polluted at the source. I’ve been hacking up my lungs, and each time it feels like trying to drag them out through my throat just to see how charred they’ve become. I ignore any signs of disease—any signs of my own actions catching up to me—all because I’m so afflicted and so addicted to slowly ending my own life. Undoing the veiny strings of my body for no reason other than my love for being unhappy, only allowing myself to breathe the poison I think I deserve. After long nights, when my daydream canopies crumble, I always wish to commit blasphemy for you again—treat your white ash like the god I sometimes think stopped loving me long ago. I wish I could still believe the burning in my chest when I run is the only thing that will save me from a future that’s not home—because it saves me from a world where I feel like all I am is my flesh and bones.
Inspired by Time is the Healer by Glenn Hughes
It's an old expression.
Time heals every wound.
It's not an easy lesson
when you've been marooned.
It's an old expression.
A watched pot won't boil,
and your depression
won't lift or uncoil.
Time is the healer.
Don't worry about "when".
Pretty soon we'll see yer
back on your feet again.
Amidst the city's relentless pulse and roar,
Lies a sanctuary, the Japanese garden’s core.
Stepping through its gates, a portal to a dream,
Into a realm where Zen's whispers gleam.
Bonsai trees, like ancient elders, bow,
Their emerald whispers, a silent vow.
Evergreen sentinels sculpted with care,
Stand as guardians in the tranquil air.
A teahouse hovers, a tranquil pond’s embrace,
A crimson bridge, a poet’s arching grace.
Below, Koi fish drift in a painted dance,
Stone lanterns cast shadows, a mystical trance.
Waterfall's lullaby, nature’s own hymn,
Cherry blossoms and maples with limbs so slim.
Their petals, whispers of springtime’s kiss,
In this Eden, find your tranquil bliss.
Bamboo groves whisper secrets old,
Gravel paths, stories silently told.
Each step a journey from strife and toil,
In this sacred soil, let your spirit uncoil.
Spring Sonnet
The microscopic lifeforms in my soil
Sense the rising in degrees Celsius.
Old Summer’s red wiggler worms now uncoil,
While hungry birds look down most odious.
Most showers now done, the weeds envelope
The surviving herbs, flowers, plus veggies.
Like the weeds, slimy molluscs interlope,
Quitting the shadows with their progenies.
Scooping composted chicken & steer
Into my orange Home Depot buckets;
Troweling in costly mineral grit -
Then turning the soils, crushing silt nuggets.
The difficult tasks done, seeds in the grounds –
October pumpkins will surround the mounds.
A-mid shared thoughts,
shuffled 'cross mortal uncoil,
no central judge;
choices re-sound, choices spoil.
Principles form an unspoken pact,
reciprocity in action, a silent (re)act.
In trans-action of duties, a treaty defined,
acknowledgment, values, (re)flections, they bind.
Not a-lone acts, rather sharing confessions,
indices echo (echo) moral impressions.
Choices ripple ~ a moral surge ~ ennui overtakes,
no single emotion can play ducks-and-drakes.
In life's upturns,
steepening truths subtly heaved,
concrete reverbs, in every gesture, conceived.
Jim Stokes is at the Memphis Zoo.
He’s been assigned to interview
a Southern copperhead. A few
have scared him s _ _ _ less in the past.
Thank God this one’s behind thick glass!
Jim: Good, morning, Mr. Copperhead.
Snake: It’s Missss. Welcome to my abode.
Jim: You’re coiled as if to strike out. Why?
I haven’t come to taunt or goad!
Snake: I’m used to being in strike mode.
Jim: How do you feel about your—uh, room?
Do you ever feel mistreated
or deprived in that little tomb?
Snake: Cheesh! Now you’ve made me feel cheated.
Till you came, I never felt defeated!
Jim: Sorry. Why not completely uncoil?
Wouldn’t that feel good for a change?
Snake: Your taunting makes my cold blood boil.
This interview is really strange.
I’ll uncoil if my freedom you arrange!
Jim: How unrealistic can you be?
I’m scared of you old wicked snakes.
Snake: (It strikes the glass) If I get free,
I’ll find you even if it takes
ten years. You know, glass sometimes breaks!
June 12, 2023
Spring rain falls akin to a gentle mist
Soaking the earth with every twist
Beneath the soil, a world unknown
Where life takes root, and seeds are sown
As drops seep through the dirt and clay
A secret passage starts to form its way
Tiny tunnels, winding and vast
A network of life, that's meant to last
In this hidden world, creatures thrive
Burrowing deep, to stay alive
Worms and beetles, ants and slugs
All living together, in cozy dugouts
The rain brings nourishment, to the soil
A gift of life, that nature does uncoil
With every drop, the passage grows
A wonderland of secrets, no one knows
As the sun shines, and the rain fades away
Spring secret passage is still here to stay
A world within a world, hidden from sight
A reminder that life is always taking flight.
Written: June 10, 2023
I danced rings around the others
Who sought shade beneath my girth
Turned CO2 to oxygen
Just a token of my worth
My buds in spring so tantalize
Butterflies and buzzing Bees
They shelter here all summer
Beneath my greening leaves
Then in Halloween display
They make the rainbows blush
Just before they gently fall
Quietly “neath Autumn’s hush
Now my limbs are cracked and spent
Old roots no longer toil
Dried bark is chilled by icy winds
As this dancer's rings uncoil
John G. Lawless
©6/9/2023
snakes uncoil...
ready to strike
before
rattling their tails.
flames of rage crackle;
white-hot on
highway.
two drivers
hissing,
exchanging
invectives
madness reigns supreme!
game of Russian roulette
played...
with lives on the road.
Writing Challenge - Yalto Form - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Date: 12/03/2022
I have walked
on the grinding edge
of my wind-sharpened shores,
have talked of myself
beside the surf of myself.
I am grown thin in the service of
speaking thoughts out loud.
Where the shingle washes
beached starfish,
long-drowned words uncoil
to raise my voice
above a roaring silence.
Still, an in-coming tide
swallows and forgets,
swallows and forgets.
It abides in the lintel, leaving only
to hunt in the klong.
It was here when we moved in,
we are the renting guests
living under a large Monitor lizard.
Dawn coffee on the loggia,
the jungle going to sleep.
The movement of rain,
pacing over green canopies.
The wooden house creaks
as the sun floats over blue mountains.
Soon the tiffin carrier will arrive
on her tricycle,
bringing coconut rice
wrapped in banana leaf,
some pork dumplings.
A meal shared
with a cat and a huge reptile
as we watch the hour uncoil.
Uncoil, detach from ego glue
Attachments manifest
Rest desires, then nothing to rue
Earth life but play and jest
Joyous meditation
In void of cessation
Exits mind’s stagnation
Turmoil
Uncoil
24-January-2022
Quietus
Sub Categories
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