Swirls rise and fold through the field of color,
outlines drifting at the edges, searching for shape~
each one carrying the quiet pulse of an idea.
Figures brighten, blur, then pass into another idea,
their borders dissolving inside currents of color
that refuse to settle into any single shape.
Nothing here is finished; everything leans toward shape,
toward the next flicker that might become an idea,
toward the widening spiral of ungoverned color.
ENVOI
In the creator’s mind, color keeps opening, shape keeps shifting, idea keeps arriving.
Here we are at the lunatic age..That cavorts upon
Its tempoal stage.. twenty first
birthday foolishness.Is manifest; in chronalogical millenial immoral
Guise..In which none confess. All the tools of betterment, are used by fools.' We bask in blue light luminous, chaos rules.'
Read truth and lies, both day and night
Reality now is (a state..) Ungoverned lawfully its
Awfull.. Often wickedly driven.' The cliff is looming..' and below the abyss ' kiss the Son before the final'e, Choose His Eternal bliss '
Filled my soul with aching
to keep my brain from faking
its joy.
Torn hearts asunder, I once was filled with wonder
but now I dread the thunder and
my laughs are filled with buckets of rain.
The leaves my palms were built of are wilting with rusty, dusty ash.
Slighted by the gods’ convictions, uncomfortable with their restrictions
I became ungoverned by ordinance and unyielding faith.
My sighs are filled with yawning and yearning,
my soul’s shrill cries are tossing and turning
against the wind.
Soothing is the ice on the capes
and softly my trembling skin aches
with the chill
of snowflakes and numbness.
Fire gave us power right at the door,
Farming made us hungry for more,
Money gave us ungoverned greed,
And science, such a deadly breed!
Our brief his’try from beastly apes
To species that learnt spoken word,
Sovereign that rules the whole world,
Then back to brutes that Ma Earth rapes.
One step perhaps from back to caves,
His’try repeats from birth to graves,
On verge of destroying our dome,
Back to base, a full round to roam!
__________________________________
Inspired by the book: ‘Sapiens’, Brief History of Humankind, by Yuval Noah Harari, humankind, yes human but never humane. So, let me just call them Homo-sapiens.
Introspection |18.06.2021|
A mysterious moan rose up from below,
Up through the floor boards of our age.
This curious, extraordinary wail rose up,
Becoming an ungoverned, impotent rage.
I queried this torment, this bubble of noise,
Would it murder with a savage of blind.
Would this cry grow and envelop, devouring our thoughts,
Consuming every bit of our mind.
We began to panic with irrational fear,
We chose flight as desperately fast as we could.
Flight from this house, this terrorised house,
With the screams coming up through the wood.
And we ran like a riot, through green fields of farmed crop,
Crop that was now in full blossom.
We heard the chainsaw behind, and glanced back into eyes,
The eyes of the small Brushtail Aussie possum.
written 30th August 2016 which is not new, soz, but I like this "horror" poem and thought it might fit. hope u enjoy it. Ranked Second place Eve Roper 11/16/2016
stop throbbing temple
blood pounded sight
dim daydreamt corneas
surround sharp morning light
hidden heart whispers
raging wan muffled souls
desire stoked embers
burn kiln shattered bowls
dermis flayed pilgrims
gnaw darkly smoked bones
slag dwelling convicts
flee coke crumbled clones
fly, fly away from
a wasteland of sorrows
as ash can yesterdays spill
into flashpoint tomorrows
is there only the now
present here in this spot
downshift stonebreak self speak
ungoverned egos run hot
blur sky, photochrome
squint into ink acid haze
peer at forever
as the danse macabre plays.
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, even in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood is the birthplace of hope and mirth
not fear and perturbation for the budding soul,
a testament to love where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal.
Shun darkness, disillusion, from God's green earth,
cast demons, evil thinkers to the depths of hell.
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, e'en in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood is the birthplace of hope and mirth
not fear and perturbation for the budding soul,
a testament to love where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal.
Shun darkness, disillusionment from God's green earth,
cast demons, evil thinkers to the depths of hell!
Last Modified: January 09, 2016 at 07:20 pm
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...the first three verses: abab rhyming
the next two together: abcbac rhyming
a form used frequently by W.H. Auden
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, e'en in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer his self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so's to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood should be the nursery of hope and mirth,
not fear and perturbation, for the budding soul,
a testament to love, where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal,
shun darkness, disillusionment from God's green earth,
cast demons, evildoers to the depths of hell.
the world
is full of free radicals
telling the conservatives
to take a sabbatical
everything is about
free this and free that
no one wants to work
to get where they're at
gotta remember
life isn't a game
earth spins around
a ying and a yang
have a balance
of the good
and the bad
but people always say
they want to be free
but when
everything is ungoverned
chaos reigns supreme
they dont want
to be controlled
but then
they want security
til they grow old?
to much
or not enough
is one in the same
gotta
keep it even
if we wish to remain
...inspired by 'The Traveller' by W.H. Auden
The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve,
and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost
to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve,
they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost.
Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage,
cruelty breeds rancor, e'en in the meek at heart,
kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage,
no literature for him, gentility or art.
Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies
as tools to engineer his self-preservation,
he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies,
so's to avoid the whip and recrimination.
Childhood should be the nursery of hope and mirth,
not fear and perturbation, for the budding soul,
a testament to love, where supplicants may dwell;
not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal,
shun darkness, disillusionment from God's green earth,
cast demons, evildoers to the depths of hell!
I’m an unopenable door waiting to be cracked open, exposed to the natural but
yet fresh humanity. Such an infinitesimal amount of air escapes through the
cracks, just taunting me. Showing what I can’t have, but giving me such small
doses it taunts me. When will that key be discovered, and open a concrete wall in
front of me. The bleak amounts of light only omit pure injustice. Give me what I
want. It’s not there, the figure, the human being that will be that discoverer. This
absence of light is eating away at my flesh; everything needs light, pure light, to
live. For this just erodes my skin, until it drips to the floor, of an ungoverned
society. A society so weak it won’t even be governed. A society so weak, that it will
not provide for its fellow parts. My society won’t allow this to happen anymore.
The brain in my head throbs from a recollection of what is to come, pure
excitement, and pure hesitation. The anticipation accumulates, which rubs the
society against the blades of a democracy. Bring yourself forward, and try your
key into a rusted lock.
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