To wander beneath lush morning trees
Imprinting varnish of leaves, anew
When July casts its charm with such ease.
~The mantle of summer decked in reds,
This cycle brings dazzle, to imbue
A warm gust embellished from voile threads.
While meadows parade their sizzled grace ,
I romp along grasses' mellow view
Till sunlight weaves its pour of embrace.
Brooks temperate quide these nimble toes
Lingering on, buds trickle on cue--
My arms tossed in whimsical repose.
Until night gently inks this wild sway ~
A prayer, a moment , this debut
Enthralls my soul...tinged by heaven's ray!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The boat still waits where water meets the shore,
its hull a ghost of varnish, cracked and thin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
Motor sits idle—no strong hands the throttle to pull
at dawn’s first blush or dusk’s slow-settling din.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
I trace the name he carved with patient score:
Ninnie Poo—paint now like weathered skin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
The pines still lean as if they’re listening for
his whistled tune, the hook’s sharp plink within.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
The perch still school where cattails root and sprawl,
untroubled now by his net or his custom-made jig-spin.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
The lake holds silence, calm and still with languor.
Hushed wooden dock moans, wondering where Dad has been.
The boat still waits where water meets the shore.
Dad’s empty boat rides the waves no more.
Left slack at the edge of the violin,
an afterthought of gut and wire,
waiting for the bow that never descends.
Every note passes overhead
like birds stitching the sky.
The hollow body drinks their chorus,
yet no song grows inside this wood.
Ears open in the varnish,
dark mouths swallowing everything unfinished—
a concerto of failures,
a catalogue of unsung hours.
Different, always different,
not melody but margin,
not hand but handle.
Still the silence hums,
a taut ghost trembling
whenever others are touched.
What music it might have been
clings like rosin to the air,
faint, impossible,
vanishing before it begins.
With keen eyes, I follow July’s evening
Spread its blended palette of amber tints,
Of varnish 'midst interlude of showers
That I enter into nature's mystique;
Before me— an avian carousal
A radiant skyscape where nightingales
And jays reel from warmth of moonlight, aflame
Circling within rare space of equinox:
Birds' flights slowly disengaging for now
From interludes of pewter pewter dew.
First place
Sold on a cheapskate cheesing.
Cupcaked' by a cheesecake reasoning.
Kids, plenty for the
Cakewalk.
Kids, plenty to play
Hopscotch.
Kids, plenty of energy goes
Non-stop.
Disparaging remarks marked up by the
Loudmouth loosened by fool-proof
Foul Alchohol percentages.
It's far too soon to start with those
Remarks.
Gliding by.
Hiding behind our
Rollercoaters' ropes.
Ready to Ride,
Side by Side,
Since this high.
Goodbye.
Razor-sharp wit halved the delicate patience.
Good times vanish, in wood varnish.
Drive-by relief roaming without induction.
I crossed the archives as one walks through a field of ruins.
Decrees were bones, dogmas were nails.
Kings signed treaties in ink darker than darkness, a pact forged in daggers.
Papal bulls oozed blood beneath God's varnish.
Codes etched the systematic animalization into stone.
They legislated hell, administered suffering, theorized the slaughterhouse.
Even science became an executioner,
draping contempt in formulas and measured skulls.
I didn’t read history,
I breathed it,
its ashes glued to my lungs,
its screams wedged in the margins.
They crucified continents for their gems,
their plantations, their ores, and their silences.
They told me: progress.
But I saw boots pressed to throats.
They told me: forget.
But the graves still speak.
They told me: democracy.
I saw tanks circling the ballot boxes.
And you, West, with your carnivorous grin,
you demand forgiveness without returning the bones.
You scream values with your pockets full of plunder.
You dress up your hunger as mission.
You baptize your rape as liberation.
You persist, you insist, you gorge yourself.
But our memories are neither dead nor tame.
They sharpen.
Where has the grass gone, juicy,
Green, shiny as if covered with a transparent varnish.
Where did I go,
Chained to the coolness of the life-giving carpet,
Sprinkled with the glare of the sun, straight from the blue sky.
Where is the flower?
In which I lived like something winged and inconspicuous.
Wedding gift to me from my grandpa,
was antique with an obvious flaw,
a three legged table made of oak,
made for him special and was bespoke.
It was designed to be by fireside,
was eight inches by eight inches wide,
just about two and a half feet high,
to keep him in winter warm and dry.
polished in dark varnish to high gloss,
etched in ivory he did emboss,
the names from our whole family tree…
somewhere on one of the legs was me.
Said to me as only grandpa’s do,
with tears on smiles, his face split in two,
leave you this to remember me by,
not let past love and memory die.
with pride we placed it by our fireside,
wife and I would spend time sat beside,
that three legged piece of grand old oak,
warmth of generations would evoke.
Written 31st October 2023
9 syllables each line
aabb rhyme
Edward Ibeh sponsored
This or that Vol 21 contest
They are like two beam lights that claim the stage
on a hot summer eve in the middle of a makeshift
floor parkette made of wood, varnish, and lights that aim
They are more than two American dollies dressed
in French lace and boudoir lipsticks
They are idols of the theater talking through
cables and conductive material.
The imagination of the viewers soar as they lose themselves
in the dark curtained stage, where reality has gone dormant
The only sound they hear is the tingly sounds
of unfolding fans made of feather and paper,
by the old vintage theater Madammes who cluck and gossip
in hushed tones when the first dolly gives the other dolly,
a soft kiss.
The End.
Good at assembling spiritual mishmash,
High expectations raising for big cash
In the open for Despair full fury:
The demons behind them for his jury…
Chooser of the Language of Pentecost
He may have acquired at a great cost:
Body movements take on the pugilist’s
For all Contrary Spirits’ flying fists!
No vows made he wouldn’t try kung-fu kicks,
His smarter left leg foes one by one picks…
The events in the Bible come alive
Clever links with the current trends survive;
Sometimes seems he would afterwards vanish,
One recalls words: he did nothing varnish.
More and more hearers of the Word-Life swarm
And this as a development - Uh! – warm…
“Now, I want to the Devil embarrass
But as I cast him out might some harass.
Therefore, you vacate where I now point to:
It’ll mean I won’t afresh to God cry to…”
“Next, sands under your feet take a handful;
Then, at the sky look with a face thankful.
Despair is done for as you repeat these:
I come against you Despair; right now, freeze”
bloodshot deriving out of wide eyes conformed to the ceiling
ruby red polish accompany the nail
spritz of fragrance leaving behind an illusion of professionalism
receiving roses to give glad hand towards beauty
why is my allurement the focal point of my pitiful existence?
the roses molded
the incense faded
the varnish chipped away
the lids have found one another once again
awaken once more only to find that expression
If nobody knew me.
I could varnish to the thin air.
Dine withe the unfair.
displine the cute ,uphold the ugly
And
Walk in you like oxygen
I could smile to those who care.
And be helpful like pathogen.
If..
If no one knew me.
I could breeze to the deepest ocean.
And
Bath in your soul.
Could denounce demons clean.
Could be a phenomenal idol.
If.
If no one knew me.
Could change like day to day.
An amicus of dare
And
Tell fiction.
That defeats friction
If nobody knew me.
I could dance naked.
In a million micro second
Could be ordained marry ,and de-marry..
Could not hurry
For time could be me.
If no one knew me
I could use my unconscious mind.
To make the rude kind.
Magnify the blind
Preach from behind.
If...
If no one knew me.
I could be me.
Like a spirit.
I could be you.
Subjects can their Bad Kings banish:
Their Lords that image tarnish
By being decisive and mannish
While proving them a clannish
After bribing schnapps of the Danish
And deceiving wine the Spanish!
Subjects must the details furnish
Of the wrongs by Monarchs to banish
And if they wish some garnish
Or the entire narrative varnish!
Subjects should Terrible Kings punish
Their faults ceases to burnish
Their eulogy for The–Without–Blemish.
The things we replenish,
Before they finish
First of all diminish…
They don’t really vanish
Like in the stories we varnish:
And with it The Truth punish…
The nice savored dish
Chefs superbly garnish,
Not forgetting to be stylish,
We demolish fast
And cause give to not last:
A–Once-Obvious like Steely Mast.
Still, it doesn’t vanish
What progresses to a finish:
My tea ever always British
My potatoes all the time Irish
On this to challenge A Danish
Scottish or even the Finnish…
Dying leaves not swiftly brownish
Nor the hit man, suddenly womanish.
In January of 2022, In the heart of Henize 2-10 galaxy, located 30 million light years away, in the Pyxis constellation, a black hole was observed, birthing new stars, thanks to Science, the NASA's Hubble Space Telescope saw it.
The black hole was the annihilator
Known for its capacity to consume
Even the largest of stars varnish
When any ventures near enough
The abyss has become a mother
Correcting life misunderstandings
Where impostors have led the way
Leading humanity to serve human ego
Life in death is further confirmed
Black as the mother is now obvious
While the universe continues unfolding
More lessons will come from the truths of life
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