I recall by chance the astuteness of rain
When the thin smoke from charged pulses of cold haze
Befriended the weeded way . . .
Leering further into the viscera of the village,
Clouds of old beginnings heaved potent sighs,
Loud, frenetic and full of powder.
I revelled in the warmth of acid lightning,
Quick to mirror the village in its own image.
The grey breath was intense,
Fusing teethed mirth with grim spheres.
Then came the vitrined harmony of fleeing spectres!
Tricks were revealed.
Tenebrous paths came to light.
And the rumps of sensuous fowls stood stark
Before the reality of weaned souls.
I recall lighting up a cigarette.
Adding to the atmospheric smoke,
I held on to the banter of coyness, flat,
Resolute, and with rummaged blessedness of initial stages
Blending well with the greed of May.
babies weaned and flown
mothers bittersweet goodbye ~
empty nest syndrome
(September Full Moon – Tlingit)
In the calabash of life,
a profound journey unfolds
as the space
gracefully passes the baton
in the art of apprenticeship.
Success resonates like a fine chant,
akin to the resonance of the four-lobed kola nut
the water that flows,
immersing its feet
into gin and tradition.
The apprentice,
the Soldier's seed,
navigates the delicate balance
between the sun's dreams
and the moon's ways.
Hips sway
after the clover of the stars,
creating a dance
that echoes the celestial rhythm,
Taking nature in the fashion it is.
Within energy’s forte,
the apprentice remains steadfast,
untouched
by the mystic's contagion.
Breeze gently gives life to the air,
ensuring that peace
never topples over,
while the living
is meticulously scripted
in the sealed scroll of existence
The Apprentice knew anew.
In the scroll
where life is inscribed,
the celestial and clay beings converge.
The earth walks ways
where water was weaned
before birth,
guiding life in eleven directions —
light, lead, love, logic, luxury,
and power
flavored on six sticks of nature.
.
The blessing
for mine i
(for the most part)
eyne
for
unto
it seemed forever
i
yesss mine
(with the ever so soft)
wiped back
hern halo
But
(there is a but)
i kissed and
weaned her
unto hern
Wild
(polygraph me)
morning
noon
and nights
*]
Written: October 12, 2023
Cinquain Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
______________________________________________________
Guile gust
I grasp your gasp
goad grafts gently glowing
the gray grove greenery growing
glean grace
Skies Straight
I snared your sight
Schizoid swing of Steward
sewn souls spewing as oxblood stems
stark stance
Wince, wight
I've weaned your whiff
the world-wedged wink was wrapped
while not washing down the wild waft
when whet
Froth flow
your frisk frame flits
follow fall foliage
freshly framed flimsy fruity field
faint flame.
Sand stake
of smog steam sieve
you stride in silence steps
by slamming a skulker-shaped slope
spread string.
Love is an unwritten absence
from the scripted page
It's the whispered confession spoken
in the unmeasurable realm
between the eyes of lovers
as they cross the bridge beyond written words
where the beating heart of two sparrows
are caught in the winds of love
as they travel through the invisible paradise
of shared elixer that intoxicates the blood and brain
to become a formless, shapeless living thing
Where passion is weaned on expectations
and weighed by the soul as to its substance
of whether it is worthy to be a precious gift of beauty
beyond any measure...to be called love
Only then can words be written in poetic script
upon the page
I live in this house next to the crick
that I built up on some stilts
and my hounds sleep up under it
When it gets so hot you wilts
Yeah they sleep all day under the porch
And we hunt coons at night by a cattail torch
And we really love our life
When the spring rains followed the snow melt
that fell really heavy up north
I load the boys into the boat
And we all sallies forth
To hunt for the hogs that too are displaced
with water all around
I guarantee If one they see
Them dogs will start to sound
We always manage to get one or two
As I shoot from the stern of the boat
and you ain't tasted nothin finer
than the newly weaned flesh of a shoat
We really love our life,We really love our life
At the house we arrive and all thats alive I sweep
off of the porch thats come seaking higher ground
I bust out a jug and cut me a rug
With no-one to watch but my hounds
We eat high on the hog till we're stuffed like ticks
Really love our house in the sticks
Yeah we really love our life ,we really love it
Don't we boys ?
Non stop baying!!!!!!!!!!
The meadow has come alive with sight and sound
As I go through the gate, I hear buzzing all around,
The bees are busy working on milkweed flower
Waist-high daylilies and coral honeysuckles tower,
Enticing a few hummingbirds into the crowded field
I snap a piece of sassafras which is carefully peeled,
Soon I see three cottontails on the path up ahead
About the same time, a cardinal flashing by, all red,
I hear the call of a tanager and a mourning dove
Today, there is so much here in the meadow to love.
The narrow pathway is overgrowing with wild carrot
Originally blown over here from a nearby cattle lot
Breezes are stirring up the gnats and dragonflies,
And I keep wiping floating pollen out of my eyes.
As I expected the mother deer has weaned her fawn
I’m surprised to see her here so long after the dawn,
The afternoon sun beating down is now aggressive
I should have known better, it’s becoming oppressive.
I’ll head toward home, foregoing a walk to the river
A sunstroke is threatening; I have begun to shiver.
Written July 16, 2022
Humans destroying human settlements.
This is an integral part of war.
The war of two neighboring governments!
You'll be forgiven for asking what for!
Beautiful buildings are hollow shells.
Tangled rubble lies all around;
There are no parks, streets or malls.
Everything's been razed to the ground!
Delicate women crying in the streets,
Children weaned from education!
Men want to see who the other defeats.
There's a destroying of all construction!
You'll be told this is politics.
Quarrels and issues between peoples.
Some would say semantics.
Pride based intractable squabbles!
An alien scanning planet Earth
Would see an interesting phenomenon:
A species that, when feeling wrath,
Destroys its dwellings with wild abandon!
The climate
Is an elephant on opium
Weaned off.
Going berserk
Throwing things around
Tearing the
Polaris into fragments.
Hurricanes
Storms
Flooding.
Scorching summers
Arctic winters
There is no end
To the elephants
Despair.
Slim the elephant
Normal food
It will soften
Its rampage
And trumpeting.
Little birdy said “a lot of coma coming soon”
When the earth chills down with a blood red moon
Silent shrieks abound as the brain dissolves
Big mistake on the uptake man devolves
"Wrong again!" the only right I’ve ever heard
Weaned off electronics from a full blown nerd
Hope to keep my pattern going and be wrong once more
Otherwise, we all have zombies scratching at the door
She was born straddling a pair of ruby-eyed dice
weaned on black alleys and salty blue smiles-
Wild cat coaxing greenbacks from denim-lined crags
riding hard-driving far-diving high-screaming brass-
Climbing steely mountains capped with pyrite hearts
she thanked a lost lord for tears that didn't glow in the dark-
For a time, she walked for miles along sunlit paths
which demanded pinches of patience and flakes of faith
neither of which her dream catcher could ever catch-
She died alone draped across a bent bottle cap thrown
trilobites and mad dogs marched out her Marlboro red throat-
Leaving stiletto scars on virgin faces of hope and eternity
that creamy queen of damnation with cherry-stained knees-
(2008)
My lovely nanny goat
an unusual gift for my thirteenth birthday
shiny coat
Dad would milk her
I’d carry all the milk away
White fur
Cute pet
Loved to eat hay
wet
My lovely nanny goat
I’d carry all the milk away
Wet
*a true story I had a nanny goat 'Susie' for my 13th birthday, when we purchased her she was in kid and once the kids had been weaned we used to milk her twice every day. Her favourite food was very ripe bananas!
A Pet Minichu Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mohan Chutani
checked with how many syllables
04/16/21
You should fear the fourth of November.
Because your old butt is sitting on a powder keg.
After a summer of disease and restriction.
After a summer boiling over with George.
The young are holding the matches.
and day
upon
day
upon
day
The media spits gasoline into their pimply, black-veiled faces.
The "black veils" have no immunity to losing.
They've been weaned on participation trophies.
For bringing up the rear.
They were raised by the over-tolerant villagers.
The villagers are functional idiots.
Never spanked, now they've broken rank
with civility.
Carrying left-handed commie socialist shanks.
Encouraged by professors of anarchy,
You should fear the fourth,
Because your old butt is sitting on a powder keg,
If the orange messiah wins, the brats will be pitching matches and gasoline.
Like we used to pitch horseshoes and pennies.
Many moons ago, in my ascendancy
Males weaned themselves from dependency
At age 18, adults, full-blown on our own
No more nesting, Momma Bee, in your honeycomb
You'd bought your first car; you took care of it too
No one could tell you where to go, what to do
So many, these days, not even licensed to drive
Independence for them has yet to arrive
We checked in with our 'rents,* why maybe once a week *parents
Hi, Mom, back from the hospital; Doc set my broken cheek
These days, it seems no span of ten minutes ever's spanned
Without Little Johnny telling Mommy all of his plans
From breast milk to devices -- to Mommy, boys are forever attached
Better take her with you in your coffin, when you are dispatched
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