I made the fall,
Answered the call,
Climbed the walls,
Still i feel small,
Crawling forward,
Toward the unseen,
Inbetween thoughts,
Weaning from an onslaught,
Always being distraught,
Taught to endure,
My intentions remain pure,
Sure of who I am,
Scrambling steep slopes,
In hopes to reach the top,
Make the pain stop,
Propping myself back up,
Until my cup is full,
Pulling up the forgotten,
It has gotten out of hand,
Demanding more then I can stand,
Destroying such beautiful land,
I don't understand what to do,
And can't see the way through,
I've fallen just for you,
My view now askew,
Due to the fear in me.
Am I here to fight an enemy,
Or find right in every entity?
Lighting a way they all can see,
Or fighting my way into eternity,
Finally free to be me.
"She reassured me with an unfamiliar line."
Love is a mystery school, yearning for sages
well able to reckon sixes from nines.
True wits should elect sin's disbursements
rather than reflect on love's scenes of rushing bunglers.
Love is sick, blind, unkind. Aren't we cruel?
She chided: brush your flapper, dying blue
between that pair of cheese crackers.
Remove the Devil's Pitchfork from your hair.
Doubling as Dracula, your zeal repealed
by loving an unpersuaded other.
Stay not inconsolable, my weaning one!
She knelt beside me, interpolating my orations.
Entreat for veritable blindness to take better blame.
Apathetic to any flame, resisting even sipping sunshine
interred in the long night of voluminous drapes,
pray for cardiac arrest to efface 1700 hours of shadows.
Perhaps, pray you would love me, and I shall say something of it.
If poetry channels our anger and sorrow
Who then will want to write it tomorrow
And will joy and contentment stifle its future?
And what will become of our stays and culture?
I say poetry has been victimized
Vilified, chastised, castigated and ostracized
Only perceived as a tool for struggle
Truths coded for smuggle
Yet poetry is just song void of tune
From the same rock hewn
For the lyrics that ride on the harmonies
Are sponsored by poetic abilities
Only poetry captures life’s odysseys
In whose form is crafted psalms and prophecies
If you want to know an expanse exceeding now
Poetry is the where and the how
Poetry in its recitation
May not cause rhythm and gyration
Care free melodies and chimes
That people seek in easy times
Until hard times force the weaning
Where people gain taste for meaning
A complementary aid for soul searching
To set the conscience forwardly marching
If poetry must fail in the market
Then it proves not to aim for your pocket
But a stinging dart to awaken your souls
When woes and lows purge all else from their roles
K. Muitherero
Weaning away feral instincts treasured
Soul’s eye is now mindful and touch gentle
The pilgrim’s progress is by mind measured
With scent of love lost in labours mental
The vibrant void records every heartbeat
Our desire to sing and dance in the rain
Rise of bliss heat when polarities meet
Restrained by thought, which once boon is now bane
Epiphany dawns when nonchalance yawns
Recognising life’s play as but a dream
Divine magnetism love pheromones spawns
We’re then both the sun ray and the moonbeam
Watch illusions appear and disappear ~
Why nurture fear when there is no one here
Nothing
Two o'clock this Wednesday afternoon
protected by tall walls, but I have to go
inside
the sun is too hot
It is about getting a deep, lasting tan
my vanity has no limit
gave me skin cancer
I will not write anything today,
weaning myself from this feverish addiction
My internal conversation is as argumentative
as the old Jew I met in Leeds
I will think of nothing!
Sadly, I fail to stop this stream of consciousness
a lava bubbling from its crater
The smell of sulphur of rejected thoughts
that will prove me wrong
and plants shall grow.
What is nothing as it has no shape or form
no aroma or colour
I get up from my chair too quickly, collide
with the door and fall unconscious
into a void
All I now know is that nothing,
is a headache
Once upon a time; hard to tell which piece.
Somewhere between reality and myth,
lies forge an identity lost on peace.
Keen bellows; hammer strikes unveil the Smith.
Akin; that prince slyly seeking the throne.
"Thus always to tyrants!" He blames the slain.
Raising cain, killing able; little's known
of overlords. Let complacency reign.
Let promised comfort lower the voices.
Rejecting the past; lesson in meaning.
Diluting verbiage; Alter choices.
Destined for slaughter; signal the weaning.
Take notice; an abolition’s at hand!
The abolition of Man; Master’s planned!
she spoke to no one after he died,
words no longer had any meaning,
friends and relatives she had world wide,
her intense love needed weaning,
she smiled at a rose and thought of him,
then blew him a slow kiss, on a whim!
Honourable mention
Written 5/Nov/2023
9 syllables each line ababcc rhyme
Bite size poem 75 poetry contest
Line Gauthier sponsored
I hear a muse
who speaks
and sometimes sings
and dancing leaps
only through my dreams
Whether mine is lonely
or one of many
we share at night,
I wonder
Where dark certainties
and sometimes starlit celebrations
unfold
dim as old dismembered bright
I suppose S/He might respond
to this humbling humane question
asked while fading off to play
and work
on Earth's re-spinning days
Frays and plays of relentless unresolve
becoming morning's clarity,
a puzzle solved
Just for me?
or for eternity
From all of us?
growing lunar waxing
knowing waning
weaning culture shifts
Communal waking
to whom we long to be
woke together ecotherapy
inhaling healthy democracy
sonorously snoring
once again.
There is beauty in your absence
there is greatness in your silence
there is pain in your wishes
In your innards, there are dreams
Poetry and you are synonymous
I am synonymous with love
how I love you both.
Poetry is a susurrus
that tickles the nooks
and crannies of resourcefulness
every recourse, every nook
and cranny, and life itself
the shadow lives inside me
an almost flawless replica.
It moves when she moves
smiles when she smiles
all is well, a shadow says
shadows from the past
stretch longer when the sun sets.
Weaning from the breast
of grief and tears
becomes starker and harsher
Mother, you are long gone
yet in the fading light
I suckle on your memories.
5th place contest winner
Written: January 28, 2023
Your Pick Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Laughing more than necessary
And beginning from Beginning,
Jane about Joan and accessory:
"She'd looked like one a game winning,
Her blouse ungodly and real scary;
To even far - off eyes lots meaning,
Warden to reject stories fairy:
Breasts like ones a new baby weaning,
Still, a nose ring but bare back
And as she walked oft looked back...
"Are these what you might show Brethren;
And not win fires of cauldron?"
Devoted Christian De half Nude;
If she stayed back at home not good
But ushered into the fold a feud
Fold would be lucky if it withstood...
Its a tongue with ring for the Hymn
And a Joan sure it's good for Him.
Laughing more than necessary
And beginning from Beginning,
Jane about Joan and accessory:
"She'd looked like one a game winning,
Her blouse ungodly and real scary;
To even far - off eyes lots meaning,
Warden to reject stories fairy:
Breasts like ones a new baby weaning,
Still, a nose ring but bare back
And as she walked oft looked back...
"Are these what you might show Brethren;
And not win fires of cauldron?"
Devoted Christian De half Nude;
If she stayed back at home not good
But ushered into the fold a feud
Fold would be lucky if it withstood...
Its a tongue with ring for the Hymn
And a Joan sure it's good for Him.
Quitting coffee and should it kill me
Want to say that it's been fun
Sidled up to this specific teat
Not long after my first weaning done
My body trying to clue me in
As I clung to my drug of choice
No longer willing to continue
In stifling my tired kidney's voice
Just read it slows down the flow of lymph
to a toddling terrapin crawl
Immunities highway like that of L.A.'s
Cannot abide it you all
My plan to reduce to a cup a day
Followed by a day after another
It's warmth will be missed the aroma as well
As a weanling ripped from its mother (sob)
Truthfully not looking forward to
Shifting to water and herbal teas
Saying goodbye to my old friend caffeine
Long considered the hairy bee's knees
Before you merry in the holidays in all ways commercial
Remember we commemorate God's Love impartial
Loud and riotous hedonism on every wasteful spree
Is one bond from which ye must be set free
For ye need not insight from the law and the prophets
To discern that day will break with many regrets
So come away from worldly ways
If you must see profit in your youthful days
Let your celebration be guided by the day's meaning
Let your belief this day meet its weaning
A believer graduated from milk to meat
For your call and its cost you are about to meet
So eat to your fill for the journey is far
If for the prize set before you, then raise the bar
Live not like the lost when you have been found
Let you have power, love and your mind be sound
K. Muitherero.
When I think of poetry
I think of a child manipulating
his first steps, the wobbly nature
of his strides~that confused, meandering
toddle, and then trip and fall – the dear
first efforts of us all. When I think of poetry,
I think of my introductory cords attempting
articulation: the naive study of lips, the spitting
aspirations, how the throat struggles, and then the
mouth opens to the notion of sound. When
I think of poetry, I think of the squinting and the
rounding of the eyes first awakening to light –
how the heart adjusts to thought...and how,
somehow, it is all related to love, the cooing,
caressing of a mother, before weaning.
Then when I think of poetry, I finally think of nothing...
empty myself, letting poetry think for me –
become my sight and voice, my very direct
line to God~knowing best the language
of creation.
Poetry is not the
manipulation of lyrics,
as the mechanic tunes
to sound using ears – but,
deeper yet, vital articulations,
the spirit manifesting its
vibrations (essence-forms)
onto paper, for the eyes
to read and the mind to
soulfully respond. Poetry
must electrify, surge across
interior meridians, leaping
established barriers prior
to explosively exiting!
Poetry must carry the
nature of all that is
unseen, pleading to
surface, to know the love
and warmth of others,
as a child needing
weaning and burping –
poetry is not an art...
It is our God of Living
Words.
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