Aim dead center, O aeon!
Era, this is now.
Ergo, O my stern scion;
Come to anyhow!
Looking-glasses are like wind.
Reality grinned.
Terror, tiger, tamarind!
Sacred til he sinned...
Gaunt the gambrel goblin?
No smile a-face today.
Whirling dervish, loud the din!
War, be on thy way!
Grey of the nebula pond;
Why is waiting good?
Yellow-speckled viper yawned!
Gone but understood!
Kingdoms are like prophecies?
Yes, in this context:
Rife, roil, rampant, rare! Disease!
Hell and Heaven, hexed...
Sort it out, O sordid sigh...
Do not ask us why?
Sylvan silver, art thou shy?
Bargain basement buy?
Syllable, unleash thy wrath!
Letters, break the chain!
Poems, place us on the path!
Language, take the lane!
Young is this old harpsichord?
Harpy, use a sword?
Bull, matador. Which gets gored?
Folly gets you floored.
Holly. Mistletoe, thy doom.
Poison, flow like wine.
Ivy, rune, ice, ancient tomb.
Cyanide strychnine.
the azure flower, a lone sentinel,
stands tall amidst the scorched earth.
the tornado's wild caress,
a whirling dervish of destruction,
unleashes its fury upon the field,
devouring the vibrant blooms
with reckless abandon.
as the last petals are swept away,
the azure flower remains,
a frosty jewel,
polished by the tempest's violent hand.
it now dances, isolated,
amidst the barren vastness,
a wistful beauty sullied by the ravages of chaos.
in this tragic solace,
the azure flower finds a strange,
elegiac beauty,
a trophy to the brutal capriciousness
of the universe's whims.
the canvas drained of hue,
except a drop of beau hue blue,
a little color in a bleak landscape.
question is will the bee tricks ever get to thrive,
or will this field be bereft of her flora forever?
The bedlam lifts if only for a while;
a brief but needed calm falls on the house
when she departs for school aboard the bus.
Though trying hard to suppress overt smiles,
I grin in the direction of my spouse,
for any more would be superfluous.
But storms can interrupt our best laid plans
and so it seems our calm was but an eye;
no sooner had we contemplated peace,
than fires gave way to cast iron frying pans:
a chance that funnel clouds could fill the sky
and pressures here at home might soon increase.
Who is this damned administrative fool
who brought it on himself to close the school?
—————
A Brisbane Sonnet: abcabc defdef gg
Ooh, to take a magic carpet ride
Just disappear from here
To sneak away and explore the world
Just travel around its sphere.
Perhaps sneak away to Instanbul
Catch a whirling dervish show
Maybe flutter off to India
Watch spices as they grow.
Head towards the Netherlands
See flowering tulips in their fields
Steer the carpet to the Kenyan plains
As Maasai show their shields.
Coax the ride toward the British Isles
Perchance get to see the Queen
Flit on past the Amazon
See Brazilian emeralds and their green.
Soar over top of Everest
Chase the tahr down from its slopes
Swiftly skim across the deepest sea
Then gaze through Hubbles telescope.
Or should I closely hold your hand
Then float towards the moon
Lounge in the sun on golden sand
Then serenade you with a tune.
The word is full of lovely things
But I’d rather share the view
Because while these are dream vacations dear
They’d all be empty without you.
For L Milton Hawkins Contest
My Dream Vacation
Weitten 11th March 2022
Oh balls
foul tipped
slow trickled….
down the line
Oh balls
you whirling dervish
biting air…quick clawing
down and away
Oh balls
wood slapped
rising in an arc of cheers
falling in the leathered web
of tears
Oh balls
the games go on
and though I age
the heart still plays
John G. Lawless
©9/26/2021
The spatial symphony of a whirling dervish.
The shine that exudes from a child of the Sun-God.
The explosive gesture of a splitting atom.
When the Great One danced on the head of a pin.
Hear it within your soul and then align yourself.
Dance the song of sunrise and another day to live!
Like fools for love, I am a fool for God;
like a whirling dervish, I'll dance for Him;
and count myself a bug in blesséd sod,
for He sustains all of me, every limb!
Some are fools for power, and some for greed;
but I am foolish for His Holy Bread,
a clown and jester for His Word, indeed;
and guest at His court where I am richly fed.
None are so foolish so as to be poor;
but I'm, like a fool, broken for His sake:
for what I need worldly riches no more
can heal or mend—for life is but heartache.
Once, I was a fool most of all for desire;
but now, I just lust for His Baptism's fire!
dancing
prancing
twirling
whirling
dervish loving lake’s mirror reflection
dancing, prancing, whirling inspection
Believe What You Seek…
Believe what you seek,
not what others would have you speak.
Ignore the signs stopping you.
That whirling dervish of conviction one conveys
need not, nor should not,
suggest what your audience wishes you to believe.
The question is…
Do you convey,
speak.
or seek?
Would that more artists
were inclined to present but a perception,
rather than a guised demand to follow.
Might such an approach lead to a more enlightened state of mind for the curious?
For what is one person’s understanding
over another?
Can yours or my insight of experience
be an end all to art as you or I think it should be?
Reality’s imagination thinks not.
For as Frederick Franck posits: “An artist has an obligation to question the conditions that rule all our lives… and to cause his audience to do the same.”
Nothing more.
Nothing less,
regardless of the discipline one is partaking of.
For writers,
there is but knowledge converted to words.
Write on you lexicon-warriors.
Time could be short.
What phantasmal shadows have before my visage flown? Spectres fleeting, heart shards fled into the abyss of night. This precipice upon which I teeter yaws wide beneath feet ungrounded, clutching desperate at bosom rent and shattered. Poor shadows all, perhaps fevered dreams, vapor beneath questing fingers. Burning passions swallowed up in absence, body swathed in void. That longing which lingers, taunts with laughter empty. A reminder of figments once called 'lover' memories of hands fiery gone cold as ash. O maddened heart, cease and be still, no whirling dervish are you, but a poor fool deluded by grandeur and fantasy. Be still and remember let delve deep twisted root, fly not into the expanse for fancy, nor delusion. Hush now thou crazed spirit, struggle not and rage no more. Be still, be sill, and let whispers scream howling, echoed across the solitude. And know only the company of ghosts.
As I incorporate colours with images in my dreams,
Still, it’s more the emotional attachments that set the scenes.
Like an onlooker in another world of landscapes,
I am in control as I pull back the invisible drapes.
My mind wanders from my body so light,
And flies off with birds into hot summer nights.
I choose the scenes I want to participate in,
I choose who will tonight be my friend or kin.
Why just last night I was challenged in combat,
Defending in Kung Fu but I never attack.
Until of course they make the first move,
But in dreams, it is easy never to lose.
I'm a whirling dervish, dancing on my toes,
Not fighting, but awing my friends and foes.
While moving my mind wanders far away,
I dance out of me, leave only my body to stay.
I will often find myself in strange situations,
Sometimes a dream will turn in various stipulations.
As I incorporate colours with images in my dreams,
Still it’s more the emotional attachments that set the scenes.
Like an onlooker in another world of landscapes,
I am in control as I pull back the invisible drapes.
My mind wanders from my body so light
And flies off with birds into hot summer nights
I choose the scenes I want to participate in
I choose who will tonight be my fiend or kin
Why just last night I was challenged in combat,
Defending in Kung Fu but I never attack,
Until of course they make the first move,
But in dreams it is easy never to lose.
I'm a whirling dervish, dancing on my toes
Not fighting, but awing my friends and foes
While moving my mind wanders far away
I dance out of me, leave only my body to stay
You will often find yourself in strange situations,
Sometimes a dream will turn in various stipulations.
***
January 31, 2017
White Wolf
Darren White
There is a whirling dervish of-
cries,
screams,
and misery.
This swirling cauldron is filled with-
sorrow,
hopelessness,
and perfuse bleeding.
These ingredients blend into a virulent brew-
of perfect despair.
It is a true carnival of souls.
Souls trapped in a pit of unending suffering.
They churn and turn in endless loops,
never to escape this.
The sound fills ones being with fear and dread,
of the dead.
It penetrates and resonates within me,
haunting me.
It is all just a bad dream,
a midnight terror.
I can not seem to wake up from this.
Tumultuous funnel spins, a whirling dervish spitting out destruction.
12/5/15
For Silent One's One-liners II contest
The whirling Dervish leaves fell…
Clouds of reindeer from the kebab
House as well, in deepest down town
Camberwell …a Turkish Christmas
…he announced
“Come and hunt wolves in the Caspian
Mountains with my uncle” he said….
I declined …keen to protect the wolves
And my reputation as a liberal
Damn...what a fool I was:
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