When we find ourselves having fun again,
Of the kind that:
Wriggles our toes.
Tickles our nose,
Wiggles our hips,
And Jiggles our mind into remembering,
The fun we once had,
And can have again,
When the right people are around,
To inject the fun back into our day.
We will know no bounds,
With the fun people around,
With the safe people around,
Reason enough to let out,
Only cheerful sounds,
From lips that had forgotten,
How fun sounds,
To ears that long to hear again the sound,
Of of fun and laughter in the air.
a line starts to crawl
bending between its endpoints—
alive on the page
the line learns to walk
loops like a caterpillar—
dragging wiggly tail
a trembling string line
resonates in space and time—
a violin sings
the line curves around
back on itself, head to tail—
a merry-go-round
ink line creeps forward
curling into cursive forms
signing its own name
tears form rivulets
gravity pulls water down—
meandering flow
three or four thin lines
entwine into plaited braid—
motion becoming
crawling on all fours
the line takes a mountain walk—
tracing the contours
a wandering stroke
like an oar that doubts the sea—
encircles meaning
the line unravels
to its ragged, riffraff core—
threadbare its heartless
defined as taut straight
the shortest way between points—
wayward wriggles room
a line drifts outward
then returns, as if it knew—
all paths bend inward
the line comes to rest
where it first began to crawl—
nothing left to scrawl
Trapped in a Tableau - Nette Onclaud 3-23-26
A Time Warp is a distortion of time or a Line Dance from the Rocky Horror Picture Show
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time-Warp Tableau
Trapped in a time warp
Jostled left then right
Wriggles and wiggles
Spun in a circle
Minutes distorted
No way to escape
I rejoice where peace is sacred to tease;
Where people draw lots to prove I'm insane...
To beat countless weep into sleep at ease
Without mastery of such acts deep down brain.
I rejoice nonstop...
Praise wriggles every sweat's drop
Till my voice can't pop.
I rejoice where reasoning is far a cure;
Where insanity peeps gut to be gone...
To keep off every thought which seems obscure,
Contemplating of how easier than done.
I rejoice undone...
Praise hails Almighty off fun,
Till my thoughts be gone.
I wish Wems a good day for this new age,
With pleasure well placed out of clock's hands rage...
Counting down seconds each time,
Cum minutes-hours till prime
Dates months of seasons in-out of life's gauge.
Be happy my good friends,
How time of season comes;
Past years- how each blends-
Today's wishes... for joy drums...
One, two, three, angled
Toes, fingers, teeth, mangled
"We WiLl bE fReE tO FiNaLlY sEe!"
The stomach's foot wriggles with glee
Amalgamation is the only way
Our Smith knows and begins to pray
No warning mouthed before the clasp
Gluttonous gloop scoops the foot in a grasp
Triple digits move swiftly and quick
The Stars lucky they are not here to see sick
Lashings, fingerings, scars and rot
Devoured by a trap the other sought
"HoW cOuLd YoU? wE WeRe pRoMiSed fuel...?"
The question dwindles, quiet and cruel
As our Smith digests, then takes a rest
And soon hears, newly, a crackling crest
Further over into the dark
We who have eyes see it stark
A fierce Furnace, the Fire's Cot
Where many Names are burned and forgot.
The worm of truth shimmers
Wriggles evasively
Hides inexplicably
In among sentences.
Seems to withdraw from
Honest inquiry
Dates of expiry
Desperate pleas.
We wish it Godspeed
As reason it chases
In the strangest of places
Where trust fears to follow.
A worm for a snake
Is an easy mistake.
Here's hoping deception
Won't impede truth's reception!
Crunch. Crunch.
"Oi— look
there's a caterpillar munching on my vegetables!"
Thwack.
Wearily, the caterpillar wriggles upright
as he's brushed into the dirt.
Again.
Picking up his countless green legs,
he makes the agonisingly slow journey
back to his mine of greenery
and the wreckage of cabbage.
How nice
would it be
to have a holiday?
Right. Now.
To sit back
and rest these jaws,
lay flat and watch the sky?
With a sigh,
he continues munching
on the cardboard leaves,
dreaming of the day
that he could fly through the world
as a butterfly,
and not a pest.
A screen door
creaks
small incursions
into rip and hole.
Unseen, a creeping grub and thriving,
chitinous mandibles
munch upon the desiccated dead,
thrive in the thrash and mingle.
Corruption forms its disorderly queue,
jointed question marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry
where slick eggs incubate.
As time swings its metronome,
splintered chips
flake away, wood
cracks its rotting bones.
Internal scaffoldings
crumble,
mold multiplies,
mildew clings to
muck.
A festering wriggles forth.
"Honey, can you oil the back door,
it's creaking again."
I scrunch my butt deeper into the sofa.
"I'll get on it after the game." I say,
making a mental note
to get more beers in,
Tomorrow, slap some paint
over the wormholes
maybe.
they seem to be here
they seem to be there
they seem to be everywhere.
`
they're playing with my mind
they're playing with my time
it seems to me, they're way out of line
their sarcasm wriggles and creep
cutting into my soul, all so deep
inside tears fall, again i cry and weep.
wearing their knowledge like a cape
to part and share they won't let it escape.
as i continue, living inside this cage-
with unintended ignorance, as my wage.
standing outside looking at the group
thirsting for knowledge to lift the mood
instead i`m sitting here unclothed and nude
so to gain total respect, i will pursue.
down upon bended knee. i plea
undo this cage. set my spirit free
and life can be all hopes and dreams
instead of drowning in this, dark sea.
I’m a dead muse walking, stuck in a queue
moving along slowly, spreading out too
A worm wriggles past, looking worse for wear
was caught in a hailstorm, guts everywhere
I'm a dead muse crawling, stuck fast in glue
caught up with the worm, he leaked so much goo
We're neck and neck, near the exit gate
I patch up his wounds, then use him for bait
I'm a dead muse fishing, snagging old reeds
the worm's in awful shape, each segment bleeds
I let him off the hook, just to take a rest
he looks juicy, but in truth not the best
I'm a dead muse starving, no appetite
can't find a stanza never mind a bite
And that poor li’l wiggler, I let him go
into the hailstorm, oops no, stupid crow!
By
David Kavanagh
Velvety earthmover, pink spades for paws,
mining for wriggles and nibbles.
You dig, delve and shovel,
breaststroke, through the soil,
a subterranean swimmer,
seeking a trapped sunlight
in the dimly packed dirt.
Myopic mole, surface,
peep out,
to blink at the moonlight,
rest upon your little hillock of labor,
a mound
that testifies to your busy soul.
Push your naked twitchy snout,
up into the wide-open,
whiskers alive to the rarified taste,
of a less muddy slice of life.
Song of the Four Seasons 2-16-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Song of the Four Seasons
Jagged steel gray skies
Compose barren bough sculptures
Midnight days, Orion nights
White fire crystal symphonies.
Spring wriggles adagio toes,
Sunbeams thaw tuneless meadows,
Daffodils dream yellow melodies
Blossoms burst fragrant ballads.
Downbeats of summer rainstorms
Silver sonatas of moonlight
Heat rises in crescendos,
Cool waves soothe sunburns.
Scarlet scatters leafy notes,
Crisp sapphire skies motifs,
Harvest chorales of harmonies
Harbingers in orange transitions.
A kestrel flies the sky with slow wing strokes,
then glides in and out of invisible windows.
Of a sudden - stillness - no sign of a hover,
as if a child's kite had caught an updraught
and ceased upon the wind.
Did a field rat stand on two legs
to sniff a waft of air?
Did its long pink nose
twitch, its whiskers tremble?
Down plunges a glimmer-flash
of feathered wings.
Down comes a thunderbolt of silence.
A strike!
The rodent is snatched-up
by far-reaching talons.
For an instant the rat wriggles -
it is dead as the bird rises.
A mucky puddle
still holds the reflected night.
Two maundering starlings
peck at the dark pool
as if fishing.
One worm wriggles up,
the birds don't seem inclined
to eat it
one bubble in the puddle
surfaces -
I sense a kraken.
The sordid thought thicket thrives
within the dungeon of the dark mind,
where the web of tormenting roots wriggles,
entangles all the escape routes,
as qualm deconstructs life’s forest path.
Unsure frail footsteps falter,
deranged wobbly tread dithers,
the root trap and the abyss wait
for the traveller, worn out of walking long,
going jaded to nowhere in the jungle of life.
The survival struggle starts as shovel of resolve
upturns the security soil, fells the trees,
removes the mesh and the darkness,
the crafted pasture of freedom then
looks up to the sky above the dismal canopy.
Destiny isn’t a pretext, the walk is one’s own walk
through the murky maze of the forlorn forest,
where the insightful impulse carves out
a pasture transforming into the garden of bliss,
the inner vision configures in the clearing.
_____________
February 17, 2023
Contest : The Clearing
Sponsored by : Craig Cornish
For Brian Strand Premier No. 1194
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