"You must believe: A poem is a holy thing_a good poem that is." Theodore Roethke
With innocence and child-like eyes,
she peers into the murky
tube.
A twist;
a gasp of joy, her mouth now oohs!
An aha moment of splendor
as shadow turns to light
as she, alone, creates amazing colored webs
expressing mad excitement with each spin.
Now she feels what the spider feels
as he builds his new nest of circles, angles, trapezoids
while on his homeward quest.
Transfixed, befuddled and bemused
since there’s no sense to life or rhyme.
I cannot wait as there’s no time for time.
My hour has set me on the run;
my pocket watch is nonsense and a crime:
repeats its days, still confused.
It’s spring; it’s spring
the birdies sing with glee
as all around creeps the columbine vine
startling some stately tree.
It’s spring; it’s spring,
the fishes spin their tale
and swirling near streams, the wildflowers be
home for some tiny snail.
It’s spring; it’s spring;
the valley sings their song;
squirrels in tune
curl their tales at the moon
as green grass grows along.
Hadron Collider
It’s only strange coincidence, but over coffee this am we talk of the Hadron Collider. And the first poem I read is:
Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)
“The End of the World”
Quite unexpectedly as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb-
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:
And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the canceled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing-nothing at all.
The cue ball’s measured tap now makes its move.
Yet man predicts but seconds in its fate.
Like life, quicksilver hearts are not defined.
Tomorrow’s rain, a non-conclusive clime.
If Chaos rules our days , accept his ways
as juggled plates, airborne with jostling hands.
Accepting Now is where we are sublime.
If Science can predict but seconds, four,
then why should we pretend to conquer more?
(Prompt: use ‘Quicksilver’ in exactly 66 word piece.)
“On Ormond Beach”
Upon this beach, the people saunter by.
Idyllic children splash at water’s edge.
The breaking wave blows sea-foam in my eyes.
My swim fins slide adeptly from this ledge.
And, lo! my body, buoyed by the salt
forgets. My being’s slipped its bony cage.
I’m floating, spiny blob, homunculus,
as once I was my father’s spermal stage.
I’m orca, playing, as my brain pretends;
suspends. I’m Pisces lost to ancient lore
where memory of eons pass my lens
spun round. No more aerobic carnivore!
Then, suddenly, old Triton blows his horn.
I’m banished back to shore where I’m reborn.
http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/chimera-66-writing-challenge-9
Breaking waves blow sea-foam in my eyes.
My swim fins glide adeptly from this ledge.
And, lo! my body, buoyed by the salt,
forgets!
My being’s slipped its bony cage. Free-floating, spiny blob,
HOMUNCULUS as once I was my father’s spermal rage.
I’m orca, playing, as my brain pretends: no more aerobic carnivore!
Old Triton blows his horn. I’m banished back to shore,
but newly born!
(Write 66 word piece using word, “homunculus”. Noun: A supposed microscopic but fully formed human being from which a fetus was formerly believed to develop first in the sperm. Linking to the HOST
A Piece of Driftwood
What’s left after a long and stormy night?
Your life! You’ve weathered all it had to give.
You, old beach relic, tell of such a plight
that, as a fond reminder, through it lived.
I’ll take you home with me; far from this sea.
We’ll rock upon my porch and dream of days
when we were straight and tall and running free.
No blisters snarling at bent bones or stays.
Your tone now bleached and white, this much I know:
that there’s uncanny smoothness to your touch.
The wind and rain have made you victim. Though
it takes a while, slow nature teaches much.
I’ll keep you, bit of soul from off that beach.
A heart’s companion; still it likes to teach.
The love of spring, eternal in the air,
when doves are heard outside my windowsill.
When nature’s light now casts a new-born flair
for all the world and now my moment’s thrill.
(These doves happened to rest opposite my 3rd floor condo apt in a Chinaberry tree and gave me just enough time to reach for my camera! What luck!)
