Another generation of himself
unzipped his soul like a banana,
stepping instantly
into another dimension of
the same dream.
Never died - never born,
it was an implanted imaginary life,
knowing this, was of course
as useless as a map of the sky.
The only thing not imaginary
was the emanation of God
looking from human eyes.
For a brief moment he thought:
"If I am alive, I must have been dead
or else how could I know I am
alive now?
Nothing had really changed,
he was still 75 years from the grave,
also, a lifetime nearer to
the next womb.
It came upon him
that his liking for chocolate ice-cream
had abruptly become
an insatiable desire
for strawberry vanilla.
Upon a stone plinth
an inanimate frog
flickered,
as once more
it changed into a stone
Buddha.
"Nirvana is that close!"
Hollered a ruby-cheeked Cherub
speeding past
on its tricycle.
Dawn
awakes
bright cities
deep moonlit snooze
when autumn pageant’s
covert vanishing trail
exits on the sly behind
a stoic gem plinth while cheerful
denizens asses black grain pepper
clouds afloat as dark cobalt skylines watch
Gust
chill noon
might sense its
life hub platform
shiver between months
October curtain may
droop o’er high-speed dream chaser
without some red orb scintilla
or the faraway treasure trove break
from taut humdrum routine office zeitgeist
Oak
and ash
or cherry
trees in the shade
adding splashes of
colour to town verges
between day long transitions
kaleidoscope on sweet gum hue
orange, red, burgundy foliage
caress tired eyes of street inhabitants
Light
swaying
lantern’s arc
cast magic tints
at high jinx urban
throngs inside and those who
loiter on the coffee dock
margins awestruck by picture perfect
fall where countryside meets asphalt sprawl hub
What if darkness is our natural state
bear with me bubonically
we spend most of our life dead or asleep
less than a third awake
some stars are still forming
wear the ice eroded
mountains now mole
hill of a sentence
i've got milliseconds counting
would a million pedicures
be a milli
paid attention to the dark
visited all it wrinkles
no one happy waking
comfort by my eyelashes clamour
closing to reremember Deja vu
Dave yah view
to the darking
there should be darking
abyss watching
nothing as i dangle
my f
-----e
-----e
------t from outside
yeah i know it should be where
Their wolf
There cast ill
Why are you talking like that
why does the dark feel warm
Seriously come on you darkness
you diviner of the moonlights glimpse
now try to say plinth
wont see you on the other side
cause my whole world is lacking b
ready for oblivion any time
no place
just gone
The triumphant man stands on the highest plinth
and lusters his name like golden pennies.
But little do they know that his success is only a piece
of a puzzle that he’s been working on for ages.
The time he spent was worthy to collect
achievements and possessions.
He thought he was loved;
He thought he had everything;
But the love that he knew was too random
that it quickly dwindled on stage.
Turned off his lights,
realized what he’s been missing
years after years.
Contest Name: Crumpled Thoughts
I want to write a little puzzle,
But I want to do it in rhyme.
I tried to do it once before
But didn't have the time.
Now I've joined poetry soup
It must have done the trick.
I picked up my pen and my pad,
And did one really quick.
Many a person has seen him
I've seen work, always a pleasure to see.
Some say he was very poetic,
He will always be a artist to me.
Europe is the place to visit,
Life's work, for all can be seen.
An artist who's work is so famous,
His work was given to a queen.
Great men like him make me wonder,
What patience an eternal genius require.
Looking at all the art he's done,
Overhead, on a plinth.or hanging above a fire.
The answer is in there somewhere,
Never together or the same.
I've tried not to make it to easy,
Or what was the point of this game.
Ps.please don't google.lol.its not that hard
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse
Of a stunning young lady, classified as a nymph
A glorious image
Playing the fiddle
An overweight statue with a protruding plinth
reverberations
in unusual forms
impressions exhibited
of glass wire
steel lead wood
&bread
looking to sea
by a main road
upon a plinth
or mountainside
within a cathdral
beside
transparent
immersive
or in solid grids
tactile
stimulating
to the touch
imagination illumed
by the one off
abstractions
figurations
in iterations
The soldier on a plinth
he his no paladin
glorifying bravery
silhouetted by the brilliance
of those that shine no more.
Names engraved on monuments
and on loved ones hearts.
But now just a foot note in history
was their loss worth the anguish
or their never ending agony.
When lives are lost in another nations battles
politicians are quick to bellow
of bravery and heroism
when more soldiers are needed for war
no poppy wreath will take the grief away
when a nations flowering youth as died
or no statue in a park
replace a man still standing tall
I lie here spooned against you in the dark, my arm draped across your softness, but I remember those lean and muscled days – do you remember mine?
How is it now so many years past that vibrant heat of youth, when we made our promises and thought we knew, we only thought we knew . . .
We never guessed at what lay in store: those nights of desperate pleading. The worried dawns and stressed out days.
And certainly not the anguish of betrayal or the loneliness inside that very thing that was meant to keep us company.
But neither did we anticipate the sweetness of enduring, the compassion in forgiving the very humanity of what was once exalted and adored.
The plinth and its burden (or the burden that was the plinth) long fallen and yet still precious.
The perfection in acceptance of the imperfect.
What is here is entirely new; produced from tears and laughter; bitterness and joy. Something forged from the hard, hard work of making it work.
It isn’t what we thought it would be and we are not who we once were, but I remember.
And even in this unexpected unmapped and uncharted territory,
You still feel like home.
(c)
10/2016
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth", I question.
Research on this ancient proverb, of course
finally brought me to this aged suggestion:
"the longer its teeth, the older the horse."
Remembering a blue-chip London bus trip
we took a journey to T-Square perforce.
There upon the fourth plinth, we dared not to skip
the stellar sculpture called Hans Haacke's "Gift Horse."
Borrowing from equine pictures drawn by George Stubbs,
Fulfillment for posterity, Hans' ace of clubs.
Readily, H. Haacke now spins a skeleton
which features a ribbon of ticker tape
from the London's Stock Exchange's latest run.
Money and power set in a new shape.
But recently, fate has behooved to remove
this sculpture to Chicago's latitutde.
Proverb's warning: Looking at its teeth for proof,
you slay a gift horse with ingratitude.
August 19, 2019
https://www.artic.edu/exhibitions/8944/hans-haacke-gift-horse
Sponsor Robert James Liguori
Contest Name A Notable Horse
All stones are arms in war.
A day in my tutelage,
In my father's corn-field,
I stood as Oranyan's plinth;
I heard the lion roar:
Why are you a statue son?
“My sickle Sir, I stuttered”.
"Strike now and don't be still,
All stones are arms in war;
Strike and be somewhere son".
So with my goatee beard,
In the Land, my pot was denied,
Should I be still as another hay?
His voice came like echo's wave :
"Strike now and don't be still;
All stones are arms in war;
Strike and be somewhere son".
So I applied the brawl of age
And became the city roustabout.
But the Father’s kingdom came
When gourd was given a chance
To give an account of the pot.
Now the head relieves the brawl.
Knock, knock; who is there?
“The throne has a cachet for you”.
So I look in retrospect
And wish to tell you, my son:
Strike now and don't be still,
All stones are arms in war;
Strike and be somewhere son.
The royal will post the Laurel.
A duet sung alone
I know now how confusing 'twas to find
That I loved my love walking one-way street,
Knowing, she seldom with my love was lit,
Her heart was but with love of friendship lined,
Whilst silent was my love, clueless it came,
Hers, distant, chilled, warm too of a close friend,
An unknown seed still sprouted sans a name,
Love built the nest still, hard to comprehend;
A nest it was by both if strange birds made,
Built by love's sweat, reinforced to last long,
With a plinth-stone precious enough as jade;
And I sang all alone a duet song,
She sensed the same frisson I too had felt,
In hope that long frozen love soon might melt.
Sonnets | 02.10.14 |
Taken from my book, Harvest of the Late Season, published by Penguin (Partridge).
A Brian Strand 1 to 14 Lines Poetry Contest
First Place
Engage yourself
Engross yourself
Fill moments
Feel movements
Hate or kisses
Hugs or misses
Apathy or glory
Love or hostility
Flow or blockade
Plinth or facade
Uncover yourself
Discover yourself
----------------------------
© Hitendra Mehta
I had a dream
I dreamt, a tree a dead white tree
from a grey stone plinth
cowled men of ancient time
around its brittle boughs unbent
Together pointing as they chant
with fingers of long grey bone
without a blink at this raven bird
and apart, apart I stood alone
And sweet from damp dark throat
I strained to hear that song
singing sweet in tearful deep
with eyes that wish and long
it spoke some whispered voice
saying we all die here alone
frozen then in dread and fear
I woke to keen and mourn
a heavy structure
constructed on very weak plinth
it's feeble so falls
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