I see a clearing
It's big enough to land in
The grass is short
No rocks or bumps
It's all clear for landing
My heart beats in panic
Tears of sweat run down my face
Fear grips my body
In expectant embrace
The engine splutters and coughs
Bangs erupt from broken wings
I hear my own screams
The smoke is acrid in flared nostrils
My flesh burning, stinks
Ah! I savour a touchdown, touche!
My love like steel and silk
cuts through you
splutters your blood
watermelon juice down a throat
Wipes it with yellow silken ribbon
for you to suck afresh
that you may find your
Godly seed within
My love like dragonflies and bees
silently landing on stamen or pistils
alchemising nectar into patterned
dust upon transparent wings
Earth rewards my love with morning glory
steel severs sunflower stems
silkworms crawl into a wet rose centre
pollen stolen in sparkling dew
My steely silken love refreshed
from your flowered stickiness
The gurgling brook starts to babble near here,
It murmurs, humming a soft mantra song,
With squish, squelch, squirm, its fluid voice is clear,
As it splashes, splutters, dancing along.
It kisses, caresses the bed of stream,
The banks are hugged in sibilant embrace,
Ripples lapping, create a lilting dream,
Each glug, slurp and slosh is rhythmic in grace.
But wind and rain cause torrent gushes loud,
That boom, bang, as waves crash against the shore,
The river churns into a enraged shroud,
That roars, screams, fizzes and hisses once more.
The torrent and tranquil, each play their parts
In the sound ensemble, the steam imparts.
It clicks and it whirs and it chunters,
This wonderful little machine,
As it takes and measures and grinds
Those marvellous little brown beans.
It hisses and it gurgles and it splutters
Then finally begins to pour
And just seconds later
A Kaffee Lang awaits once more,
Which just slips down the throat
So any morning muzziness slips away;
After such a fine coffee
Any man can face any day
November is a thin needle under the shortest rib,
often it slips past your moat, your portcullis,
your castle walls unnoticed.
The fire in your kitchen splutters
and the wood is too wet to rekindle it.
Only then do you look through a spy glass
from your highest tower
see the wraiths churning in the sparse woods,
see the dervish dance of demented bones
resurrected from last year.
Chill November is here
and the guards are asleep.
The dark winter of your content
needs a new puffer jacket.
Call for the seamstress of your soul,
call for the mitten maidens.
Gather up the woolens
for all the wind soaked feet
that have to march on.
so this poem is based solely on the title and its interpretations
so the obvious one is racism
do the blind only see the sound
if you take it like colour
as in shades of pink
is shade just a lesser human
like a lesser red
deeper tones have stronger faith love hate
what if shade is the shadow
we blight on nature
What if it was a shade actually made of skin
sorry thats the serial killer coming out of me
or maybe just a lampshade owned by all humanity
dont listen to him hes a nutter
what if theres a lettet missing
maybe its
an shade of human
naw that disney sound right
A shoop of sheep
a faith of leaps
maybe Christian takes on humanity
the first of 50
maybe its that darkness
that blobs and muds
and splutters
from the pits abyss
that pulls inside
what if it has no meaning
until you give it one
I look into the mirror and falter,
Staring back at me is a stranger
Wallowing in pity and self rebuke.
Another victim pierced by love's hook.
Being stripped bare and exposed
Like a waste paper to be disposed.
I try to speak but shudder and wince
For what emanates doesn't myself convince
That is the voice of the person I hold.
Hollow sound like that of the men of old,
Is what splutters out sheepishly
As my reflection at me stares, foolishly.
I try to grap my teacup but withdraw
For the hands panicking remains me of a folklore,
Of which I am the Antagonist,
Begging for mercy at the feet of the sadist,
Who in his strength and might
Laughed at me with malicious delight.
With such panicky hands, the rope I knotted.
With an outstretched leg, the stool I righted
My dreams, fading.......
My vision, fading.......
Time, drifting away.....
My senses, shying away.....
If only you had loved me for a day.
If.........
© Temajung Michael T.
Buea, 03/03/2021
She turns up the blue flames,
lowers the chops.
Dripping crackles, iron is fat licked -
grease on her fingers.
The meat finds its voice,
splutters of buttery smaze.
The pork is in bloom.
The animal inside the flesh
disappearing.
The meat opening
florets of aroma.
My stomach is cramping,
not with anticipation,
but with an acidic hopelessness.
Mother turns from the gas burner;
splattered apron - flushed cheeks.
She smiles, not looking at me,
but seeing a man
who will be home soon.
“He will love these.”
I pretend not to hear, but wonder
if there will be milk with
my cornflakes.
I see in your glaring eyes, you’ve an inferno of anger within,
the tongue splutters words of vitriolic mind like acid rain.
From wild fire the sane senses turning to ember ashes rise,
you’ve an inferno of anger within, I see in your glaring eyes.
I don’t abandon you in the simmering cauldron of hatred,
nor do I try to blaze you in the flame of vengeance instead.
Fire can’t douse fire, as in my soul wrath you can’t spew,
in the simmering cauldron of hatred I don’t abandon you.
I inundate you in flowing forgiveness like spurting fountain,
shower of divine element drenches you, douse fire of disdain.
You rise from ash of repentance at the burnt edge of calmness,
like spurting fountain I inundate you in flowing forgiveness.
I pray to God, give me strength of mind and wisdom of sense,
get divine forgiveness for the sins, I pledge sincere penitence,
forgive others for their wrong doing, I beseech my soul avowed,
give me strength of mind and wisdom of sense, I pray to God.
March 23, 2019
The road in front of us falls away,
The radio static becomes a wall we nod our heads to,
And the car splutters along like cheap fireworks
Again your eyes slide off the dash onto my hands
Which are busy being nervous.
In this silence it is impossible not to feel like an uninvited guest,
All flesh, no voice.
I reach to touch the speakers and this rope around us
Snaps.
After two hours, three dirt roads, and one discussion of what real rock music is,
We still have an ocean in front of us
Maybe April comes early this year
Maybe winter decides to stay home
Maybe my skin becomes a lighthouse
Just maybe.
You are the last shred of lightning that connects me to the storm.
I should sit and listen to
the people who've been there
and passed back through
living on to tell the tale of life
and death.
But there never seems
the time to take a moment,
and call it mine,
if you find one
can you kindly let me know.
It's a rush,
rush here and there
getting nowhere.
Snowing
white and cold
feels quite soft
I'm becoming old
and it's covering the multitude
I
allude to sins.
Back to Wednesday which
never goes away
always waiting in the wings
it brings it home to me
that this is what
I love the most
continuity.
Bethnal Green and Poplar High
under the East London sky
and I'm here on the Central line
wonder why that's so.
Among the coughs and between
the splutters
the tall guy mutters,
something
catching in his headphones
something
creaking in these tired bones
something about a Wednesday
that I really like.
Cast off the mooring ropes at bow and stern
Head out into the early morning mist
Hoist the big mainsail, free the jib, and turn
Feeling the filling canvas make her list
The venerable diesel chugs and splutters
Its smoky wraith lingering in our wake
We weave our way between sloops and cutters
Cleaving across crests beginning to break
Waves slap the hull and slither down the deck
We've left the strident seagulls far behind
The lighthouse beam pales as we pass the wreck
Whose rusting iron ribs still groan and grind
We round the point and catch the tidal flow
Astern, a fresh Force 4 lends us its wings
No engine needed now. I go below
And listen to the sounds that silence brings
An inner peace surfaces in this calm
Quietly floating all one’s stress away
Silence with stillness - a heavenly balm
That heals the damage of each crazy day
I go up top and breathe in salty air
Now, far away from the jostling crowds
I adjust my eyes to the sun’s bright glare
And scan the horizon - there are no clouds
The candle light flickers for no reason
even when shielded from stray puffs of wind.
It is an internal thing, rhythm within its being,
a vibrato in its song of pixels waved.
A reminder that making light is tough
squeezing vapor from melted wax, that is wicked
up to furnace of burning flame at tip.
Heating electrons in atoms makes them jump
up to higher energy levels above
before electrons drop back, releasing
splutters of visible light energy.
The process is flawed, with hesitant indecision.
No matter; imperfection can be tolerated in a candle!
There is something charming about flickering, anyway,
When reading a book in soft, warm candle light,
Something that electric lights can never emulate.
Such modern lights only flicker when faulty.
Looks here what do we see
A funny man, dweedle dee dee
His wonky eye and messy hair
He spits and splutters everywhere
A pair of socks, with no shoes
His hat is made from last weeks news
Many people stop and gaze
Their look is often, full amaze
Yes this man maybe weird
With his long and wirey beard
This he knows, it makes him proud
He is unique and very loud
I do adore this man you see
He is my brother, eternally
My wild woman
She splutters to start
Crunching and grumbling
She let's off a fart
Creaking and grinding
She oils up her bones
Knocking back coffee
She stifles the moans
Time for a "tune up"
Obviously slightly "out"
"Come on old dragon"
She Roars with a shout!
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