Congrats Riesa! Fascinating pic. I'll have to give it some thought.
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Congrats Riesa! Fascinating pic. I'll have to give it some thought.
we turn in dwindling inclusion
to define where we are at,
trapped in narrower seclusion
by tightening legal caveat -
for the threat of execution
dwarfs the execution of threat
from the height see how the land lies,
each hazard hid within its bower;
clad in white men with clubs realise
importance of four holes an hour -
for the power of joint exercise
masks the joint exercise of power
we - scorpion race that raises fire
(venom of stars in sting of faith;
the tighter turn in heat of ire,
the closer stilling of our breath) -
know: the death of all desire
follows all desire of death
bump.........................
Tails of Scorpions
Feeling green and tired and sick of rain,
an ancient Berber sits sullen
in the park's wet grass, face lined deep
with sand dune wrinkles, remembering
the tastes of his homeland: Salt. Sweet
water. Fires built from dung,
lost twigs, brittle bones of the dead.
Mother frying bread in a thick iron pan
taken from an Englishman called
Smith of all things, traded
for a blanket spun of camel hair thread
and the tails of scorpions.
Forty years eating brown falafel
and too-dry gyro, tahini from a can.
His mother never knew can, only
the cunning desert and the herd.
Meager fire. She is dead. His hands ache
after forty years in warehouses,
having escaped the tidal sands
for cardboard dust and heavy lifting.
His American wife left him--
after bearing three olive-skinned girls--
alone in this sprawling city,
only a speck to his great desert,
where his mother died and left him
to feed himself, to flee the wars,
to trade his strength for passage
on the Argentinian freighter
that carried him to the west,
beneath looming landscape buildings,
to this park never still, or quiet
or soft with golden sunsets,
but always green and wet with rain.
bump................
OK, here's my entry.
Quote:
A Desert In The Heart
Through sage brush and ironwood
Brown dust floats so fine it seems
The entire moon’s dirt has been
Transplanted to this flat plane
Of sun and dry wind.
Sunset brings relief.
A man settles beneath
A canopied enclave with cold drink
With dust powdered on his jeans
Face burnt from day’s labor.
She amazingly replied,
But asked him not to.
“Why should she have the last word?”
He thought to himself,
Chapped lips recalling
Feminine mouth and breath.
Well, she was the woman,
And deserved that honor.
He decided to have a scotch.
No rocks, straight up.
It tasted good,
But it did not change anything.
He fixed himself another,
Dark-brown bite
Like a scorpion’s sting.
bump.....................
Sunset scintillating
On overworked oasis;
In insect-induced ictus,
Eagles endure egg-full eyries.
Desert darkness –
Night nears narcolepsy
As all animals are asleep.
Dawn dimming dark –
Heartbeats hasten, heralding heat.
Sun seizes supremacy –
Basilisks bask beneath burning.
Fire fades;
Dusk deepens dumbly.
Out over orange-tinted oasis,
Slowly sinking sun shadows scorpions.
Water with wasteland –
Such secrets seek sand.
Life living, laborious, leafless –
Such secrets, seek scorpions.
mua ha ha, ten minutes in study hall = really crappy poem. still, good contest, blondeatheart!
bump.......................
The End
Beauty is poised in a jointed pentagon.
Supple Grace curves in a tense backward question mark.
Beauty and Grace are a deep black silhouette.
Every joint, every limb, every tiny hair
Sharply visible against the violent death
Of the light. All revealed distinctly down to the last
Sharp Point.
Beauty is poised in the end it posesses.
Its end is curved like the talon of an eagle,
Or like the tooth of the great Smilodon cat
(Once great, now old bones poised in a museum).
Beauty's end is curved like the thorn of a rose;
Prouder than the rose by possessing poison in its
Sharp Point.
Grace holds itself still and always ready,
Aware of the great power contained in movement.
It knows the way to curve itself gently.
It knows the way to hold the pose steady.
Grace knows the end of its every swift movement.
Grace knows how to grant grace painlessly with a flick of its
Sharp Point.
Okay guys, beautiful entries so far, from all of you. I'm going to pick a winner, (maybe out of a hat ;)) on Monday, to give white camellia and spally a chance, or anyone else too to submit a poem.
Soft, sick sunset seeping in
With submission
My bruised pinchers unknown
To confession,
Stirred, stygian Styx sighs over
Beyond sands
My Scorpian lover's specter
Amid bands.
Thanks, Riesa. ;)
I've chosen a winner among the excellent submissions.
This really got to me, PL. I felt it was the most connected to my own feelings about the image.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
Congratulations, Petrarch. Gorgeously done.
Yes, congratulations Petrarch. Very nice.
Oh wow, I won?! :banana: Gee, thanks Riesa. I thought all the submissions were really good. I'll have to go find a fascinating pic. for you guys to write on now. I may not post it until later though, because I'm in the middle of preping for a really big presentation just now and must run. Maybe this win will grant me luck and the profs won't tear my paper to shreds too badly as I sit there parrying their questions about it for two long hours :eek2:. Anyway, couldn't be happier with honor of winning contest, and picture due to arrive this evening post paper defense.