Of Consequence...

Photograph by Terry at http://mobiusfaith.wordpress.com

listen to ‘Consequence’ on Audioboo

In a land draped in smoke

We find a people caressed by fear

Where only the undead

Are unspoken for.  (APOCALYPTIC SNOWFALL)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

In a world consumed by hate

We see a realm that doubts their faith

Where the only beliefs able to heal

Are dusted, dead, or concealed. (NUCLEAR WINTER)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

In a society applauding theft and greed

We shun the children who’ve yet to feed

Pushing back the masks, only for the time it takes

To devour what purity’s left to rake. (INHERITANCE)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

Behind hidden doors, Hope’s salvation weeps

As daily they do watch…monsters, unwrought and free

For outside’s where the abhorred stray at night

Leaving but the day to retrieve those released from misery 

(MUTATION)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

When the stench renews

Pulses must grow numb…

As darkness covets light

Vision alters sight…

No matter what you hear

That sound you cannot clear

Despite your urge to feed

There’s no taste left to comfort thee

For when the ravagers appear

Muted be thy cries

Lest beckon upon all

The infection summoned by your call.  (THE END)

Smart Bombs Only Destroy

The smartest bomb is the one NEVER made…

Over at D'Verse, Claudia brought forth a photo prompt. Being a moderator at D'Verse, I, like the others, had a chance to get ahead start tonight, (which I obviously took full advantage of lol). 

 Well, to be perfectly honest, I saw that it was a photo prompt and while those can be quite fun sometimes, I just didn't think I was in a mood to roll something out this way.  So, I did a bit of reading, napped a bit and then hopped on the computer about two hours ago.  

I wrote a couple of things, but I've been rather stagnant lately, only able to knock out some haiku.  So I went into my bag of tricks, poems previously written and noticed I only had one in there, which I had planned on using with some art I did for another blog.  So, I popped in to D'verse, to check out the post and the photos for Poetics.  And there it was that I saw some really impressive photographs. 

Well, I have to say this apocalyptic verse sort of just came to being right then and there.  So, long story short, it's kind of funny how things work out isn't it?  There I was, not feeling like working from a photo at all, even knowing that was suffering a bit of poetic paralysis, and needed a jolt of some sort.  Yet, I was being stubborn I guess, thinking that only I could get myself out of the slump or whatever it is when, lo and behold,not even five minutes elapsed over at the site when bang, the full premise of a poem accosted me in a most pleasant way.  Funny how things work sometimes.  

I look forward to reading your pieces.  These are some very unique photos, that should really offer a wide many angles for poetic approach.  So head on over, check out Terry's photography and check out all the responses linked up on D'verse.  Maybe you'll find yourself quickly impelled to write like I was, please share it if you are, I for one would love to read it.  Then, how about swinging by Terry's site to check out all the neat pieces he's created there.  Definitely a lot of unique material, he has a different way of looking at the world, which makes for some really interesting shots.

The Girl at the Espresso Shop

Patchouli scented airwaves, naturally

pushed their serenity upon

the blight that dyes the blood-beating

drone of rain—where elementary plucking

politely accompanied the cacophony

of drum fodder originally

fashioned for this brittle child who, somehow,

briefly stole my heart during

that summer I spent vacationing at the smallest

of the least popular Sandalwood resorts.

I forgot all about that precious child, until this afternoon,

where I saw this Artistic-flavored hippie chick, who reminded

me of that brittle girl I’d internally obsessed over, for each of the

14 nights I’d spent unplugged many, many year’s prior.

Conveniently, she sat, sipping a caramel

espresso at the tiny cafe annexed between

the herbal market and the yoga palace, which just so

happens to double as a karaoke/singles bar on

both Thursday and Friday nights.

Through opium contoured designations, I peered, as inconspicuously as possible, at the hippie girl, while she continued her torturously slow sipping, upon that beautifully delicate, bluish-white demitasse cup—and after removing her lips, in painstakingly slow regards, I could feel the serum pulsating through me then and there—all this occurring moments before I had the privilege to take notice, as to how her raspberry gloss had redecorated the fragile cup’s design.

For what seemed like hours—time seemed to linger, wafting enchantingly through the salted air—

This, of course, was nothing but an approximation, as there really wasn’t anyway I could have located the precise expenditure of time—for I haven’t wore a watch in roughly twenty years, my cell-phone’s battery had given up on me moments before I caught the first glimpse of this wonderfully exquisite sight, and the only wall clock was positioned behind me—and while I certainly, with ease I might add, could’ve turned around and examined the hour and minute hands to know for sure—the truth of the matter is that I, in supreme stalker mode fashion, never veered my gaze from this wonderfully fascinating breath of fresh light.  By the end of the afternoon I fully understood ever inch of the rose painted sundress this girl wore so very well.

Created using Monday Melting's inspiring word list. To learn more and share in the fun, stop on over to Shawna's and see what it's all about, if you're like me, you'll find yourself hooked.

Also sharing with Open Link Night at D'Verse.  The Doors are open, the poetry is flowing, and the mike is live.  So stop over, check out the wonderful poetry on display and why not share a poem you wrote while you're there.    

Variance

Emmett Wheatfall is the host tonight at D'Verse for their weekly Meeting The Bar segment and prompt.  Tonight he has prompted us to pen a piece that uses Conflation.  Conflation is the merging of variant ideas into one; the result is a new entity unto itself.  Emmett offered the additional challenge of, while working with conflation, incorporating something of yourself into the piece, without using end rhyme.

It was a bit more challenging than I thought it would be.  Actually, no, it was pretty tough.  Here's my stab at it:


Variance

Variance, the virtuoso of the alternative footprint can

Summon quite the tiered arrangement of sound.

First comes the tear (composed mainly of a salinized secretion, yet in such instances, that is much more heavily weighted, than that of your garden-variety watery eyes) that seems to appear-like magic- out of thin air and all.

Next came the birth of the subtle sob, (a bubbled up-bubbled over-babbling of gibberish), a melodramatic merger of the fascinating relationship between what we feel and what we think others expect our reactions to be.  The sob truly has elements of fantasy built within—at this stage of evolution; the human mammal has certainly learned that an extra little something, when speaking about the tonality of their sob, can sway jurors, family and friends.  So in as such, the sob blurs the reality of the hardship and the performance offered on life’s stage.  The entire nature of sobbing is…almost comical.

The tertiary position consists of what most would consider weeping.   Weepers, while some people most assuredly can alter their mindset, get into character, and blather great cries, most, in such circumstances, are genuine in their wallowing.  Yet, some still find these individuals to be of the highest comedic pursuit.  I feel sad for these types.  Perhaps they’ve yet to experience the sadness that promotes such dynamic despair, or, well I’ll just say numbness is a possibility, but so is sadism, either way, pity seems like a good solvency.

Finally, the final tier, the last in order, the culmination of sequence, is the wishing wail.  Here the individual prays for such joyous occasions, they claw at the fabric of existence, hoping, pining for a moment so wonderful, that their floodgates can open and pour their happiness unto the entire world, indifferent to the actual politics of location or sum quantity of bystander.

Variance is the first jar upon the spice rack, yet in the case of “most of the time,” is typically the last to be chose.  Variety is the balancing beam on which we walk.  Sure we like familiarity, and often times, change fosters a grimace, upon our all too-often, already scowled countenances.  Yet, personally, I’d be at a loss for words, if palates of commonplace were all there was to work with. 

Uneducated Bliss or (Allowing Shadow-Tainted Eyes To Filter That Which Has Been Heard)

Mystery and Melancholy of a street by Giorgio de Chirico

The trailers are all empty

The children are at play

Monstrosities and unspeakable voyeuristic veers

Churning stomach yet intoxicating are the views

Shaded passage

From east to west

Shadowed blankets

From southern alleys

To northern peak

Children play in the lighted spots

Emptiness

Calm

Prior to the first 

Mirage

Pillars strengthening the town

Echoic symmetries

A Merger with the reality

Where teardrops, the taste of untested years

Drowning out the rhythmic patter

Of jubilant vaudevillian sound

Are the beasts unchained

Who've not been offered a choice

Fight for yourselves

Clashing steel caressing shield

The roaring travels it's way 

From coliseum to covered street

Those without entry

Those who stand guard 

Twitch as the sounds stand still

While the children are at play

knowing not the difference

between melancholy and joy

When new mysteries are but

A shrouded street away

Thanks to the D'verse crew for Open Link Night and for the art inspired prompts of Giorgio de Chirico, for without one or the other, this piece would not be here either.