On My Sleeve

Submitted for dVersePoets.com "Taboo" prompt

On my sleeve

The dust of things I want to say

Those who pray

That I disagree

Those who I love, who will never know

Those whose disdain for me, that I don’t understand

On my sleeve

On my sleeve

The ribbed and diverse life that I want

The life that I can’t have

The place I long my nephews and nieces to see

Far off rocks sans minerals and order

Chaos

Crumbs

On my sleeve

On my sleeve

A wiped off drink

Red with the cranberry in the red of my heart

Saliva of a rambling man

Or a rolling stone like my father

Cracked and split, to spread the granite

Buttered over the meadow, no sorrow

For the subsequent, to unfold

On my sleeve

A queen of thorns

Fruit from the vines of my veins

Woven ‘round the tree I planted

She lays nailed to the cross I bear

In the cave I hibernate, wait

How innate, this seems to be

The seething hate, that I hate, within me

On my sleeve

The caged bird setting sail

Her wings too big for incarceration

The bleu eyed duchess and her aristocratic ways

Seduces my eyes, feathers my palms

Flows through my fingers

She’s on my sleeve

In my heart

On my lips

Off of my tongue

Into my pen

Through your eyes

Recycled

Washed away

From my sleeve

Salem's Lot

Photo Credit : Getty Images

Who are the mad ones, The asylum sentenced fools?

Heavy is the crown on the clown who laughs at the circus
Harlequins and Harlots;

Ferris Buellers and infinite days off, roving parasites
Offer a sideshow, and a Carnival Le Blanc

Carnivorous carnage woven intricately so

as to be discrete;
This humble nest
The mother roosts her egg, the chick under Orin hatched
Attached, are these larvae of like wing, Thrashers to an enigmatic will
Fly in circles for thrill, building another

Vlad reincarnate;

Impaled by their own pickets, white fences to personal salvation
All in a row, the domino Fall to another season
To behold, and let go
Go let, and campaign again

De-forceful voices, speaking soft tongues on loud whispers

Oxymorons flying against the wind of goodwills to Man
Men who have yet to self-fulfill prophecies
To them from thrones and crowns of thorns, makeshift Castles In The Sky
Hidden in a random hedgerow, on Pennsylvania Ave.

The ashed remnants of those burned at the stake

Fertilize those that speak of the flame, most deservedly so
Are they that speak such, to be engulfed in the Gulf
Just as the black liquid truth spilled free

March to the Ides

In a step
In time
Invasive Day of Pigs, like swine to the trough
Coronation Corporation : Fattened slop served cold
Dietary exercise in free thought, rendered cancerous

Dirty Queens wear Supreme gowns laced with decandence

While the House jester howls and slams another gavel
The court is full of princes and princesses
All fit the bill for their Vices
Biding for their own piece of the zoo

On a Hill

In a small town, Camel’s Lot.

I Say,

launch a LEM
for Lunacy

Purgatorial Pissings

(c) Andrew Calder

Posted for "Open Link Night" at dVersepoets.com



Parallel paradox, the divisive multiplier

Void betwixt parallax and mirror
Reality versus fiction, the damage done, a Dent
A Harvey faced versus façade, mirage

The translucent river at flood level

Fluid production via years in pre-disposition, torrential downpours
Longing gaze on the thought pebbled beach to the other
The certain, surest one, through the looking glass permeates

Traveled lifetime, experiential conglomerate

Beaten upon by the cerebral wave crashes
Seemingly impassable, impasse
Sans ability to float, or a boat to traverse
Daydreaming Magellan circumnavigating familiar waters

His Perfect Circle, the consistency in radial transgression

Through aqueous transmission, their electrodes acquiesce
One and One in the same

Eleven

Encompassed by the fear of n’er to return,

Broken compass sells the self, no direction, no sail to set
No soul to barter, no fare for the ferryman
Failure to launch on his anchored dock
A clock that strikes midnight every hour, on the hour
Of the orr

Bending time and space, riding the continuous continuum

A boy, A man
A mortal, A god

Universal multiverses and theories of relativity within the abyss

Through the wormhole, a bird’s eye view

Uncertain to dive, complacent to wade, the daunting task he swims

Across the fold, reaches the opposing shore, touches the other face:
The place, space, ultimate destination
Is Equivalent to the vantage’s origin
The rock he once stood from, he stands on again

Picture Show

Photo via : Chromasia.com

The night canvas alight o’er ones in the dark

Each of their hues tightly together, some touch, and mix

Others alone, too opaque to be construed

Their reciprocal in the sky, a splattered Pollock:

Confused, lonely, ill, famished

Those with a voice and without an audience, the brush won’t touch

Family nests, nestled so tightly, far apart

Lies that lie between them, lingering stench in the hot June air

Infidelities and transgressions of a resistant society to progression

Counted sheep medicated and love drunk by a Disney theme park ride

Never seems to halt, or never began from vertices restricted

The mowed lawns of repetitiveness, their stoic patterns a staunch reminder

While bonfires incinerate any free thought in relative vicinity

Pets chained to makeshift jails, just as their masters to themselves

Diamond rings and brick walls, heavy concrete rocks carried to symbolize

Making a greater existence for a poorer one

Chastise the pulpit politician as the convenient store for collective problem

New World Order

Check, please

Please check the cerebral cortex of these

Animals who lost their heart, their minds and their purpose of focus

At the drop of a hat, or a glimmer in the room, the span of attention gone awry

For a quick shag, an easy out, a rain delay, shock and awe

As the astro-anomalies of good fortune traverse the universe with their mind

Their pen, their swords, their identity for meaning

The willows weep for themselves,

Fermenting into the Earthly seat they’ve planted

No remorse

No regret, none for the simple invasive species

The garden hose run dry, the well depleted of resourcefulness

Replaced and flooded with the substance of lacking substance

Recreation and burning, cloned spores

Yet there’s illumination amongst them in the corner

Those not sitting quietly in the crowded theatre

At a show they weren’t in line for, a silent film that screams

What we should do, how we should be, where we should go

The Originals, the colorblind

The black and white that live in the grey

They watch the violets and the greens, those familiar  

Products of primary colors, the secondary and tertiary offspring

And view the curtain call finale’

A final brush stroke, the sky dance ceases

Leaving exhales and smoke plumes

The Hive

Photo by:  Scott Wyden

Submitted for "One Shoot Sunday" Photo Prompt Challenge at onestoppoetry.com

The ambition of the miniscule in a conglomerate ideal

Unscathed canvas for the primordial to unearth

Take fruit to make preservative

An artificial flavor

A chemical imbalance of power

A pesticide

In time, they march to Sousa’s drums

Of Creationism

Of Capitalism

Of Nationalism

Socialism, Darwinism

Natural Schisms to draw, or paint the lines between

Imaginary blocks, states, borders and territories

Pissing ants and drone bees

Their excruciating work to build a better Hive

Cyclical repetition, hierarchy scolding hot as the Son they work beneath

Serfs on turf : Endangered, indentured servants

But not for game, or personal gain, nor for the slice of pie

For the whole sphere

As the Queen sits on her throne, observing the pawns

The Bishops slant their eyes and dot their teas with bagged lye

While the Red Knights threaten adjacent colonies, waging single letters as entire wars

And the sandcastles stand teetering upon unsteady ground, a cowardly King, weeping solely

Vast expeditions to find a crumb and reverberate the news

Only to turn a page, and invade the picnic

Insecticide for a greater good, however morose it immediately seems

The crown will nod, and all is forgiven

Masons poisoned into the delusion of “Free”

Combed by the sweet nectar of honey, unaware, of the sweet life lived short

All the ingenuity of beings

All the will and nature’s instilled equations

Can’t save them from themselves

From their Queen

From one another

From their Mother

With one swoop, She wipes them flat

With one shake, She brings them to their knees

With one spew, She liquefies their hearts and clouds their judgment

With one stomp, the Sandcastle is no more

Synchronized March of the futile continues

April showers us with remorse to regenerate

Yet the May bees and Forget-me-nots

Repeatedly forget

Fibonacci's Field



Photo by: Fee Easton

Submitted for "One Shoot Sunday" photo prompt challenge at onestoppoetry.com

Preface: The Fibonacci sequence is the series sum of its predecessors. (i.e. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, etc…) This sequence is found everywhere in nature, from tree growth, to the florets of flowers, to the hives of bees. It can be applied to the growth of almost every living thing, including humans. Each line of my poem is composed of a number of syllables that "swing" on the Fibonacci...

1 Seeds

2 Planted

3 In our minds

5 Uninhibited

8 To grow, to lean, to reach for more

8 In infancy, ponder the “why”

5 Observe the like-mind

3 Seek “how come”

2 Outcome

1 Here

1 There

2 In youth

3 We spring out

5 Fall; then Spring again

8 Ebb and flow : Life’s changing seasons

8 Adolescents compete for sun

5 The light that matters

3 Merely one

2 Gives life

1 Chance

1 Bloom

2 Expand

3 Spiral up

5 Long for sky unknown

8 Beautiful organic conscience

8 The vast arena we play in

5 Chaotic cosmos

3 Pale Blue Dot

2 That’s us

1 Now

1 Then

2 Future

3 Successors

5 Offspring of our spores

8 Will find a new field to call “home”

8 The few, with petals on display

5 Reach, and lead the way

3 Nary wilt

2 Divine

1 Swing

"Things" : (A Writer's Alchemy)

Photo courtesy of Central Penn College: "The Boyer House"

The thing is

When one ventures from the abode;
                That comfortable home in our cranium

                What we previously held back,

                We tend to, (and tend to see)

The things

that weren’t there before

                But always were:

The mossy outcrop where a plastic bag

clings to a twig, and waves as the star spangled banner

of disregard

The fenced line between two pastures

The opposition of juxtaposed ownership

And different aspirations

Hatfields,

McCoys,

…Coy ones in hats

Feuds and friendships

The cables between telephone poles

That traverse the horizon, carrying text

Homes with gazebos, never used

Back porch clutter

Unkept lawns, a garden, a gnome

The thing is

                These things make us, tell a story

They show we are here, and we have placed

Something, anything on ground or reached for sky

                That we knew we’d never reach

A welcome mat to our homes, hearts, and our minds

The lineage we have

                Ingredients for the recipe of me

It’s a cosmic soup, but the past ones

                Have such an enigmatic effect, as a dim light

                In the Gobi desert of our conscience

The lone spot in barren land

The Unavoidable;

Circus elephants in the room:

                The tree line of family.

The thing is

                This tree, can be

                Elegant, elaborate, laced with royal branches

                And pretty leaves

Or low, to the ground, just trying to be

In a world of devour and survive

Recessive, or Progressive

Painful, or Pleasurable

But that’s not the point

                Or a tip to wait

The thing is

                This beauty and tragedy lies in every entity

                All the living and all the dead

                There’s poetry, there’s decency

                There’s a place to dig deep

and yet

We must respect the lining

The black lining

The white lining

The shade of grey

The thing is

                 We begin to realize

                 Eyes go wide, open and unable to slumber

                 Insomnia lends to obsessive voyeurism

Because beauty and ugliness still wage a war

The thing is

                There’s things we don’t know

                That we’ll never understand, but strive to

But at the very least

We’re doing to try.

Writing to reach “We.”
Me?
That (I think)

Is The Thing.

Photosynthesis

Photo by James Rainsford

Submitted for "One Shoot Sunday" Poetry Challenge at onestoppoetry.com

She pauses to peer within

Her Sunday, self-reflective stroll, view anew

An equinox visit to the fruit of her womb

The untamed offspring, her living miscarriage

They’ve long gone for umbilical freedom

Runaways in their own home

           Longing for separation of self

           Their sentence : Cellular Mitosis

Nests, temples, scraping sky

Fences, walls, chalet bungalow

An Igloo, An Izba

Monastery Asylums

                Faux Châteaus

Up for adoption, the un-adaptive

Fat orphans consumed resource, sans remorse

How coarse, how crude, yet the starving resumed

Unable to find place, a space, in time

Any theory

Any relativity

Given chlorophyll, failure to synthesize;

           A trade for chloroform, to anesthetize

As she placates to absorb and transform energy

               None resonate

 In the Queen’s court, stubborn they stand

Child’s own judge, jury, and defendant

By the gavel of free will

          Incarceration by choice

Her whisper, subtle yet strong on the wind

Warm, soft spoken global warnings

Climate dinner gone cold

          With the season, tides and disposition

She turns,

and leaves.

"See the animal in his cage that you've built

...Are you sure which side of the glass you are on?"

-Reznor

'S No Right

Photo by: India Hobson

Submitted for "One Shoot Sunday" at onestoppoetry.com

Perception

‘tis the most pretentious notion

Thoughts of one as fair

‘tis not fair, the fairytale

Beasts of burden

What’s the purpose, porpoise? Poisoned, your apple

Admirable admirals, set the sail

For sell : Self, for rent.

Setting sights as the sun sets

The brightest star in view

Her eyes on

Horizon

Still Frame

Mirror, mirror, where for art my castle?

Lip service to amphibious frogs

Sermons in the bog; fogged

The memory, white horses lost

Grimm faced brothers

Reapers who sow, sorrow

Their thoughts, dwarfed red

Heartfelt supernovas in wait

Weight

Heavy, ‘tis the head, wears the crown

Comatose to see

The forest, the tree

Holy wood, Arbor Mist

Why so  cross?

No touch of lip

Nary an ambivalent embrace

Nor a profession of progressive affection

Could handle the spell of these bees

A definition, A verse to appease

In royal courting we create

Daily narcissism we live

Our blood runneth thick

Blue & Red

Mixed, in purple

The people eaters

In vein.



La Résistance

Photo by James Rainsford

Submitted for "Picture Prompt Challenge" at onestoppoetry.com

Visionaries and Missionaries

                The forefront fodder they spew

The stew of influential transition, change

                A foregone conclusion

¡Viva la Revolución!

Humanity under gods and generals

                Renaissance men of self proclaimed nobility

                Ignorant to the ways and means

Instincts vanished on how “to be”

To be

Free, as the winged ones

                As the albatross against the wind

                Persistent

                Knows it will prevail

                As the tom, in seasonal transition

                Amidst confusion

                Struts for the correct mate

                As the hawk

                Respectful hunter

                Appreciates the meal for its young

                As the eagle

                Rises and has vantage

                Reaches perspective, clarity

                As the owl

                Wise and graceful

                ‘Neath the moon, passes into age

                As the raven, on pine and needle

                His caw

                A cadaverous eulogy

But we

Lost, as the appendage ones

Most cognizant of all the living

Fear death throughout life

Stay grounded, sans perspective

Embrace apathy, tucked safely in nests

Resistant.

Stagnant.

Stale.

Stoned.

Our Revolutions, our lives

Are lies.

Pickett's Charge

Fore Fathers drawing paths with pens

Precedence prior to grounded feet, or dry ink on paper

Youthful indoctrination, bathe the babe

Embedded longing for autonomous coupling

Pauper to Prince

Illusions and tunnel visions, white horses

Slaying personal demons, kissing frogs

Trials and tribulations for fairytale prizes:

Non-existential sleeping beauties, open eyes

Tending to the army, clones we create

               Lost in secession:

               The Self, The Cause

Stagnate States in the maths of our mind

A House, multiply and divide

Have we no civility, chivalry?

These wars fought in two story castles

               Upon fields in our backyards, lawns

Artillery fire via formerly friendly mouths

A portrait that hangs on Stonewall:

Painting of our blue and grey dispositions

Still frame of echoed arguments, repercussions

High watermark dreams without fruition

Frontline sights and smells,

Front porch smoke plumes

                Skirmish ash remnants, the fumes

From a once fine cigar

Bayonets!

The cannon fodder we serve

Mindless drivel for the cerebellum

               Severing the farce Union we longed to create

Slaves to our own institutions

Fall in line

Carry the sword from diamond stone

Worshipping coins sans accountability

Congratulations and Salutations are in order

Sign here, Pendragon

Ex-Calibur strikes true

Welcome to Camelot

Apes of Wrath

Primates who migrate the ages,

Darwin & Steinbeck’s pages

Appendages, on bended knees

Losing touch with origin, these disenchanted species

Chasing their evolutionary tale

Twist to the petty, one fortnight war machine

Pretty pennies, celebrities

Misguided revolutions : Revelation, 14:19

Foolish monks

Draw lines in sand;

               Dig for treasure, sever thine own tree

for black liquid vice, negate sea ice

Consume the coffee, yet spill the beans

A chimp off Life’s building blocks

Day of Reckoning:

               Poor Farm Animals

               Versus Millionaire Baboons

Fearing Holy Ghost of Tom Joad

These apathetic apes, the chain’s apex

Traded RNA and DNA

for “TNA” and TNT

As the willow weeped, the wind did sweep

The Dust Bowl, now clean

Out of reason, out of mind

Lost ourselves in the Hollywood and Vine

Atomic timeline

“We” became “I”