Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2
comes on shore, from heated airs,
over a far away ocean,
steals in with quiet hands,
no thunderous  clapping,
gently lifts, shakes, the
woman’s long tresses,
making them an
even bigger
tangled messes

the irises standing proud ‘n tall,
with their quiet applause, mm
at the unfolding playlet observing,
verdant spectacular every coloration,
the sky spinning clouds,
the lapping  waves keeping rhythm,
that everyone
hears differently,
and all the discordant
cacophonous agitations
blends harmoniously
and everybody smiles,
everyone grins,
all knowing that the
all~knowing just

sneezed
wrote this to remind myself that I
can still write a summer poem
even if it is November 2nd at
9:41 on a sunny, but chilling  morning
Sinister glacial dissolution verge
huge jagged icebergs reverberate
nature extemporizing mock sinister
debacle, sans bot mot, braggadocio,

rodomontade, et cetera distinct, ear splitting,
fractal heaving snap, crackle and pop,
cacophonously fabulous, incredulously
humongous, and thunderously voluminous

cleanly cut, and/or jaggedly serrated,
sheared into brittle spears whence
huge packed floes crash into sea
possibly loosing significant tidal wave

irrefutably, evidently and directly linkedin
with global warming, and greenhouse effect
removed at safe distance within my man
cave burrow, which doubles daily asthma

fall out shelter (ideally scrutinizing human
kind imprimatur seated facing an array
of sophisticated computer modules)
such albedo blinding, igloo jettisoning,

and veto wanting phenomena will induce
one to become slack-jawed at ice escapades
exploits of gigantic iceberg expanses
(some the size of Rhode Island)

eerily fascinating, grimly haunting,
yet inherently jarring since such dissent
against he incursion evoked via humankind
invariably spell terrestrially grammatically,

environmentally, and climatologically
dread locked hair raising drama scientist
worth his/her salt could hedge bet against,
asper predicting dire consequences

survival of thee primate perhaps once
exclusive fictional terrain, and silly
raconteur fabrication of keen
imaginative grade school pupil,

which undeniable, lamentable, and
irrefutable data imposes gamut of
meteorological scenarios, none
bode optimal for the human race

as well other innocent flora and fauna
particularly latter plenti full species
directly, whose IdentityGuard under
mined when an I opening illusion

inimitable influx, and inescapable increase
turns out to be no trickery prestidigitation,
loopy hallucination or daddy long legs action
to entertain claque of eager amusing children

who, when said hypothetical boys and girls
reach adulthood will live in World Wide Web
bereft of animal and plant diversity
whereby major metropolitan areas

uninhabitable, though arctic vortex
subjected lands once impounded with miles
thick slabs of frozen water might offer
temperate boot ness esse sea re: loch haven

though at this schlepping shoulder shrug
(physically and chronologically) all odds
viz zit ting future generations only suitable
within the realm of rumination, speculation,
and tantalization.
Ofelia Oct 2017
There's a Sunset Boulevard on my
skin,

Shadows dancing on my cheeks

And the sun caressing my chin.
neth jones Mar 2016
This Wallow Pad of the Ground
Is my Nesting Place
For the Riddle of my Fault Lines
My Skin is Held
Rag Drum to my  Hacked up Face
This New-new me  is
The Result of a Peculiarity
Events Resulting in Butchery

My Time Remains Expanding
A Warm Spool
A New Slumberless Spill of Years
All this Time
To Study this Horizon of Footfalls
Or
Instead
To Retreat to my Summary Report
That is Now the Retread of my Drying Mind.

— The End —