"conjoured" poems
My lifetime as a little boy
Was filled with mystery and toy,
With fantasy I filled my head
So when I climbed the stairs to bed,
Imagined I that phantoms dwelt
In every shadow dark and svelt,
In every nook and cranny there
Beyond the landing up the stair.
Clutching hard my teddy bear
I conjoured courage, stared a glare
And crept with stealth from step to step
With hearth in mouth and holding breath,
Big eyes round and tippy toes,
'Cos mother said one never knows.....
Something sudden, quick and black
I jumped with fright and staggered back
Furry skin and almond eyes
I gasped, alarmed, in wild surprise
A gorilla on the landing sat ????
...Oh! weak relief....it's just the cat.
M.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Humanity's plight began
with the dawn of reflection.
The first flipped image returned
to the ape man's retina
conjoured a romantic enchantment:
The birth of a sin.
Glorified and horrified by our
Mother's indiscriminate hand,
we elevated and relegated ourselves
above and below the land.
Our conceited self-perception
forges the belief that we can know All.
But if the Great Wall were to know
of its magnitude it would fall;
if the pig heard the slaughterhouse
call it would fly -
The day we live to live will be
the day we learn to die.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:06 PM UTC
~
her face more weathered
than the softened lines of spring,
the supple skin that i’d remembered;
bright rouge cheeks now faded,
first to ocher, then to umber,
over-baked in summer’s noonday sun.
a gentle rain has washed her clean,
has rinsed the dusty air,
and lips once parched and taut
refilled with moisture;
now the coming brilliance,
golden orange in varied hue,
the sultry face of haze,
of summer’s afternoon.
she turns slowly with a misty gaze,
a taste of autumn's coming glory.
a gradual distance growing,
yet still a sparkle in her eye;
less mischievous,
down to business...
resolute in preparation.
a touch of teardrop,
formed in folded recesses,
slips unnoticed from its corner,
except the glistening trail it leaves,
as it trickles ’cross,
her amber meadow’s face;
now her lips will taste
the golden brilliance;
sunshine’s lazy breaking beams
drift above the sun-dried lawn,
a morning mist of rain-washed air,
the smell of moistened linen,
hanging o’er the low-hung lines,
blends refreshing scent
with drifting, harvest smoke,
from curling ember’s
dance on wood and leaves;
rising slowly, lightly
lapping in the breezes;
and in the distant sky,
we see, we smell, we taste,
every sense anticipates,
as droplets in formation wait;
the rains are coming,
summer slowly loosens grip.
her body feels the changing air,
a sad anticipation of the end;
but wistfully she knows,
of celebration coming
of harvest’s swoon,
of cradle moons
of wine, of dance, of song;
autumn’s coming, t’will be here soon
behind her winter won’t be long,
yet this today she holds,
let tomorrow wait;
let today for readying be,
the joyful jubilation,
a floral conflagration
summer’s final harvest, and
the autumn’s color ball!
~
*post script.
season’s change conjoured as a woman's face; of summer make-up being removed; of taking on autumn’s hues.
i’d be lying if i said i looked forward to NW winter and its rain, yet still it is a small price to pay for the lush, green hills and valleys of my corner of the world, of torrential waterfalls, even of my kitchen faucet, bearing sparkling, crystal, water from fresh, snow melt at the simple turn of a lever.*
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 3:06 AM UTC
They say that behind every successful man is a woman
And that behind every **** is a *******
A huntsman
Who lured the poor princess into worlds unknown with false promises
Promises of being crowned queen of his heart
Promises of being able to live in the kingdom in the castle in the air
Conjoured up by his seductive tongue
Dripping with manipulation
Laced with lies
The million-dollar tongue that once gave her so much pleasure
And later so much pain
The tongue that made her own so cheap
Sticking it down some random guy's at 2 am in a bar
And later on around said guy's manhood
In mechanical passion
The same routine every night
Different people, different places
Like a puppet on strings
A puppet on heartstrings
Whose puppetmaster is grief
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 2:29 AM UTC