funhouse of self-reflection,
i indulge in your distraction,
make the best of every one of my heart's contractions,
to scintillate, to shine, to epitomize a refraction
that is all mine.

a start's best contender
to finish, always inclined.
for the heart's say is that gold is always underlined.

glitter of shimmer, of glistening hues.
what creator could produce formations as iridescent as you?
but coruscation of shadows, perpetually anew:
why do you always crack my mirror and skew?

mirror, mirror.
mirror of my mind:
tell me where it is that all my secrets hide?

My finger's on the fritz
On your door step, ding **** ditch
In that frame of mind during that time frame
Spewing gibberish
Sirens blare
Attention ****** with ulterior motives
Pick up the gauntlet
Surpass the bar raisers that got too big for their britches
Face the predicament with courage
Trot through the bible belt
Sort out the sugar coated *******
That right state of mind and the right time period
Attached at the hip
Tip top, ship shape
I see all the old tricks in the book
I smile and put it back on the shelf
I got a new one, don't look
For my eyes only, keeping this for myself
Withheld from the industrial fans, investors, blood ******* insects
At a loss for words
What you see is what you get
You get what you get and you don't get upset
But give what you get
So get going
With your selective hearing
And your selective memory
Do it for the down trodden
Don't settle for the consolation prize
Drum roll please
      -Tommy Johnson

“We make midnight an autonomous time of year,
Colored lights glistening off the white frost,
Moonlights drawn by the evening clouds,
Troths offered to complete this mystical custom,

Awaiting that elfin hour anxious gods molding oar,
Each of us edacious for shining of such coruscation,
That of the candelabrum and wines of sorts to enthrall,
Audacious in thinking oblations will sojourn at a moment,

Of what is to come in New Year springtime fashions,
Synthetic faces all around as they stare of what may be,
Exuberance of the antithesis will follow coming year,
That impermanent as all the while serenity suspends,

Struggle with excitement for swaying to and thro,  
Couples embracing as the ending minutes arrive,  
Cessation as we wait for those last minutes to survive,
Leaving this just passed year we will hear nothing seems,

Then the clear crackle of explosions and applause all around,
Hoping to wonder that this New Year will not FROWN”
By Andrew Guzaldo ©  12/31/2019  #178
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2020 my POETIC Friends

The stone prophet calls, "you've got some work to do, son"
Moon's sleepy coruscation wake before me runs
I instead reflect the light of the pulsing hot sun
To blind all the answers until the question's given up

A light warm and safe and easy to unfold
For another to wrap 'round your tongue and your nose
But my dance you catch in your searching eye rolls
So I refuse to bow and to pick up my rose

Because light is simple and reflected and not mine
Far easier to slice into thrices and dine
On the fine wafer fillers and loose-legged wine
Because though light is heartless- it's far from unkind

So why must I face, then, the undulating moon?
The immensity, instensity, the blue lover's swoon?
The well of reflection white clarity in tune
To the spotted man crouching, denying his rheum

My starry knight buckles and falls down depleted
In a panic, I frantically get my men seated
I wring out the cosmos for what I've become
As I turn and say
"You've got some work to do, son"

There’s a place printed in the horizon construed with profound love concealed inside of your heart
A place where you have never settled your pupils upon
A Place where your ears have never discerned the sounds of
Your fingers have never felt the silk, the delicacy of every breath taken from the erring lips of humanity
A place brighter than the coruscation of stars
Shinier than the shimmers reflected from the depth of the soul

Symmetrical

It feels like I'm in a zombie apocalypse; find myself captured and incarcerated in a tempest.
As the color of the sky changes I hear of deaths and rages
From all people of different ages scared of what the world will bring to them
So they forget that the world is their home when they shed blood, like rusty leaves dragged across the streets by the wind
I forget that I am a dark room
Consumed in silence, devoured by renaissance of hate

Salutes and whistling hoots
Upon those calling for destruction
The world that our souls abide in isn't one with sound security
The large books of recovery sit closely
Protected by clowns with crowns on straight hair or conrows
I wonder what's its like to be liberty's foe
Freedom is woman everyone is dying to have in their lives
If it was so much as an illusion then i guess its best that we sustain our "rights"  in these times
It's hard to find a voice when they've stripped us of our identity from the day we were born
Built the best nests of the finest twigs
With coatings of racist remarks and destruction's darks

At school we were always told to add  white paint to the black
Never the black to the white
See the notion of white savior pigmented minds, polluted hearts tracing hues of  charcoal
Now the kids have gone wild color blind and left trapped to choose between black or white then  red and blue
Gang signs and colored shoes
As if the bloods infuse
transfusion of life
and the crips buy you a pack of chips
these kids dont realize that the very pigments are of the same shade, the blood that runs in their arteries
Dripping like raindrops suspended from the deepest cut found scarred in their lips
Blue, the hue of the sky
They wished they knew their own mothers just as well as they knew *******


This is the place you live. It’s a place of recognition
A place where your heart never loved
A place where pointing fingers never pointed back at yourself
A place where you wake up every day smelling the burning of organic coal
A place where the drums of your ears scream damaged
A place where every print carved into your fingers cry for freedom
A place darker than obsidian
Darker than the grains of asphalt making up the patterned flesh

Fashioned

The sun wears its mask pretty well
As though every day is a masquerade it chooses not to lose the praise it stains in the t – shirts we wear everyday
Hear it in the thoughts of our prayers
It was always the mind that played in its forceful nature, a couple of shots to make your skin thicker, hands tougher, the teeth of your comb harder to brush of the falling debris in your roots and you still stutter.
The relapse of your words,silent screams contained to endevour all its pleasures
A heart yet pure in its majesty forever...skin smooth enough to pile a 1000 sins in the gutter
T shirt stains, pockets of memories to remember...
"Its so hard for anyone to show us how we look and its so hard for us to show anyone how we feel"
But its only when we directly stare at the sun, do we see the silhouettes of carelessness

I don’t know the science
of it,
but I once read
we are made of the stuff of stars.
Their particles are inside
of us,
and essentially, we are
minutely star ourselves,
floating amidst each other.
I wonder which two,
or ten,
celestial bodies above us share
their most intimate bits
with us, and I wonder
when the Universe fates
us to
collide and supernova
in a coruscation of fiery
shards of galaxy,
do so our cousins?
Are the
same astral fragments within
us smashing over our heads,
birthing a divine and
romantic parallel?

next onset of such peril,
   be much the silent as though concentration
   of stone – have your say, yet the susurrus
   wills your anchored voice.

finer: knowable as a book is opened and a leaf
          is turned, a star: to exact how it is to float
   deep in the celestial of your body’s ample universe,
    and take the milk of the nebula,
      for mine to drink in this silence whose dress
is white and not   blue, or anything the coruscation sings
   hewn tenderly, swelling in the wandering of words:
   whose ambitions are no less than the swell sheen
    of the borrowed moon, and greater it is than
   it shall be the only thing timid like light underneath
     the fleeting of the shade that has been stripped and
  coursed you on, naked:

  yet my hands bequeath you enough the shade,
and slowly in you persists the evening
  full not of stars that lowered themselves to
    the penetralium but of all time has erected the
day,  the twilight  and your obvious darkness.

without words
and their wondrous servitude,
i would only be
and cease to become.

as in a forest,
i shall then continue to flower
in the sharpness of swan-song.
like a beast dazed
into nothing and its bafflements,
even the triviality of a lone stone
shall vagabond through me
in a thousand days that pull
downward, refusing to reveal themselves and their paradisiacal nuances. their etymologies
star their deaths to a languid crawl towards an empty page.

all words trapped, slurring
in the radiant void, unbecoming of themselves and who i am.
if i am to be without poetry,
my then epiphanies would be scaled down to an epitaph's weight and its proper terrors;
   to think that i cannot write anymore, weave anymore these words,
    reeks of deathlessness, and i,
  communing through the myriad dailiness of things shall exist only to be,
   and not become  ( as a single star is meaningless in the coruscation of the multitude - a constellation without moniker,
  a god rid of sobriquet,
as a carpenter without tools,
   orr an army without arsenals)
i am things vaguely not.

god forbid, if i am to be
  without poetry,
what will i become, unknowing of
its grave rescue? these marvels
shoot off in the temporal flight
   of this splendid fate, and if without words, then this shall only be, still afloat, a wild, directionless flight.

And just like that a rotation in my universe occurred. A coruscation, that blinded for a split second. In that one moment, everything altered. And let me tell you, it really does blow my mind at how quickly everything you knew can crumble in your grasp. I find myself searching, wondering for a single elucidation of how any of the pieces that once were one, could fall away just like that. I find myself mourning the loss of what once was some magnificent thing, now nothing. And I don't know why it's falling apart. Maybe it never really was built with a solid foundation like it was believed to have been. Maybe its importance wasn't realized till it all shattered in front of everyone. Maybe it was never even intended to stay. Maybe it was just a fleeting thing that was always meant to fall apart. Maybe there isn't some divine purpose behind it. Maybe it's just people, being people. And maybe I'll never really know where it went wrong.

sleep strewn loveliness sink in the
silence of this evanescent twilight —

a dream's citadel superimposed
in high calligraph.
shadow's monolith dancing away
from a mutiny of light. there is a gathering
here unknown,

as the moon fathers these
intimations doubling astonishment in
all limpid signs and praised symbols.
i see now clearly,
the lighthouse belle!
i feel more evidently,
the charring of the clammy water!
i ache more freely
as the stones are put in
equipoised trial - nudely manning the
coasts of dread!

to myself alone i sing
where all fires resurrected - here now,
close to dine the coruscation
of the vertiginous star heady on its way
towards the complete blackness of god's
face trilling behind numeral starscape—

small creatures standing on the
shoulders of dreams
mounting the dwarfed ******* of
mountains and aware of the river's
errant split.

against all light are the many toppled
dreams held together into makeshift amalgam, traced in outward light is
the vestige of the unwatched now
obscenely put into picture like the wind's contrapuntal waltz against the interstices of grass feasting in their moveable glee.

o, dreams and what if they are
curtailed to the bottomless notion
of ground's innocuous stare, to crumble
underneath the feet of the giant whom
i once knelt in front of, ravished, keeping worlds together like a mothering tongue
to day-scarred kindred, these words
   thrown from the gather of clouds
      formless shapes of inimitable rain,
  
   the bells may be out of songs,
  cathedrals too, wrung out of prayers,
    oblivion yawns waiting for its
     next guest— here in the dream
  cradled in the shoulder of it
      unharmed, untouched and only
       deeply feeling for all that is
       retained, walking in the Earth.

i aspire to be a kaleidoscope, a useless commodity,
many bits and pieces merged together harmoniously.
the vessel holds sturdy, regardless of my peccant deeds
to have you glance inside of me, observe all of my colors bleed.
see easily my artistry, view the roots surround my arteries
painted with every color of the palette of sublimity,
forming iridescent trees of immaculate coruscation,
appraising the vestige of my aberrant nature.

everything i will ever be is dripping down like watercolour,
pastels falling off the page and landing on another surface.
i beseech your ardor and tendency to be besotted, but
omit your yearning to examine my detachment.
i am corroding under your duplicity, sinking in your inertia
drowning in your astringent disorder of ignoring my existence.
you attempt to dissimulate the deterioration of your artifice
and ruminate the feasible consequences of mild adulation.

what do you envisage as you imbibe from the silky waters
of my fluid emotions, and my convoluted pantomimes?
my enigmatic essence is slowly decomposing and
hovering intermittently in detrimental cessation.
you constantly contravene with the archfiend within yourself
and wage onslaughts in your mind on your impertinent abstractions.
and i am afraid it is interminable, but i will still hold dear my
sanguine complexions and continue to hope for auspice.

you articulate your pronouncements with ease, and implore
that your austere endeavors are deeply earnest, but
the significance of that word unravels on your tongue,
and is meaningless, turning to ash in your mouth.
i supplicate for waves of benevolence, ardent winds and
ingenuous conversations. anchor me, or disengage.

“Littoral of living onto the pelagic is of the lifeless,
Every sea squall dead leaves fall reminding of seasons,  
Ocean dreams between mix utterances of thoughts,
Crossing over where you once started out from,

The cape laid far ahead and high upon it a continent,
The sea waves rose like white columns as it breaks,
Never knowing which way is easy to forget the afore,
Which coast has wavered upon the next victors horizon?

And which one may rise to meet you in the dusk of eve,  
And the days lay are so many dark and unpropitious,
Huge surging blissful waves rising on the blue sea,
The sprays from ocean waves like falling torrent fog,

One’s life on the sea is oh so cold and inauspicious,
And yet some place within the deep my shallow awaits,
Evening now upon the shore and in the fading
Another day bloom and resurrects from the abyss

Sunset as the blackbirds come flying above,
Coruscation of sunset evanesces into the night
of my Archipelago azimuth”
By A. Guzaldo 07/23/2018 ©

I stepped out from my tent into the night.
We had set up camp early, unusually so, but understandable. Getting for this solitary camping site was exhausting enough. I could tell that it was just half an hour after full dusk, but they were all sounding asleep. From across the campfire, I could see Trisha’s tent with its owner perhaps snoring a little too loud. Beside mine Daniele and Jomer’s tent. I’d never dare go there after I decided to try and pull off some prank at an ill time. Nor would I speak of its details. The others like, like Nicole and Ivan were also out.

I wore my hood and went off into the woods.

Despite my nyctophobic tendencies, I continued thoroughgoing in the woods, grasping transcendent perception of solitude. I would cherish the sound of the rustling leaves, the occasional sound of gale, and the melody of silence, however, after some time; I could not shake the feeling that I was being eyeballed. I took a quick look around the darkness, and saw nothing but the void of nature. I shrugged it off.

I reached the cliff side that still contained my other sleeping bag I left two or so hours ago.

When I lied down, I felt a pang of tranquility that seemed to resonate around my surroundings. Soon, the stars started lighting up. While waiting for coruscation's of light, I heard a voice.
“I also wish it were always like this”.
Feminine, soft, no doubt it was Trisha. The loneliness subsided, I felt dread, but yet I could sense bliss in her company.
“What brings you here? I’d hazard a guess that you shadowed me all throughout” I said apathetically.

I see no botheration in that, besides, we have similar interests yet also differences,” she replied, putting down a sleeping bag I just now observed. More of the white dots appear. I can almost see a streak of light lining the shaded sky, yet my energy reserves are draining.

Waking up at midnight, or so says my phone, was a godsend. The entirety of the galaxy has showed its entire grandiose splendor. No doubt the camp would be delighted if they were awake, but I wouldn’t want to take need for any of them, Even Trisha, who was still napping. I decided to give her a couple of shoves to try and wake her up, heavens know why. No success.

Now I’ve always wondered why the middle portion of the Milky Way looked like ominous cloud. I deduced like an idiot that it was sort cloud or some sort. Though it was unlikely. Despite the number of stars, I could spot some common constellations, like the Big Dipper. I knew where they were, pinpoint, The cluster of stars seemed to shine as bright as the moon, if ever it was here tonight.

A yawn was heard, a couple inches to my right. A response at last. When she came to her senses, I’d seen a side of her that nobody would expect to see. Ordinarily a being like me, she went into a panic berating me for not waking her up. And while I tried to convince her that I attempted to, it was a failure. It was easy to convince her to look up, though.

We discussed about the stars, my slight dislike for socialization notwithstanding. I’ve just now seen a part of her that was not the quiet, shy, yet strong girl she was. She is as eager as I am inside to my greatest surprise. Nebulas, main sequence stars, novae and what not, all these we debated and argued solemnly in the midst of the dark light that is our galaxy. I, for little reason other than none at all, asked her about the joke I’d done to her just half a day ago. Although she didn’t want me to discuss what I shouldn’t, we reconciled quickly.

Only now have I realized that there is a part of me that is satisfied by such knowledgeable talk, I knew for sure that I was the only person in my little bubble to be enticed by interesting topics, but with the advent of this hour, now it is not the case. Noticing my brighter aura. I decided to start stranger things, ones not for the eyes and ears for people like us, and again, I was fathoming her apparent knowledge and interest in it.

People are interesting, after all. Perhaps I should find more of these strange folk.

Drinking in the halls
The eccentric people with
The hellcat, drink where the champagne falls
And they tell us Moses was at the helm of Earthly seas
Purposeful, purporting, punctilious that is the howling wind
That learns to speak through elders that have plenty of mouths to feed
Jealously beyond compare, the music belies the noise
Thence, the heart so barren, that words fall like wasted words
Talking about memories, thence beyond compare and laconic behavior
Iambic meters, the music sounds like it is tinkering my inner moonlight with its a spoonful of rhapsody
When the tempestuous storms are white then the maiden's talk of blossoming buds
Prodigal and prodding the terms of rain, and the raging fields of coruscation
These locusts cannot turn into blood, as the coral in her eyes shines with heated perturbation
Lust spake as it is should be taken for fair chance unless pardoned
Sunshine on your shoulders, I hold your hands like a flower that follows my wildflower
The misery that sermonizes the serious surprise, although maiden and beyond compare
The gumption so rare, the customary glances of belied and complicated fairness
The sword speaks when I fall silent to comparisons belied my heart in boughs of distress and troughs of harmony
White like the musketeers that never let the chance pass