Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.

Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.
Feathers lie in the cold, it tell stories of life before.
Showing posts with label blogger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogger. Show all posts

Monday, November 3, 2014

To Tear Part 1

Wish the best of luck, since it’ll likely takes
A quick flight before the gorgeous presence  
Hope’s pleading is hopeless—chokes the slow breath
Since smog connives with mist—nose is heaving
Bells moist eyes sing the homecoming past
Whirl the brain; wracks the skull catches big ache
As winds of the season non-stop blowing
Pressured-shrills ring, bang the sad plugged ears
 Here, here this once joyful, now sorrowful
Friend of worn-beaded rosary that mourns  
In monk’s fingers as pale smoke smears the air
Praying in the stately spire of tolling bells
Echoes the dumb requiem of deathly thoughts.    
Accord the wish to steal the last quick glance?
To see the sun rises in kindly face
The curvy lips, godly hair, busty breasts
Inviting look are streams where lilies swim,
Each tic-tac zap  in slow-drift tide and tugs 
In dreams of searching drowsy-lidded eyes—
Behalf of moment in mercurial flight
Whilst weary thoughts ponder on waning pasts:
The bloody phantom reds, sober purples
Silken hairs flapped caressed by soft-fingered
Winds swam in apple screen when the year turned 
From pitch-black to sparkly white as when, a 
 Snake its habit, like dark switched into light 
The new robe the new day; spoke year renewed 
From mild sleep in the balmy nature’s bed.
A Pinot slow-drop ‘pon the chilled mesa
A keepsake of fragrant sight of the bells
Rings break forth—shade of downpour wet the board
Nether clouds cry, and then hope it ends.   
The chilled deuce Specters sit in the plateau
Unroll the stapled quad of pale-paper- 
Leaves curl, but opens to quash when the wind
Irons its furls of pulpy quad atop each
As earth waits drizzles in hot summer night
The straight scar below awaits the poet’s pen
To draw the name even how bad it seems
 Or at last Hope flickers, for both it seems
While arms draw circled paths singing tic-tac
 Hymned two-tuned tunes, fluty tic-tac behind 
Of two dull-noted, sadness and the gloom 
Edges of lament regret where it go 
Dripped-Wet with acid rain—shaking, airing: 
Woe, woe! Earth reeked firewater in the cave
Lips yawp-filled-air, unremitting bawling
Fiery verses leave no price or deserve 
For soul, else, for life's sake, even to beasts
When the ringed finger sent the lights off
When windows blackened by hard-pressed knuckles
The blinking stars fell— screaming and swooning. 
Woe! Twin pale-headed tornados went swept!
 And watered down solar cheeks in its rise
Young cubs’ dreams have no moment to toast
 In crystal-spring-gilded meadow to dream
In the midst of fair Dama de Noche,
Cute Sampaguitas in green fluffy bed
To brimmed them with sugar-caned caresses
 And touched their rosy cheek with candy lips
Or cupped them up in divine fingertips.
Will both eyes waiver the joy of sharing?
The past tense of sweet and sour, which both dined
Mono- eyed captured both takes saved in discs
Brushed up the outdated shots then convened
Lens bore diorama to show what to see.
Love tilled the lazy ground—the seeds sprouted
Then old tireless Sun warmed the soil’s breasts
Root hairs merrily drank from goblet’s wine
Pampered with devotion the stems and shoots
No day’s complete without both eyes watching
Went up to the trellis weaved by both fingers
Never lost a strength from spring of passion
To feed, as babies chuckled angel’s words
As air’s soft busses whispered lullaby
Filling up their flesh with more nectar juice
Gods zipped lips unheard seeing what changed
Ceres to her joy plucked the holy harp
Daintily danced among the webbing vines.
Alas! The weary arms lost strength went weak
Waking, sleeping damn spent to keep going
Like cupid’s arrows pierced through the beams
Hit the stilly waters of Lethean dreams.
But no power or prestige ever twinned!
Bee’s joyful euphoria, pleasure, delight;
The raptus of topping the virgin bud
As the newly opened Treasure spreads
The dew-bathed lips asked for a hungry-sip
With the stiff-tiny shaft: scream, shout and shriek
 No Abomination, odium or loathe
Stopped the moment of exploding whirl of joy.
What are they? In fact, captured in the disc
Where bird sang over the concoction’s smoke:
Fried rice with onions, garlic, leeks and oil
The bulgy seeds from dewy panicles--
Fresh grounded, sun-dried, oozed with milky steam
The steamed Malacapa with tamarinds  
 In the love-filled pot fondled by the fire
Honey smelling thing in fox’s eager sniff.
Who cared for tables fouled with wanting? 
Which top void of toothsome dish?
No one will try to throw a hungry look
Or bother for one little finger dip
 Deep in the dish of love and tenderness.
Did a foreign glance laid ‘upon the potion
Expect the gods and goddesses who browsed
High browed, unblinking eyed—how tasks done
When kisses, night or day wore the truth of love
And sang, the day opened with high falsetto
 And danced footwork of high-tempered rumba.
Did owl mingle each night’s embrace of Zs?
When the snappy swoosh drove the few dusts
 From bed cover atop the muted bed
Next to curvy side ran the fingers on
 And ears of the cushioned hot dogs stood out
To hear the soft contralto’s whispered hums
And bass’ poundings of chilled December’s breeze
 From outside, embed the candy perfume
Of Dama de Noche and Mango, bloom
And the tattered bed squeaked when the rocks rolled
While played the old school game of hide n seek
Catch-me-if-you-can until pillows ripped
And swirled cotton and downs till we lost strength
Night never bother the delight or screams

Then dream deep until the daybreak streamed in.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Rejuvenation Happens Whether You Like It or Not: The Greening.

Wings of emerald gem keep on plunging
 With the breeze, alight on the toothed-bosom
 Of loamy mass and moist puddle as
The sun sleeps and wakes--fondles the passage
 Of time and landings, still more landings, still crackle
 In the big magnet in silent crunch toothed-
Bosom tenaciously grinding and synthesizing
It colored the wings not with yellowredwhitebluepurple or what!
But of brownecrugreyblackchocolate milk for underneath hairs
Just for rebirth of hilarious emerald-babies
 Of the same and wings where the slight digits
 Of WrensThrushesWarblersandHummingbirds
Softly firmly clasp the moldy hanger hanging
 Bearing reborn fluting-fluttering wings
One time again, they pop melodies of


Tuesday, January 29, 2013

OFELIA (Ofel) 1500 Hrs. 25th of Oct. 2012 (Trada Onse?)

I like 'formed poetry' because it separates itself from other forms of prose. The ancient poets write it to distinguish their pieces by definite number of lines, a pre-plan rhyming scene and a definite number of lines, in so doing, a specific type of poem maybe known by the readers. Sonnet of Petrarch an structure is what I like most because of its challenging qualities in its rhyming scene and the difficulty on how to follow the pattern of end rhyme while aiming for an internal ones. A controlled number of lines for each piece in iambic pentameter (most often) per line--need some sort of not only poetic, but also, a flair in mathematics to succeed! A single idea successfully demonstrated in a fourteen-lined Sonnet is a good test of poetic capability. The spirit of old bards may got filled with delight when they know that I'm in the roster of their dwindling students.

Lately, I come across with beautiful Haiku. It has only a three cute lines where the first and the last line has five enchanted syllables while the mid-line has seven fairy-like syllables. It takes a genius to succeed in writing a real Haiku and the same, to read and understand it. It is by this assumption that I write seven of it for just one title with violations in the number of syllables per line. Anyway, I am not a genius. I pray the great bards of this type will not hold me in contempt--forever.         


Droplets and downpour
Mingle in bitter succession
When dark clouds crying.


Dark grayish faces
There, hang teary blackish eyes
 Chill and cold meet, mingle.


 Byways and roadways
Endlessly, they too suffer
Tears over brim them.

J.M. Basa

Me, fingering keys
Of tottered keyboard
Cold like fingertips.


Unredeemed passions
Clutch mortal body and soul
Real or just a dream?


All swim in darkness
Cold watery sepulchre
Death of warmth and light.

Maria Clara

Will howls, pelter quit?
And waken the warmth
Thereon, light ensues.