I am tuned to live in Tuesday,
hamburger stolen, betrayed by bread,
newsday spent in aching heart, not remembered, but for Wimpy;
so glad I'd be,
to see you staring, sharing line I find in gutter,
as simple rock that shines with moonlight.
I am sound when Monday dies in skies of pressure,
such a drifting lie of leisure, begging voice in proposition.
If we were here, intuition baring flame,
naming fire's madness, each one, together,
sticks to strike in orange spike,
inside the middle of the mirror;
as clearer, molten stream, melting pebble,
staring stiff, my lost confessional,
of chosen father,
feeling magnanimous,
glancing through his holy curtain,
certain of a sovereign salutation,
to that in you remembering Novena;
I should swim in sails of incense,
as golden orb, and spin forever.
I am talking innuendo,
a cloaked crescendo, slobbering invocation
in clever, filling fool to sever,
our last denial of earthen smallness.
Oh, it is only flatulence in fantasy,
to wish for galaxy, extending ecstasy through
simple communication.
But Tuesday's child is long forgotten,
inside this continental shifting, of room bereft
in laughing echo, and love, bent beyond my measure.
So, we are here, though most don't know it,
my garden, spent,
in symbolic revolution to mass pollution
of re-considered virtues;
skirts misused to bare the lost surmise of legs,
teasing subtle squeeze, and wholesome promise,
of not inviting Nostradamus.
A contest entry
- Winklings and Allpoetry Friends. #99 Fantasy Worlds by Lyndon.
3000 points, ended July 25, 2008, 7 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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Wonderful work in this beautiful poem. So very pleased to see it in the finalist column. I love it every time I read it. Well done. ~Pamela
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Certainly not
inviting Nostradamus!
Now, who would write such lines? I cannot think but I'm sure it's a male intellect. I wish I were tuned to live in Tuesday. I get to sleep in on that day! Wry, dry humour: such as reference to Wimpy, Popeye's dubious friend who loves hamburgers!
Institutional religion is held to account.
Whimsicality comes through in "flatulence of fantasy" in your very send-up of what you are doing: all wind!
Remembering the Catholic Novena of 9 days of prayer culminating in the celebration of the Holy Spirit, your cheeky response is: "I should swim in sails of incense,
as golden orb, and spin forever."
You are possibly doing more than talking innuendo!
You slide from image to image and allusion to allusion and how you slide!
At the end you slide from political dealing with the state of the globe to modesty or lack of it to Nostradamus.
Fantasy? So, here we are and most don't know it!
Thank you.
Lyndon of the Winklings.
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Very cleverly written for an extremely flowing write. Fantasy? Indeed and at its finest! There is so much said in this piece. I have read it now four times, and each time I find another little spark of witty wisdom.
I just adore where you went with this prompt. Different and certainly NOT your standard fare. So well done with your word weaving. I was simply quilted in delight. Best of luck in the judging. ~Pamela
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Flows like a river so beautiful my dearest...
powerful and excellent poetry
Lynda
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This is really terrific.
I loved the sometimes rhyme and alliteration.
Best of luck.
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