Rainbow Tiara – A Tale of Creation

1. Violet Light

It starts with light that slowly parts the dark
to separate beginnings’ night from day,
almost invisible, a slender arc
across the universe that seems to play.

While stroboscopic pulse expands with force
and tears the veil of nothingness apart,
creation must maintain its tireless course
for Tenebrae and nascent light to part.

No human then to watch that splendid sight,
no trace, no photograph, no movie shot;
we’re left to imagine the blinding might
of worlds appearing suddenly from nought.

One may call it a boson or a quark,
the mauve of sky is born from primal spark.

2. Indigo Sky

The mauve of sky is born from primal spark,
from sudden blast of heavenly wind gust,
its vastness boundlessly devoid of mark
but for those specks of stars’ galactic dust.

Though one may doubt about its sacred source,
it’s sure this accidental universe
expands as fast as some wild flying horse
in its fierce race, a beauty to observe!

Each speck of light that travels through the sky,
each planet orbiting that special sun
could be the place where newborn life came by,
but this here Terra was the chosen one.

Here turning through indigo sky, so free,
a planet features that deep blue of sea.

3. Blue Ocean

A planet features that deep blue of sea
where maybe life would sprout, expand on earth,
but it could take millennia to see
the first of humans show their thinking worth.

This place where dormant cells are waiting to
arouse to birth, transform into the mush
that floats about, awaiting ocean blue
to feed its rise, in ebb-and-flow’s swift gush.

Then water parts around a naked mound,
another one, more mountains, hills and vales,
as oceans pushed by volcanoes give ground
some space to carve its prehistoric tales.

And only then can nature, fresh with glee,
awake and prosper to green field and tree.

4. Green Fields

Awake and prosper to green field and tree—
that takes so long, but nature does her best
to offer us ‘a clover and one bee’,
a crisp expanse of grass from East to West.

Preparing slow to bloom in morning dew
one leaf, one twig, one fresh bud at a time,
it sows and grows, and gently makes it through,
intent, from tropical to frozen clime.

As green invades the earth and blooms unfold
and species thrive of wingy buzzing guests
who pollinate the grains of harvest’s gold,
some visitors come crawling, on a quest.

But then they stand; and now it has begun:
mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun.

”To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee” ~ Emily Dickinson

5. Yellow Sun

Mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun,
from Africa to places faraway,
while growing, gleaning strength along the run
and building tales of power and dismay,

along the tricky tracks of warmth and frost,
of fights and victory, and learning how
to pay the price of evolution’s cost,
is one of struggling conscience on the go.

But hope sings stronger than the wailing rain,
than hurricanes or thirsty desert sand;
it walks migrating paths, ignoring pain,
and scatters seedlings round the world, unplanned.

Man celebrates due thanks in orange fun,
as seasons bring delight in things well done.

6. Orange Fun

As seasons bring delight in things well done
and modern comfort makes life more serene
it’s tempting drifting from intent to none,
as daily walk from bed to fridge to screen

feels like an easy stroll, with all cares tossed.
The need to find subsistence every day,
the discipline of ‘work then fun’ long lost,
some humans simply sleep their life away.

From Halloween to Christmas Night and more,
they live for pleasure and sweet holidays—
while kings and business leaders go to war,
the lazy crowds let bullies own the place.

Then all that’s left is silent moral shames,
but men have always loved to play with flames.

7. Red Flames

But men have always loved to play with flames,
with dangers and the rush that comes from fear,
from awe, from admiration and acclaims—
they would do anything when pushed by cheer.

So red like hell might be their final games,
as rockets boldly fly from East to West,
while leaders call each other naughty names
and tweet barbaric words in fierce contest.

Perhaps some brilliant scientist will build
a vessel to escape before the storm,
where humans would be safe, that will be filled
with all who hope for peace and future warm.

They will observe rebirth from that new ark—
It starts with light that slowly parts the dark.

8. Rainbow (Reprise)

It starts with light that slowly parts the dark
while stroboscopic pulse expands with force.
The mauve of sky is born from primal spark,
though one may doubt about its sacred source.

A planet features that deep blue of sea,
this place where dormant cells are waiting to
awake and prosper to green field and tree,
preparing slow to bloom in morning dew.

Mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun
along the tricky tracks of warmth and frost,
as seasons bring delight in things well done,
feels like an easy stroll, with all cares tossed.

But men have always loved to play with flames
so red like hell might be their final games.

Created by Jo Elle writing as FrenchGirl on Allpoetry
November, 2017

 

Read more of her work, and get to her web-site at:

https://allpoetry.com/FrenchGirl

Dénouement (a sonnet tiara)

I

They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise
each giant movement racked with so much pain
those great ships plowing through the polar ice
sound damp as squibs caught in October rain.
Erosion downward fairly strikes the Earth
and if we thought it was a fallacy
that soil is wealth, yet there’s an end to worth,
that vitriol, degradability,
lies still as asphalt on a country road
deceptive, almost, in disquietude;
our SUVs skidmark their spoiled abode
but now must reckon with their plenitude.
Reality so bright, it hurts our eyes
with jagged lightning bolts of compromise.

II

With jagged lightning bolts of compromise
tectonic fates and bedrock come unsealed
gargantuan though it may seem in size
our billions dwarf the planet’s battlefield.
The heftiness of us constricts her girth;
the forced ballet she dances gaunt and thin
as metronomes can scarcely hide their mirth
they beat their triumph, and time closes in.
A breathless rasp is how to best describe
her scrap of voice, a denigrated blur;
for human rights, we mount a diatribe
and yet who spends one liberty for her?
Earth’s dénouement trails off in grand absurds.
And selfishly we grate out autumn words.

 

III

And selfishly we grate out autumn words,
malign and somber any sky of blue
delight in punished letters afterwards
twist every sunlight to a fading hue.
Inanimacy, tiny sharpnesses.
As if we’re filming and in two small frames
what once was priceless, craft in every tress,
lies shattered, edges on a heap in flames.
Without a second glance, the things we do —
behold Earth brazenly, pick up a knife
then murder air and water, only two
of all her children, as we autumn life.
Sweet embered light, forced to misshapen curds,
new moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds.

 

IV

New moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds;
we have the gall to wonder shamelessly
how we inherited a life of thirds.
Apocalypse arrives in tribes of three.
Like freshly emptied childhood happiness
how often does the globe just turn your way
if ev’rything you do will wrap distress
in sabotage, rolled up in disarray?
If you placed spike strips on the highway lanes,
forgot yourself, raced back and tires blew
your foolish act would aneuryse your veins,
your mind made ready for the death of you.
Bewilderment still dares to question why
as oceans spill into unearthly sky.

 

V

As oceans spill into unearthly sky,
dark endlessness lodged deep in outer space,
the body planet will transmogrify,
the laws of physics twisted out of place.
Lost forest splinters through the atmosphere
with China sticking to America
then swaths of mountain start to disappear
while Bundes Deutschland hugs South Africa.
Our world, now flattened, hurtles round the sun
still magnetizing Earthlings, ev’ry creed;
as sleek as coin, our home’s a graphic pun —
her mercenaries stamp her into greed.
As devastations slowly vilify,
a solar planet and her moon will cry.

 

VI

A solar planet and her moon will cry,
for lovely Earth was really born a twin.
Though almost no one knows or wonders why
her birthplace is the land where days begin.
The summer stolen and the winter near,
from birth kept locked apart without a key
transported by the sun, she strides in fear
this orphanage, Pluto to Mercury.
Yet somewhere far away her sister waits,
awash with joy while Earth must bide her time.
May she be rescued past the solar gates
for all this galaxy inflicts is crime.
Will planets liberate themselves one day?
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?

 

VII

If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
That grand conceits can never speak for her.
We’re accidents with upright vertebrae,
all worthless fakes, yet never wealthier.
Time’s slipping through your fingers, day by day.
Illusion tethers your perimeter;
to gain your freedom, spin the other way!
Let courage shame your executioner.
Apotheosis of this woeful tale
sees Earthling locusts swarm into defeat
while reunited sister hearts prevail
to taste true justice, new and heaping sweet.
As Earth departs, the cosmic door slams twice.
They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise.

Reprise

They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise.
Erosion downward fairly strikes the Earth
with jagged lightning bolts of compromise.
The heftiness of us constricts her girth.
And selfishly we grate out autumn words,
inanimacy, tiny sharpnesses,
new moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds.
Like freshly emptied childhood happiness.
As oceans spill into unearthly sky,
lost forest splinters through the atmosphere.
A solar planet and her moon will cry,
the summer stolen and the winter near.
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
time’s slipping through your fingers, day by day.

Deb Blondell-Pitt, November 2017
Writing on allpoetry as dblon

Read more of her work:

https://allpoetry.com/dblon

 

Your Fingers Wrote A Sonnet On My Thighs: a Tiara of Sonnets

 

Your Fingers Wrote A Sonnet On My Thighs: a Tiara of Sonnets

I
Your fingers wrote a sonnet on my thighs,
the ink a map, my flesh an open book
to trace the constellations of the skies,
my every murmur babbled like a brook.
A poem now indelible on skin
a permanent reminder of your touch
for surely words could never be a sin
upon a tongue that loved you quite as much.

A rhythm, like a love song on a breeze
you murmured long and slow against my ear,
I oscillated between burn and freeze
as lips said every word I longed to hear.

I saw the yearning there within your eyes,
urging from lips the whisper of my sighs.

II
Urging from lips the whisper of my sighs,
your smile graced skin, along my flustered wrists
and there a pulse reacted in surprise,
my mind a race with every turn and twist,
and all the words that caused my head to spin
a dance of moonlight, ballet round the room
the poetry, concerto violin
my breaths a song into the quiet gloom.

It’s funny how a body can forget
to take a breath when all that passion burns
and appetite is stoked with tease and whets
the smallest taste, that causes me to yearn.

Your poetry was marvelously penned,
you signed your name with flourish at the end.

III
You signed your name with flourish at the end,
the curves reflective of my arching spine
my heart, an ache, just trying to transcend
beyond its cage of ribs, the stars aligned.
A cursive wave with heady passion wrought,
the wine of every line straight to my head
and to the winds was scattered steady thought,
with you the only word, all else had fled.

You wrote with calming hand amidst the quake,
my thighs atremble with each noun and verb,
and sighs soon followed in the very wake
a period, an end to all those words.

My senses had an onslaught to contend,
it made the heat of every kiss ascend.

IV
It made the heat of every kiss ascend,
as lips wrote poetry along my cheek
so giddy, heady, I could not contend
with skipping heartbeat, I became so weak,
and there within my breaths, each rhyme was caught
a net of syllables, the threads entwined
with each inhale and exhale, they just brought
me closer to the edge of where you’d signed.

I drowned within your eyes, the chocolate pools
an endless lake of possibilities
and sparkling, they shone like glowing jewels
and flirted with my sensibilities.

I floated on your words, a buoyant cloud,
you smiled, then read the syllables aloud.

V
You smiled, then read the syllables aloud,
the cadence of your sonnet like a song
and let the meter perfectly endow
my soul with wings, the lyrics were so strong.
Tracing the lines upon my shaking flesh
your fingers conducted a symphony
and I drank in the lines, each mark a fresh
reminder of our passion vividly.

And then I wrote a note upon your spine
declaring everything I felt, the tide
of oceans rushing, words that you were mine
and leaving love with nowhere left to hide.

Emotions riding high and fast and proud,
almost too much, more than should be allowed.

VI
Almost too much, more than should be allowed
a happiness that overflowed until
our bodies screamed each other’s names out loud
with poetry, our sonnets were fulfilled.
There with command, our words became enmeshed,
so intertwined there was no start or end
and nestled right beneath our heaving breasts
there beat one sound, a perfect lovers blend.

Our fingers laced, recited there the verse,
against my lips and taught me line by line
until I could from memory disperse
the nuance of the kisses’ very rhyme.

The night was lit by every single moan,
your poetry is writ within my bones.

VII
Your poetry is writ within my bones,
each word is captured here along my ribs,
an endless sonnet, reams becoming tomes
I am your book, and here you drag the nib.
I carry you with me, never alone
a love that only you and I can give
and in my heart, you’re always there at home
and here each day your sonnet I relive.

My skin will never be the same, I’m marked
with every constellation, stars and moon,
you read me and my love is triggered, sparked
by all those words that you’ll forever croon.

I thank heaven for you with each sunrise;
your fingers wrote a sonnet on my thighs.

 

Reprise:
Your fingers wrote a sonnet on my thighs,
a poem now indelible on skin
urging from lips the whisper of my sighs
and all the words that caused my head to spin.
You signed your name with flourish at the end,
a cursive wave with heady passion wrought
it made the heat of every kiss ascend
and there within my breaths, each rhyme was caught.

You smiled, then read the syllables aloud
tracing the lines upon my shaking flesh,
almost too much, more than should be allowed
there with command, our words became enmeshed.

Your poetry is writ within my bones,
I carry you with me, never alone.

Read more of her fine work at https://allpoetry.com/Virginia_Archer

 

 

 

Refrained Sonnet

 

The Refrained Sonnet- an Italian sonnet with a twist created by Lisa Morris writing on Allpoetry as Streambed.

This is a modified Italian Sonnet.

Metric: Iambic pentameter.
Rhyme Scheme: abba cbbc dbbd bb
Refrain: The first four syllables of line one, are repeated in lines 5 and 9.
The fourth syllable of the refrain establishes the b-rhyme.

Here is Lisa’s first example.

I Did Not Go

I did not go with thoughts of turning back;
regret is something I so little know,
though now green fields lay spread with loss’ snow,
I still take joy in leaving my boot-tracks.

I did not go because I hoped he’d change,
or more, to watch another flower blow;
I find new blooms all places that I sow;
I need not leave my footpath, or its range.

I did not go to only come again;
the stars above are hopeful in their glow
because I fled his murky undertow
and found myself, and God, and better men.
But if he calls for me in words sweet, low,
please tell him I’ve forgotten all, and grow.

My Example

The Electric Universe

If it is true from naught that something came
that opens up a metaphysics view,
but leaves us still without a single clue
from whence that something started just the same.

If it is true there once was a big pop,
that in a picosecond somehow grew
the stuff for zinc, and shale, and caribou
then must one wonder what might make it stop.

If it is true a steady state exists,
(and I’m inclined to think that that is true),
and gravity is not the only glue
that drives the order, which so far, persists
electric forces must receive their due;
and we’ve no way to guess when they’ll be through.

Lawrence Eberhart @ October, 2017

Here is a Visual Template