7pm Tension
Something needed out, it showed in my toes, every single time I grabbed them to pull myself forward. Eternal life in my spine, twisted in my core, bending from my hips, let it out. It no longer fits.
Poem 11 | {The Garden of Earthly Delights}
By Ajanta Judd All Rights Reserved – 9am Australian EST
Prompt 11: Write a poem about or set in a place you have never been to. It could be a real concrete location, or something more metaphorical, imaginary or fictional – somewhere over the rainbow comes to mind.
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{The Garden of Earthly Delights}
In the garden of earthly delights
The yellow roses grow wild and free
Unattended they flourish bright spring sunlight
Petals strewn by the wind in gay reverie
In profusion they sing to the clouds above
Though nothing compares to the single rose
Brought to me on the wings of love
by the lover of mine who providence chose
In the garden of earthly delights
Ribbons of remembrance gaily flutter
A heartland rich with heavenly scent
Encircling the words we once feared to utter
Liberation is ours if we only embraced it
The way to the heart is open and fair
A mending of minds if only we faced it
The cure for all evils is kindness and care
H.11 – Winged
I stretch my spirit into blue, catching the breeze,
l let my self fall and drift, with its breath. There are
some moments we move as one the flow, the dip,
the trust, in fine bone and feather, tracing invisible
stories over and through sunrise and moonset, the
land below a dream of soft white sand, a burrow of
a fairnt call in my belly, a beginning that waits while
l soar.
(a tanka)
the law proclaims
that corporations
are people—
maybe they’ll die or
evolve higher consciousness
At the Coastline – Hour 11
Blue skies shine bright
White wispy clouds smile
A summer delight
If only awhile
White wispy clouds smile
Over specks of sandy shells
If only awhile
Playing in the turquoise swells
Over specks of sandy shells
Dancing my cares away
Playing in the turquoise swells
At the coastline, this summer day
Dancing my cares away
Until everything is all right
At the coastline, this summer day
Blue skies shine bright
H11: Celtic Call
I have never been to Ireland, though I’ve heard its bonny song;
Folks who look like me and Grams; the place that I belong.
Red ringlets, tangled, twisting, as the breeze jaunts jolly by.
Small and simple gardens, wind-rippled, rose-wreathed and blithe.
Cobbled streets, and meadows, and seas of glistened blue.
Doors of every tinge, and taverns—just a few.
And folks who look like me and Grams, that she remembers too.
Hour 11, prompt 11 Circus Women
At the blue circus,
women in clenched corsets,
fishnet stockings, and shined shoes –
smiled.
They were distractions, assistants,
and quiet artists.
Silent, beautiful mothers
of the moon and the stars.
Dreaming of Jupiter,
sleeping in forests,
counting time gone by in the
bumps and wrinkles of an elephant‘s skin.
These are the women that Father Time forgot.
Every tarot card read,
tea leaf swallowed,
and palm touched,
brings new life to them.
The old Gods gorged themselves on the hopes and selfishness of humanity.
Their dreams and desperation created an immortal diet –
curing illnesses and smoothing skin.
As unattached, husbandless creatures,
they live warm, wild, and wicked lives.
They are gypsy women,
the daughters of Pluto
eating sweet purple plums,
sticky pitless peaches,
and Persephone’s decadent pomegranates,
all the while, dancing atop frozen ponds
Hexes are weaved into their twisted manes,
curses outline their lavender irises,
and spells are cast between their thighs.
In their childless existences, they find
potential, passion, purpose.
As they hold hands and chant lullabies for the lost,
lightening seeks vengeance.
The clouds sag and drip with
the grief born from dark suburban homes
and unlit alleys.
Go.
Go to the circus.
Ask to be blessed by celestial, circus women,
and you’ll know how stardust tastes.
Off the rat race
Off the Rat Race
It is silent
It is always silent, now
It is quiet
It is always quiet, now
It is still
It is always still, now
I can hear a pin drop
I can hear a faint sigh
No ariya( merry making) to be had
No movement of any kind
A total cessation of the rat race
That had characterised our former existence
In short, it was our very existence
We lived for it
We longed for it
We yearned for it
Now, we are on lock down
We’re on a leash!
Encaged
Encased
Bound after a manner!
A kinda house arrest!
We can only hope we’ll be let off the leash soon
To pick up where we left off
In the rat race
Paris-Hour 11
I imagine a cafe
On the Champs-Elysees
Sipping tall glasses of French wine
At sunset
I imagine a walk along the Seine
Hands held tight
The sun going down
The moon coming up
City lights reflecting over and over
Like a fairyland
I imagine The Eiffel Towel
Standing tall in the night sky
Beckoning us to climb up to the sky
To see the city from it’s perspective
I imagine the Moulin Rouge
The Arc de Triophe
Strolling through the Louvre
Notre Dame de Paris
Poetry dripping from my fingers
As the City of Lights
Sings to us
A French lullaby
I fall asleep in an ancient hotel
French ghosts whispering
Bonne Nuit- good night
Porridge
Porridge
We sit on the porch and swing,
legs pumping, small breezes
coming from beneath our feet.
We just finished reading
the story of the three bears,
my own little bears mesmerized
at the porridge, the beds,
the cottage that seems just like ours
if our lives were a fairytale.
When the pages close, they run
through the grass, fast as trees
zipping by in mountain-bound
cars. They don’t grow tired,
even in the heat of the rays
of summer falling behind
the tops of leaves. The baby
sucks the bottle as fire-
flies turn into stars, making
me wonder if I was just
a masked stranger dreaming
of what I wish could stay real.