The hardy Himalayan nettle stings. It felt like punching piles of jellyfish. The slightest brush feels like a snapped bowstring. But the balm of time bowstrings quickly bring. The nettle's cure proved far more standoffish. The hardy Himalayan nettle stings. Two days on, the nettle still sent its ping. My hand numb like I'd fondled Fugu fish. That slightest brush felt like a snapped bowstring. I put my useless limb in a web sling. Not really, but it did hurt fiercely-ish. That hardy Himalayan nettle stings. Oh! of such agony Divas do sing. Not really, but it was unpleasant-ish. The slightest brush felt like a snapped bowstring. Stabbed by roadside nettle in Darjeeling is a fate upon no one I would wish. The hardy Himalayan nettle stings. The slightest brush feels like a snapped bowstring.
The waves are churned to foam. The sight mesmerizes. My mind is miles from home. My seated self does roam -- chaos that surprises, like waves are churned to foam. Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome, hustler mistrust arises. My mind 's wary of home. I focus on the chrome, but my ear recognizes the waves that churn to foam. I've vagabond chromosomes, but still the thought chastises: "Your mind is miles from home!" I'm sitting all alone, and my mind surmises: Like waves churned to foam, your mind 's so far from home.
One first looks about for a rock to throw
to see if one can loosen the beast’s tongue.
There’s something in that cave that one can’t know.
One baits the beast by moving to-and-fro —
an imagined sound triggers heart’s PUM! PUM!
A force; it pulls one like an undertow.
At the cave’s mouth there lands a big, black crow,
and now one ‘s sure the cave’s depth must be plumbed.
There’s something in the cave that one can’t know.
Then one sees a red eye begin to glow —
the product of a mind that’s overrun
by forces that pull it like an undertow.
Uh-oh, your mind ‘s the cave, that much I know,
and I hear nothing but a steady hum.
There’s nothing in the cave that we can’t know —
just fear that pulls one like an undertow.
I found the catacombs, below
my mind’s deepest basement level,
searching for secrets in shadows.
Up top, my tracks were writ in snow,
and wet prints through keeps, medieval,
’til I found the catacombs below.
What would I find down there, who knows?
Let’s hope not some home-grown devil.
Searching for secrets in the shadows
isn’t work for weak and weary souls.
Don’t know how I ‘massed the mettle
to find the catacombs, below.
I felt the torment and the throes
of one who’s become bedeviled,
searching for secrets in shadows.
I saw highs and lows — thorns and rose,
but never had time to revel.
I found the catacombs below,
searching out secrets in shadows.
The morning sun has broken through the trees.
Its yellow light is dancing on the tent.
The fly is flapping gently in the breeze.
Some droplets rolling down — oh, did it freeze?
The night is gone; I know not where it went,
but morning sun has broken through the trees.
My sleeping bag stayed ninety-eight degrees.
The earth and trees are still, and stand content,
only the fly flaps gently in the breeze.
I must get up; I have a day to seize,
but sleeping bag and chill have got me pent,
though morning sun has broken through the trees.
I force myself up onto hands and knees.
some birds are chirping, but the beasts seem spent —
hush, but the flapping gently on the breeze.
That stillness and sunshine put me at ease —
no time to mourn or sing the night’s lament.
The morning sun has broken through the trees;
my tent is flapping gently in the breeze.
While walking down a verdant valley trail,
I saw the fog that gathered ’round the town.
And remembered an old, eerie folktale
about a village settled in a vale,
and felt my breath catch like I would now drown
while walking down that verdant valley trail.
In the tale, travelers heard a steady wail,
but found town ancient, empty, and run down.
Why remember that old, eerie folktale?
The sound I heard was like a flapping sail.
They must have set the flag and hunkered down,
while I was walking that green valley trail.
But snapping flags require some kind of gale.
This air was too still to rustle a nightgown
as I remembered that spooky folktale.
“Is that a boiling kettle or a wail?”
I ask as I have my nervous breakdown,
while walking down that verdant valley trail,
remembering that old, eerie folktale.
[A villanelle is a six-stanza form (originally French) in which the first five stanzas are three lines (tercets) with an A-B-A rhyme scheme, and the sixth is of four lines (a quatrain) with an A-B-A-A rhyme scheme.]
a vast grassland spans my field of vision
bison languidly trample the dry grass
azure sky seen in perfect precision
are these the fields the Greeks hailed Elysian?
but while it’s vast I feel it has no mass
perhaps, it’s just hi-def television?
I find my mind is wild in ambition
and ignores the window frame and the glass,
pretending all that is, I envision
but I know I see with imprecision
a glance sees no more than in science class
though vivid, it’s as false as a gryphon
but beauty beats logic to submission
I become one with wind-tousled tall grass
dazed, I’ve lost all mental inhibitions
why would nature thrill in exhibition?
baring beach to beach across each landmass
it’s not to employ more aestheticians
but to drown out distrusting suspicions