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Best Poems Written by Colin Marschall

Below are the all-time best Colin Marschall poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~mitosis~

A cream egg melted into chocolate mountains
as I tripped over shattered rainbows,
trying to hide in raindrop spaces,
those places where puzzle trees ponder
the life of meaning.

Inhaling skin, turns outside in
and a womb is deaths sanctuary,
with its cord wrapped about a casual arm,
Dali-like, 

and nobody screams loud enough
to shatter a whisper,
played to empty thoughts
of Siamese twins related by a heart,
waiting on a scalpel divorce.

Fingering the whole of innocence lost,
while childhood rolls like sweat down a thigh,
and the warm wet circle of bullets persuasion
extinguishes the hope of resurrection,
‘til twisted sheets are cleansed again.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~he Licks the News, To Taste Reality~

Alone these thoughts like annoying buzz,
zealously trample across minds agenda,
beguile what plans I had planned to play.
Yearning for release from ancient scab,
can I not sheath their crashing climax?
Xenon prayers list low and anaemic,
downtrodden by shoe-tied eyes that follow
well worn cracks on streets abandoned,
each a highway leading to Kiev;
vanishing below an abstract vale,
forever just beyond the viewpoint of you.
Understand that I cannot brush-off
grand schemes that like a fight,
tear at this conscience with no weeping.
How to answer, when no explanations
seem to be the only thing of worth,
is it incest to want only to be an absconder,
running away from pointless virtuosi;
jailed within the cell of no IQ,
quartered selection of questions without hadj.
Killing comes easy, just like dust we sweep,
placing debris deep beneath hurled mockingstock,
letting little pieces seep from cracks in cameo.
Onward now, let shadowed steps quell
morass before in monologues we drown.

Nothing guards the truth like scum,
mouthing platitudes with disdain,
overtly sprouted from a slack jowl
like leaking facet of over-filled bravado.
Perchance they may be caught in backtrack
Kedging the clanger they left for scrap
Quaintly sheared to adj:
just don’t let them know in Iraq;
remember the vaginati
in solemn procession carrying a war
shoulder-high so the world couldn’t laugh
however hard it trickled grenades
to immature fingers like gum-drops spilling
gratuitously from some rich git.
Ungrateful, that’s the blind bluff
following coarse imagery of a western haiku;
valediction for dried bones of scree.
Everybody knows it makes excellent TV,
when doe-eyed reporters stutter deaths listed,
debutantes on hells split and saw.
Xenophobic tendencies keep me in sync,
clinging to something, courtesy of my pillbox,
yet I often wondered, whose rule of thumb
beckoned me to open these ideas; stay
zeroed to non-committal syncytia,
alone with these thoughts as they buzz.

----------------------------------------------

The double helix abecedarian. It is a remarkably complex and difficult form. The
structural concept of the form is as follows:

The first line begins with A and ends with Z
the next line begins with Z and ends with A
The next line begins with B and ends with Y
The next line begins with Y and ends with B
The next line begins with C and ends with X
The next line begins with X and ends with C

and so on.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~masochist Mind~

Expunged upon each breath,
freezing accusations
sealed your lips,
and like a snare, retribution
closed its choking grip.

I had seen the flush of blush
upon each cheek,
when casual touch
lingered just a little too much,
for what is flirtation
but prelude to conquest,
with me a discarded after-thought.

Excuses like autumn leaves,
twisted in my maelstrom,
they were nothing
but a future medium
for growing better lies,

and I gather shining images,
spliced together with fantasy,
projecting this movie
onto the blankness of my fears.

Coincidence brings coffee to a table,
over-sweetened with honey words
and schoolgirl-like smiles,

this innocent rendezvous
that taints my blue sky,
is nothing but a grey cloud
of twisted imagination,

and self-flagellation.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~the Man In the Mirror~

With straight laced back to bolster attention
pseudo reflection beguilingly displayed,
silica compressed, provokes recollection

of journey within when the truth was betrayed.
Like frost on the window defeat was coated
In faux sparkling gaiety, in sham masquerade.

That negative twin arrogantly gloated,
as sure as the master controlling the slave.
Reality buried like day demoted

beneath darkness’s oppressive tidal wave,
left to cower, like cur in submissive grave.

With defiance ascending from spark to flame,
to shatter this nightmare before damned defeat,
with a fist turned dentist to fracture this shame,

the remnants of memory lay at my feet.
In sea of slivers my soul still not unbound,
my counterfeit brother in painful retreat,

yet still I am hazy, in mist that confounds,
struggling for release from enigma rhymes
my senses recoiling to the laughter’s sound

and as eyes are cast upon pieces of crime,
each reflection reflected a hundred times.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~receding Space Between Thought and Action~

Reclining within spring's bouquet
she thought,” Please stay, don't rush away,
I so enjoy, these blooms of May."

This maiden who boldly proclaimed
wished only for sweet azure sky
upon which white clouds could be framed
without knowing the reasons why.

Yet, deep within, a darkness grew
like London fog, it changed her view
and left her plea cast all askew.

With every cloud, she graced with smiles
a dozen more would turn to grey
and through these hues she witnessed trials
as heaven wept for man's dismay.

No matter what the sky would bring
to make this world alive and sing,
she felt the pain from mankind’s sting.

She knew this venom slowly killed,
just like the years traveled from birth,
each space, a wound shadows had filled
in every corner of her earth.

But then a spark! A thought divine!
a revelation that might shine,
to help her break apathy’s spine.

She shouted truth, for so long slurred;
that man was more than part-time king
and he could change what was inferred,
so she would see, a better spring.

---------------------------------

A Double Sarabande Sonnet

Specs:

The Sarabande was a dance of Persian origin introduced into Spain in the 16th century.
The poem follows the movements of the dance with its change of stanza form
to comply with the measures of the music. As a “sonnet” it has:

14 lines
Four stanzas

Stanza 1 a tercet, rhyme axa or aaa

Stanza 2 a quatrain, any quatrain form or rhyme
The stanza forms may be mixed
English: abab or abcb
Italian: baab
Spanish: bcbc
French: bbcc

Stanza 3 a tercet, same tercet form as stanza 1
a sonnet with a French tercet requires
line 2 of both tercets to rhyme.

Stanza 4 a quatrain, any quatrain form and
rhyme
Any metrical foot
Any metrical line
Some authorities insist on eight syllables
but this is not cut and dried
Rhyme scheme: depends on the form chosen.

The volta the first line of the second tercet.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~keep the Home Fires Burning~

You notice the trees seem grown up, so much more than you have; arms are thick, gnarled 
like they have been force-fed steroids, unlike the used pipe cleaners that hang like wet 
towels from your shoulders.

Recalling the privet hedge that your father loved: shaping bolster boundaries every fourth 
week, hoping it would dull the world into a soft subtle melody of background music; lying 
besieged by the rubble of too many feet, too many voyeurs.

Terracotta blotched across the portal to your cocoon, split like the moth had already flown, 
but you were the one who flew, singeing wings in your sense deprived flight; the night never 
felt as comfortable to you as it folded around your flames.

Your life littered amongst the charred past like a melded genetic mistake,
teddy morphed into something even your nightmares kept hidden.

You know the bubbled paper well its something you see in every shop window, a brand 
displayed as stigmata. They called you hero; you the one with hidden matches; you the one 
who craved infamy,

still burning.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~truth Or Lies (Epilogue)~

My truth is false,
a glittering overcoat with torn lining,
always catching on good intentions
and jamais vu,

but persona persists
anealed to the base elements
of slipping into a round hole
without scoring.

Time to be fashionable again.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~language Dna~

Confined in expanse
of gestation,
birthed only at her terms,
when perfectly complete.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~observation Through False Dawn~

Candid beliefs of grief,
where notion belays birth
beneath serfdom.
Once spread, collecting counterfeit
additions, superstitions
like hived honey,
neatly packed to feed
imature illusions;

devoured now.

Nothing to wear or bear,
just fading echoes
fighting to remain coherent,
but the pain of severed ties
beguilingly lies like sirens wind whisper.

Does decay not dally,
vaporising vitality, whittling away
the concrete colours
neat in their display,
so only spider sucked husk
plays memories against the dawn,

awaiting death of a new day,

and all returns
labelled yesterday
making way, creating spaces
for promises to fill
or kill.

Details | Colin Marschall Poem

~wilful Water~

Such sweet sound; soft fall of stumbling stream
like murmur swept along whispered breezes,
this spoilt child, meanders as it pleases
with a wayward waggle of some winsome scheme;
no destiny decided in its dream.
Though winter’s hoary harbinger freezes
still charismatic child cajoles; teases
‘neath icy iron of frigid regime,
but in heavens wilful weep, ire is raised,
temper explodes into thankless tantrum
not content to wander upon its way,
but to leave landscape bedraggled and dazed,
woefully wondering how it could succumb
to babbling brook, who pranced in play.

****Not in Iambic Pentameter