Belatedly Poems

NO PLACE FOR POETS

          
         
There is no place for the poet...

We are all lost
In our last stages,
without having time
To leave a trail
Any ,
of our last memories... !

We are the new found
After more than a hundred years.
hence we belatedly conclude:

  a poet has no place
within the depths
of eternal night,
when he dissolves
without being wanted...

There is a strange darkness
where new words
   running around his head
   they give him a tasteless kiss...

Then the poets fly
  away sans any noise,

    run away from this place they know
never belonged...

Beneath the inscrutable sky, blinded by divided eternities

Beneath the inscrutable sky, blinded by divided eternities,
We are islands of yearning, adrift in fate,
Each bearing a mysterious longing, a desert within the chest,
And with every heartbeat, my sorrow robustly grows.
Fate, the ancient dramatist who in astral maps has decreed
That we be star-crossed lovers, struck by the curse of the falling star.
Painfully sweet is our allotment, a share of shadow and nectar,
Tasting fleetingly, in profound flight, from the sweetness of ephemeral intimacy.
This is the light we endeavor to clasp tightly,
Like Odysseus, shipwrecked in an epic of froth,
Clinging to the beam that thrashes amongst the violent and caustic waves.
You remained locked in a loveless alliance, you've watched too long.
Belatedly, we discovered each other, drawn by a sublime magnet,
Which seemed, in its ephemeral moment, too intense to be contained.
And thus, nature staged its wild banquet,
A cruel show, unintelligible to hearts, stealing away our happiness.

What am I - a Riddle

What am I?
 
I’m great fun and sometimes crazy,
Loud or soft with moods quite hazy,
Full of love, sorrow, unrequited loss,
One minute happy another sullen, cross.
I see the world in shades of neon gray,
Rarely do I care or anyone obey,
My vibes are epic, they constantly perplex,
Full of contradictions, invariably complex.
I can praise the Lord, drink myself into a stupor,
Stalking the room with unrequited humor.
Sex is my go-to, gentle or pulsating,
Not always happy, at times tearfully heartbreaking.
I know the secret to capture every heart,
Life would be intolerable by keeping me apart.
Whatever you may think this is no passing phase,
I'm known to be pervasive and hound your mind for days.
My moods are epic, a journey to discover,
Your friend to soothe you or belatedly recover.

Come on - What am I?

RAI/3/24

64, Many More for Wren!

64, Many More for Wren
We belatedly sing,
Uncork a bottle of wine,
For Jen “Teetotaling”,
We imbibe Jen Joy sunshine!
Annapolis is gaining as less “NYing”,
Jen Wren for out loud “Whinin’”,
Rick & you go out dining,
Listen to music that’s fine,
On the Bay, enjoy sailing,
To Darby, Rickie & Sean be benign,
Worse than a NY storm is taxi hailing,
Dress to the 9’s, with Rick align,
Parachuting, Mountain scaling,
64 is only the beginnin’,
Know when tight roping,
C# or B Flat endnin’,
Light a candle, Offkey singing,
Barbara & I Luv Yah without margin!

The Hypocrisy of Life and Death

The living to themselves gossip attract,
but at death eulogies mitigate lies.
Love and care from he who breathes is withdrawn,
but his slumber does attract parties.

Fake mourners with feigned tears in burials act.
They rip off and use the grieving as pawns;
Their loss is their gain, their tears their laughter.
To fill their stomachs, they sob and flatter,
as they to misery dance, from dusk till dawn.

Whilst alive, at my deeds everyone frowns.
But at death, I am a departed 'saint'
whose sepulcher you spray with costly paint.

If you must celebrate me, do so now.
Do not in reverence to my casket bow.
Visit me now in my ramshackle house,
sharply rebuke me if you have a grouse.
Do as much you can to show you love me,
do not when I sleep go on bended knee.
Never belatedly show your respect
by attending my funeral in retrospect.

Evaluations

EVALUATIONS

out
  of sight
lapsed
  into
obscurity
unfashionable
   unremembered
still noble

belatedly
repurposed
so
sensitive
  &compelling
thisss
persuasive
tension
    presenting
impressions
 in masterly
conformity
 with
 cumulative
&disruptive
force
steadily
 enriching
&
 deepening
understanding

NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE   using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand

Mining Your Fountain Pen Tips

Into the wilds
I trudge
In search of
Osmiridium
I keep an eye out
For
Thylacine
But know they
Got rid of them

I follow the tracks of
Finnegan
Who was on the run
For his life again

The 73rd of foot
Again
Some were thinking
Good riddance to him

Finnegan
Ran blindly
Through the bush
Right across the top
Osmiridium

Yet
He seen that treasure
Denied to me
Thylacine

I guess
We are square
In the circle of life
Finnegan
Osmiridium
And belatedly
Me

A Jewel's Passing

So no more shall his traitors hate;
For death's veils have made it late
To slight any soul time has called
To dine and wine in the city of gold.

And his tombstone does eerily stand
Above the grass on the watered land;
Where passers-by might donate a tear
To lament the passing of a jewel dear.

And wayfaring aliens of kindlier blood
May cast a tearful eye above the mud,
To read that fading nineteen-thirty-nine;
His twain names inked in italicized line.

And perhaps see therebelow two-zero-zero-nine,
Saddest hour the grape was thieved from the vine;
And maybe briefly stand still and belatedly mourn,
And sadly concede all must die that erst was born.

His only friends - merry butterflies during the day,
And the crickets who with mournful chirping pray;
Shall some keen vigil keep over his placid bones,
Throughout his rest beneath those tireless stones.

Copyright © Hannington Mumo | Year Posted 2021.

Water

In bottles corked by a nursing mother
Against thirst that would her baby bother;
In large drums hoarded by ablution-enthused Muslim
Who stories of its scarcity take with eyes unusually dim.

A dry cleaner’s spiteful curse of a dry tap
That wouldn’t help his trade, a hurting slap!
The keyed-up state of a seeker of a mouthful of it,
An insight into the whiplashes of not conserving a bit,
As much so, the helplessness of a camel driver
Belatedly aware of no oasis ahead nor the look-alike of a river.

Water is the double assurance of life in a world unlived,
To this end, a phenomenon that should be believed
While it continues with a dignified silence
Against foes teaching Rubbishy Science.

Water is never by, parched throats disdained
Rather ‘Archbishop’ by Adam’s Apple ordained;
Always usefully engaged here
And productively canalized there...
But watch it, in a big one, you go down
And you are sure to drown!

A Kids Moral Decadence

Now, he is fed up with his rubber pistol,
Irrepressibly itching for Hard Metal:
To every onlooker crystal clear
That Kingsley has drowned his fear
Of spraying bullets 360o degrees
And blood stains bestowing a black grease.

Whom we should reproach I knew all along,
For Kingsley’s now roguish eyes and song;
For I had his doting daddy warned
Against having a bull belatedly dehorned:
The folly of over-exposing him to toys 
That would yield only Satan’s joys:
The slim chances of Kingsley’s young mind
Rightly guessing that he’s spiritually behind;
If it wasn’t some tasty, beefy meat
A special mind-blowing chocolatey treat
If not, milky juices you won’t find in town
Crispy wafers no one can turn down
If it wasn’t some eye catching software
About under-cover operations revealing a snare;
Some costly cell phones for men of title
And this GODDAMNED rubber pistol!

Pickers

The old lady passed away
as the elderly will.
Memorial cards arrive belatedly
from places far away.
‘Final Notices’ pile up
on a welcome mat.

Those who knew of her
claimed kinship once removed.
The vacated home picked over
in the measured haste
of part-time mourners.

A heavy recliner disappears
as if a feather upon a morning breeze.
Dainty china rattles in the back
of a fleeing pick-up.
Cushions and drapes buried
into already stuffed trunks.

Dark corvids fly high against the sun,
wait to assist in the clean-up,
their silhouettes reflect justly upon all,
as we run with the spoils.

Murmuring Zone

He got a death ticket
for standing in the murmuring zone
An unwritten casualty statistic
was fatally issued 
for belatedly standing there too long

Asphalt caught, he waved the white flag
of an enamel obedient grin
In fidgety hope that a routine hassle 
didn’t turn flatline wrong,
felt baton-induced 
to cheek meekly lay prone

But a swastika command
curse-slapped 
his bleating heart cuff firm
Impending siren ticket to Styx ride
made him nervously squirm
Grim visions of a swift dirt journey
to the reaper feast of worms

Dyed blue fear bosom chilled his soul to the bone,
as echoes of hatred
drowned out his thoughts in the murmuring zone

Such dirge irony of life:
He had only stopped to answer his cellular phone
Sadly, his loving wife, 
and doting child couldn’t wait for Da to get home

Oldyear Question

Said the last wrinkled brown leaf,
falling toward late dark ecstatic ground
crumbling into wet somber grass,
to the twig
belatedly letting go,

What does eternal healthy life feel like?

But, remembered romance,
enchantment,
resilient nurturing radiance
before and after
twig's silently reassuring
timeless non-reply.

Facing the Music

We’ve introduced our grandkids
To the music we adore – 
That’s classical or rock & roll;
They always ask for more.

For Henry’s coming birthday,
I procured a perfect book – 
An intro to the orchestra;
A CD was the hook.

Describing all the instruments,
Composers for them, too,
It indicates which track to play
So all will get their due.

I realized, though, belatedly – 
You’ll know before I say it – 
That Henry’s house (unlike my own)
Has no place he can play it!

We listen to the radio
(Alexa helps, as well)
And in the car, for longer drives,
Some kids’ CD’s do dwell.

But modern homes have relegated
CD’s to the past.
Like hi-fi’s, LP’s and cassettes,
Of course, they couldn’t last.

Wait Listed

A friend passed on – not someone close
But someone I adored.
A service in her honor
I would never have ignored.

So when I heard, belatedly,
That there had been one planned,
In three days’ time, I reached out
To the person in command.

Explaining in an email
That I wanted to attend,
I thought for sure an invitation
She would thus extend.

Instead, in her reply she wrote
That there was just no room.
She’d add me to the wait list
With some others, I presume.

If she who’s being honored
Were alive, there is no doubt,
There’s no way anybody
Wanting in would be left out.

I understand a wait list
Must be started on occasion,
But not when someone’s death
Is factored into the equation.

• Short Belatedly Poems
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• Belatedly Quotes