If beauty is but skin deep,
I prevailed upon her to construe,
'Does it lie in the eye of the beholder
or, of the two which one is true?'
For we can't judge the book
by the cover, with but one look,
as what's inside truly counts
far much more than that.
And tho' to me she bemoaned,
'I am big-boned'
I've yet to see a skeleton which looks fat.
Smoking toking you must be joking
it's a bust I just don't need an altered sense
of time and space or on choking
a mind-numbing feeling of euphoria
as I am happy as a clam
(thank you ma'am)
for as you two while under the influence
of lethargy-inducing external stimuli
proceeded in search of smokeable weed
a.k.a., a whole lot of pot
a joint venture indeed
the words I heard by you bemoaned
when about to go driving were
'No left turn unstoned!'
Memories are fickle things
They seem to love to torture
When you desperately just want to forget
Seems memory's fruitage is an orchard
They can seemingly come from anywhere
But they don't need to be regretted
They should still be remembered fondly
Not bemoaned, erased, or fretted
Because if memories were cheating
No one could be loyal
Just because something comes to mind
Doesn't mean your love is foiled
You can smell a smell or see a sight
Even hear a familiar tune
But none of thats a problem
Because he will still love you
So don't hate yourself for your memories
Your love's no passing fad
You can still be loyal to each other
And be grateful for what we had
To love is to burn with passion, like flames of a fire.
~ by poet
On canvas, her loveliness was yet a vague concept
A beginning sketch in shades of charcoal grays
by the hand of one who knew her in greater detail...
the gleam in her eyes; curve of her lips when she smiles
Her pleading expression bemoaned when her lips parted
The artist's masculine hand trembled as he painted her
Tormented with need, she looked at him while in a pose
His eyes replied, "Not yet. I need to paint you in this light."
With brush, he quickly began filling his palette with colors...
peach blush for her cheeks, soft rose to tint her pouty lips
She opened her eyes to reveal irises dancing in hues of blue
He'd captured her beauty's nuance with the eyes of a lover
When I gasp for the last of breath
And take tentative steps to death,
Way-lost, unsure wither to go,
Baffled, fallen short of your faith,
You will then miss me.
And when sweet breeze begins to sing
A well-metered sonnet on spring,
Floral fragrance shall when unfold,
When you recall my short inning,
You will then miss me.
Recalling our paper-made boat
Set in street’s rain-rivers afloat,
And you feel sad of your bad mood,
Your boat did when no farther float,
You will then miss me.
Over poets far better known,
Fearing, people would t’me get drawn,
And all else appreciating why,
When you recall why you’d bemoaned,
You will then miss me.
When the melted frost memories
Of mine would still waft as fresh breeze,
And feeling that long suppressed pain,
Contrite, you try, straighten old crease,
You will then miss me.
_________________________
Musing |07.11.2024| love, remember
You've read it correctly,
that's what the directions said directly
but
it's not some innate random homogeneous gift
that encourages and displays these internal poetic rifts,
we are somehow blessed,
betrayed, besieged, bestowed, beleaguered and bemoaned
by words, phrases, unmatched rhymed teasers enthroned
upon some grandiose display of mismatched garble
a picture, an image, a brain's ensemble, quite remarkable,
the integral, seamless agreed-upon selection
of who or what could be prisoner to our dissection,
there within the confines of heart, body, and mind
lay hidden pseudo images soft, hard, vile, and kind,
therein those coherent enigmatic systemic wholes
buried, shaped, unseen, rhythmic whispers of our souls,
the center of our individual, molded, subservient whole.
This is what the wicked are like— always free of care, they go on amassing wealth. Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure and have washed my hands in innocence ~ Psalm 73:12-13
A wise man long ago bemoaned the thought
that those who seek the paths of righteousness
so often struggle mightily. Their lot
seems only to be wreathed in hopelessness.
Meanwhile, the wicked reap rich dividends
while disregarding others' poverty -
they'll use whatever means may suit their ends,
neglecting justice, love, humility.
Believers know "these three remain" to guide
up peaks appearing insurmountable:
Faith is that trust in Him who walks beside;
Hope is that blessed wealth uncountable;
and Love, which guides us to eternity -
For "God is love", the greatest of the three.
Inscribed still stone unholds, supine spirit enfolds
bemoaned psyche enwrapped, entranced soul strings unsnapped.
I heard screams from those marked for a guillotine death
No compromises for their cries before taking a last breath
Words of repentance for dastardly crimes were bemoaned
Begging for mercy with fear and tears, curses were groaned
My blade is always kept whetted for those who regretted
and my cutthroat job is thought to be brutally inhumane
"Oh, please!" I wanted to shout at the louts who fretted,
"For only the briefest moment will I cause you any pain!"
In modern days I would be aptly labeled a "French Press."
Humorous, the thought, but I'd still create a bloody mess
Hence, never should I ever be used inside of an abattoir
Before I take a life, I always remember to say, "Au revoir."
I abhor the taste of blood in my mouth and on my teeth
Love to be cleaned before my blades are again in sheath
When my deadly decapitation chore is over and complete
heads I felled roll to lie supine at the executioner's feet
People then clear the scene, to flee from me, the guillotine
As if what they'd witnessed me do would wash them clean
Maybe it was the act of my beheading they were dreading
Hoping tomorrow it wouldn't be theirs that I'd be shredding
I wonder if Wright
ever thought himself wrong,
before making an actual
flight?
I mean, pigeons heckling
him, from the tin roof's ledge (Oh yea! They
do laugh, a sort of subtle, mocking coo, a snickering choir
Wright all too well knew --
as if only pigeons flew
probably more upset that it was not Kitty Pigeon
(bemoaned a Homer of the Township's naming decision)
(damn hawks always got the greater glory!) – despite what pigeons did
during the perilous war story, risking beak and tail, so our nation would prevail --
and yet, still used, primarily, for Chow Mein and
free-range stew, as if humans yet had not a moral clue)
(But I digress. Should be cautious: feathered Ears everywhere...
myself soon expecting a head full of taunting goo – followed by
cooing laughter~ daring me to take offense~ just try to sue!) –
And now, it is high-time I confess
this write not about Wright, not about
wings, nor pigeon mess – but more about
being bored, with presently not a thought
worthy enough to intelligently address.... Addicted to writing.
He is dead, many confirmed.
I am sad for the people who knew him,
though I never did.
to me he will always be 'what's his name.'
He died peacefully in the eye of a tornado,
he died on a bus to the City of Angels.
it was so sudden
a shock to all our systems
caught us all off-guard
minds reeling
as we contemplated the loss.
May his wig be kept embalmed in aspic.
May his chin and its infamous dimple
be cast in Plaster of Paris
a template for a million molds.
May the print of his feet
be tattooed upon
the lower back of all middle aged
starlets
a tragic headline be embossed
on the backside of the moon.
Ring the grave church bell
walk a mournful walk as well,
respectfully talk of a life;
its celebrated grace, its unexpected fall
one we never knew or now recall at all.
Sensing and yearning allure of daydreams
My musings amble in meadows of themes,
Sometimes wowing ebullience of dawning,
Sometimes luxuriating in moonlit evening
Gazing lambent skies of stellar twinkling,
Inviting me to echo my inner most feelings;
Of whispers romantic when love is courting,
Of giggling streams and blossoming springs,
Of resplendent autumn’s falling gilded leaves,
Of fate unkind, bawling, in throes of grief,
Of pristine joy beaming from mother’s eyes
Jubilant in delight of child’s innocent smile;
Of ebb and flow to life in seasons undulating
Spurring me to attribute form and meaning.
So, I write verses stemming from core of soul
Striving to capture essence of elusive words,
Exploring assonance, even in rhymeless prose,
Attempting to inspire spirit of wordless woes
As thoughts-poetic heart’s rhythms compose;
Of chromatic sunsets and scintillating dawns,
Of starless nights hosting tenebrous bygones,
Of tales strumming romance, of fables forlorn,
Of ideas enthroned, of paradigms bemoaned,
Of boundless expressions, of passions I own.
August 30, 2022
Placed 2nd: I Write Because Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Life gives to each a whisper of her medium,
A plastered palace, on which to post all dreams.
A shared air, to pause each hungered reach;
In praise of steps, accomplishing by each.
A rouse of sympathies, for the melancholy few;
Who test their fortunes with the best, as many do..
Allowing a power to close the door, to every madness come.
With weightless dreams of dreams that overcome
Each hurried mind bemoaned in kind and sum
With fractures turning palaces to slum.
Left behind, as though one might be freed.
When thou art all there is, for every need.
Emptying all footsteps into sand,
To ends that cannot be, whatever planned.
Cracks remain, from those who dictate malice
Graffiti gifted to the plastered palace.
The place that is the middle of all things.
A fellow came round
120 years old
I inquired of his health
He said, Good as gold
I asked him to tell me
of the life that he'd led
He chuckled a bit
'You mean, 'fore I'm dead'
Then he stopped me real quick
Said he was a bit out of line
And began forthwith
to chronicle his time
Told me he fought in WW1
was hit by the foe's guns
Developed a fearful infection
Long months of dejection
Said his parents died from the Spanish Flu
Sister and brother got pretty sick too
He lost all his money in the Stock Market Crash
Ate dinner forever from dumpster trash
During WW2 he recalled lines and shortages
How difficult it was to pay the mortgage
On and on he went, through Korea and 'Nam
Winding up for the finish, he started his slam
Bemoaned the hippies, the yippies, sex-drugs-rock'n'roll
Said the decline of the Church has exacted its toll
Felt folks today can't bear the smallest sacrifice
Concluded with words perhaps true, but not very nice:
'Now all these spoiled brats complain
about temporary mask mandates
I wonder if there's much of a future
for the once-great United States'
the candle snuffed out long before the night was gone
sent shivers of darkness from a cracked thin chandelier
bemoaned life’s brevity and then succumbed to slumber
a scent of yesterday perfused the room with fragrance
of wishes burnt at lightning speed and molten wax
whispered to a waning moon’s request to grow anew
obscured by clouds fully bestowed with heavy vapour
the harlequin chanted songs of wisdom and temptation
half-naked images of the fool’s physique oozed wanton
jaded milestones jingled from his silver-coated necklace
his nubile fortune proud in the beauty of a timid glance
cast an eye of passion now that the light had given way
a sconce invited the cierge to bequeath a drop of hope
from his sceptre as he followed the bouquet of her lips
that whispered without a blush and accustomed to delight
ambrosia flowed from the flute of devotion as if to dance
within the shadow of a blossom ripe to spill and savour
their kisses forewent innocence to raise sweet sinless veils
01st November 2020
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