Best Abashed Poems
A lone tear trickles down her tender cheek
Abashed, she blushes, as is her wont
The tear removed, her duress concealed
in her heart, a rift revealed
Deep in her chambers, something’s amiss
Though the hearth is ablaze and the table’s just so
Who is to say what triggers emotions
of angels who dwell at edges of oceans
Singular and thus finite
begins the spiral's spinning plight
of eminent foretold collision
love commences in a vision
Unbeknownst before the time
an effigy that burns the mind
now filters clear, emotions raw,
the present image striking awe
Eyes and hair on perfect face
with pouted mouth, the heart doth race
into the thoughts, how to proceed?
laggardly? ...with godly speed?
Clumsily one gathers poise
do thine drums work? there is no noise
at the point, this cosmic stead
a vocal soul must forge ahead
Words abashed but striking through
perceived by them, return to you
is that a chorus sounding there?
without belief just simper stare
Lives become one single strand
as two entangle by the hand
joy begins to warmly swell
for fate's occasion, two hearts fell
There once was a girl
In the Coppertone ad
And her dog pulled her bathing suit down;
So her pale little butt
Was exposed by the mutt
Though the rest of her body looked brown.
It was harmless and sweet
And offensive to none
So for years it made Coppertone's name;
But society's changed
And for people deranged
What was innocent's not quite the same.
Now the Coppertone girl,
While her doggie still tries
To perform the same stunt he once did,
Looks abashed, but for what?
For this time he had not
Been successful at making his bid.
Though his little teeth nip
At her suit, he cannot
Bare her tush for the whole world to see.
It's a sign of the times
That because of some crimes
What was cute once no longer can be.
I am losing you again
White, oh your skin, whiter than pearls…
I sit here, trying not to stare,
Serene you are, as you lie in your bed,
How awful could agony become?
I am losing you again
Chapped and faded your divinely drawn lips…
Opaque, the spark in your eyes, it no longer exists,
Uttering out the words, "you had my heart from the start,"
Lament, your words are, as your lips part,
Does God really need another angel by His side?
Exasperating, your paralysis, suffocates me…
Abashed I awake, from a nightmare,
Throbbing, I almost submerged your sheets with gasoline,
Yelping,
Oh poor baby, you are so soggy from the chemo,
Undying, everlasting we are, hang on my love,
Rusting your skin, your sickness is so ruthless, to kill you,
Could I really break the wall my pride has built?
Angst haunted me as I listened to the mournful,
Notes of the saddest symphony existing…
Could I please place a red rose on your mahogany sepulcher?
Endless our love is, as a paroxysm of pain,
Rushed through my blood,
Amid the purple phlox, and the emerald elms,
Waves of distress, overwhelm,
As I realise how your anguish was so true,
Yesterday, I wished I had died instead of you…
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
Between The Devil and The Sea
( Scylla and Charybdis )
Cosmetic the creature cover girl
is accessible only at night
a picture female in her temple
laying askew on an alter ego
A de lux harlot in romantic rough house
a fetish target
frivolous nymphet with a rampant phallus
And the sinister will follow strictly incognito
In her sticky sexual paradise
blond peroxide sensuality comes by proxy
No virtues abashed
a blow up doll as she lays in prostrate sultry action
her deflowering for titillation
she is said to have a thing for perversion
this ageless angelica this strip teaser
the Molotov cocktail of her own euphoria
Down in the bawdy boulevard men ape their ardour
all mouth to mouth with the call girl
a fondle or a blatant grope
She’s a clock work courtesan to keep her from destitution
to feed the kids she considers herself to be an acquisition
smiling for the gratuitous exhilaration of playing the other woman
vogue with her etiquette indiscreet in the burlesque
self esteem is held between the food the warmth
and not much else
We went to a Chinese restaurant, but couldn’t get a seat
The waiter found us a table, and said we were in for a treat.
A wedding party was booked, he said, we would join them
We decided to say yes, sat down and waited and then…
The waiters rushed out, the bride arrived, resplendent in a gown of white
A creation that was gorgeous, her tattooed shoulders caught the light
No groom was there by her side, just a pageboy and three bridesmaids
The page a little boy of five suddenly on his way he got waylaid…
A tank of fish by the door, amused the bored little boy
Especially when he threw his car in, it was his ‘must behave toy.’
The best man arrived; he saw the bride, he whispered in her studded ear
She banged the table with her fist, there was no doubt we all could hear.,,
"The ‘bast*** I am sick of him, and you are the one to blame
You should have stopped him getting drunk, god why did I take his name?
Get the kids off the floor, get that car out of the tank of fish?
When their father gets here, get them to bring the Chop Suey wedding dish…"
The groom arrived looking abashed, his tie slung over his shoulder
“Get these bloody kids controlled or they’ll not get very much older.”
The bride jumped up and raised her dress, not only her garter did we see
She raised her dainty black jack boot, and kicked him in the knee…
"They are your bloody kids you know, and if you don’t control them soon
I’m telling you right now- we are not going on our honeymoon."
By this time all of us began to thank, the waiters for finding us a seat
They had not been wrong when they told us, we were in for a wonderful treat...
A True Story
© ~GG~ 20/11/2012
I am free as a bird
Ready to discover this wondrous world
I am dressed to the nines
Seeking a knight in shining armor
He will be handsome alright
Defending me from life’s lows and sorrows
I shall be his flower, ready to be plucked
Oh my petals shall lust for his kiss
The big city a delight, as I shop all night!
As I gaze upon the handsome men all over
I am hopeful one shall take my hand
So they we might begin a lovers journey
Night time jazz, clubs filled with hazy smoke
Man after man after drink and nothing of substance
What’s a pretty girl to do?
Another night of blackness and no shining black knight
So off I wander to the city park
The lush smell of green filling the air
There is a graveyard up over there
A promenade among the dead
There under the moonlit sky, is an old man
His hair all white, his dress somewhat wrinkled
He seems to star into nothingness
Ah but his eyes are clear blue like the ocean true
I am abashed yet I stare into these crystal blue eyes
Something stirs from within me, yes I see as clear as day
The kindness and compassion within this weathered old man
I lose my breath, this is foolish for I just know somehow, I know I know
I walk up to him, and kiss him on the lips as I should not
This is not me, yet I know this is exactly me, I just know
He looks with sadness, and says simply "I am a dead man, from long ago"
I kiss him once more and say “I will return three days hence and we shall see"
Three days later, like a statue he stands stoically still and almost in fear
I take his hand, and whisper, life is full of miracles
We have no time to lose, I see into your beauty and I see into your pain
Hold me and love me, I am yours completely, in the falling rain
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones,
like yesteryear’s
fading souvenirs,
I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.
Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers,
packed tightly here
despite once repellent hate?
Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.
These arms and hands, they once were so delicate!
How articulately
they moved! Ah me!
What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?
Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls!
Deprived of graves,
forced here like slaves
to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!
Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained?
Except for me;
reader, hear my plea:
I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!
Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir
here, where I stand
in this alien land
surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!
Even in this cold,
in this dust and mould
I am startled by an a strange, ancient reverie, …
as if this shrine to death could quicken me!
One shape out of the past keeps calling me
with its mystery!
Still retaining its former angelic grace!
And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...
Swept by that current to where immortals race.
O secret vessel, you
gave Life its truth.
It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.
I turn away, abashed here by what I see:
this mould was worth
more than all the earth.
Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!
What is there better in this dark Life than he
who gives us a sense of man’s divinity,
of his place in the universe?
A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse!
To The Muse
by Friedrich Schiller
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I do not know what I would be,
without you, gentle Muse!,
but I’m sick at heart to see
those who disabuse.
Keywords/Tags: Goethe, Schiller, German, Germany, translation, skull, bones, body, charnel, house, grave, best friend, friendship love, funeral, souls, soulmate, ghosts, spirit, flesh, dead, death, shrine, divinity, universe
He was graced with long life as the work he required,
A present flame, aft he retired,
He deepened the souls that sat before him,
And made them express with written decorum.
He read their assignments with special attention
That challenged and called forth youth's finest rendition.
He opened the door to a life well read,
His students entangled in Baalat's web.
Gazing back through the specularium of time
One saw an intellect so immensely fine
That it slightly abashed those of higher grade,
His light joining their lights where others fade.
Moving on one lingered a bit in the past,
Still meeting challenges from his intellect, so vast.
That it scarce was contained
In the role for him framed.
His soul now borne upon the Stygian Lake
Leaves proper grammar trailing in its wake;
This gentle muse vanished in the night,
The curtains closed, doused the light.
No need for stately obelisk oe'r his bier
To greet mournful pilgrims once a year;
For though he'll be long gone,
The phallic symbol, he loved so, lives on.
Assuming hand from above
guiding fretful pinioned glove
past waltzing pines and drunken oaks,
cheerful friends yet frightened folk.
Swelling fear puffs spotted breast,
no watchful eye, no woven nest.
Sharply shoved by hurried gust
and mistral maidens in a huff,
who twirl up toward yellow glare
to greet abashed doldrum air.
Green eye below, delusions home,
blue eye above, illusions roam
which flit and fly it seems with ease
Yet Freedom answers to the breeze.
“Lost Road to Kashmir”
Tenderness arrives
late sometimes
in the 11th hour
soft cashmere
wrapped like a child
love around your knees
pale roses
tease golden grail
visions
blushing again
in the twilight years
on some kind of mission
birds
become
bees
honeyed wings
sweeten the hallucinatory
messages written from Blue Sky
dreams sting
slept-in again
the sleep-of-sleeps
Great heights reached
Mountains test journeys
speaking in strange tongues
multiple choice conversations
with mysterious
Angels
on a Lost road
to Kashmir
strewn with pale roses
tease golden grail
visions
choirs soft-winged
ring like bells
echoing loud
Roza Bal
Summoned
by dreams
curious messages
Tenderness arrives
late sometimes
in the 11th hour
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
EASTER
"Tenderness" / Tony Anderson
https://youtu.be/wzGrY7copas
“Mahomet cald the Hill
to come to him.
And when the Hill stood still,
he was neuer a whit abashed,
but said;
If the Hill will not come to Mahomet,
Mahomet wil go to the hil.”
Francis Bacon, 1625
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roza_Bal
https://www.indiaheritagewalks.org/blog/tomb-jesus-kashmir-roza-bal-shrine
https://www.census2011.co.in/data/religion/state/1-jammu-and-kashmir.html
A brand new clock with all new resolution i wish to buy
From the eight hour of midnight to the arrival of dawn i'm all awake
The soul speaks in darkness and whatever echoes from there is
Never to Abhor
Never to be aberated by whatever is around
Never to be an abator
The mind Abjure's & the soul takes an oath to abnegate all the evil around
To abolish all fear,,thrust & lust
Never to feel abashed for how you are,who you are.
As Life is nothing more than a nine day wonder,
Beginning with a bliss of growth & vision of hope
OSAMA
Obdurate Sadistic abductor as Machiavellian now abashed
Senseless Saboteur with Sabre sword,
Ablutions of wickedness as apology from vagrant
Mercy and peace mixed fleetingly against unprovoked America and the innocents
Abomination of true God explained as religion, hatred, wickedness, murders, and Jihad
Bin
Bigots brewing bestial behaviors before innocent kids,
Inoculated ideas of incorrigible iconoclast and unlettered extremist
Namby-pamby in acts of cruelty, yet, not man enough to face the consequence
Laden
Laden, lackluster, laggard, languid, despising better option
Abnormal spiritual schizophrenia and hallucination
Doctrinal heresies and contradictions shaming Islamic scholars
Exposing the fallibility of the questionable renown “Sacred book of blood and wars”
Now convince us again, that you bring Peace, Love or seek the Prince of Peace
Hawkins County Sheriff’s Report
Complainant advised that he thought
His girlfriend the thief that he sought
So he set up a trap
Near the couch where he sat
Believing this time she’d be caught
One envelop had dollar bills
One envelop had many pills
When he went to bed
She stayed up instead
In the morning she felt kind of ill
The money and pills were all gone
Then she threw up the pills on the lawn
When he asked for the cash
She said somewhat abashed
It was hidden up under her thong
In his effort to get back his dough
From the place where the sun doesn’t show
With some old kitchen tong
And a brush was too long
He probed but it was a no go
When the sheriff got there he found
Blood flowing freely around
So to the ER
In the back of his car
To free what was so tightly bound
The lady thief was then sedated
The evidence soon confiscated
She was booked for the crime
And is now doing time
The complainant they said was elated
The lesson I’d like to convey
And believe me it’s always this way
If you happen to push
Your loot up your tush
You’ll soon learn why crime doesn’t pay
Uncle Mike