Best Abeyant Poems
I seek the lull--
To feel the tranquility of the night
The hush of birds in calm respite
The quiet compose of ancient trees
The muted hymn on dulcet breeze
On quiescent ridge of nocturne quest
Find soothing balm on angel’s breath.
Abeyant mind, free of hurt or qualm
Opens to Christ when faith is strong
Fearfully reached to touch a lightning rod
But found instead, the hand of God.
SUFFER NOT
Suffer not o man she cried desperate for consolation
Compassion twisted and tore at her heart
but the world she knew was silent.
Painful sounds from death filled wars, would wound her more
than jagged poison tipped arrows that pierced much too deeply.
And yet she carried on in quiet song as the world she knew kept silent.
And if the dying weren't enough, the sight of bloated bellies
and distraught mothers and sacked villages laid bare
by the unwilled force of child soldiers, would crush her spirit.
How could the world she knew keep silent?
Thinking that God did not understand her despair
She wept with abeyant tears that could not flow
as the world she knew kept silent.
To live, to die in the soiled spattered flow of time
passing through, passing through
Is the secret so sublime? Cannot she grieve?
Then silence no more was heard.
Instead a curious word within emerged
from her meditation of life's graces
a Hebrew word "Bitachon"
What was not known in agonies
was revealed in her silence.
C.A.K. 1-9-201
Can you comprehend the surveillance?
Recognize the Cyclopean that is manipulation
Suffer as fingertips osculate the doll
Your existence in cadence with its animation
Answers painted upon the walls of elucidation
Yet enveloped within a sadistic façade
If only mortification was your apparatus
Feasible would be your liberation
To fracture your damnation of kismet
Your oblivious disposition maintains insurance
Of my authentic ipseity concealment
Penetration of veracity remains abeyant
You confine my chassis to a line
An unhindered, forward faced, entity
Blasphemy, impudence, and your curse
Liquescent, manumitted, and your marquis
Flashbacks of lifetimes past, occurred moments ago
Destiny of a soul, iota of my jest
Your obstinate and averse species
Enslaved to stigmas of my amusement
My merited eponyms you endow to others
Fate, karma, spirit, soul mate, life and death
All components, all puppets in my phenomenon
For I am the Master Puppeteer, I am Time
Death of a Brother
Written: by Tom Wright
March 2015
His sun slipped below the horizon,
Leaving naught but an achromatic sky,
As thoughts submerged in time before,
Once abeyant, now dance;
The voice of one since passed,
Drums my ears like Sage Hens at sunset;
While I press to remember cheerier times,
Of days replete with laughter,
My thoughts continue, draped in regret.
Attention being ever focused,
On where we were, not where he is.
Spiraling simulations surfacing,
scattering synthetic secretions...
Constitution compiling constructs,
chimera copulations condescending…
Hope harvesting hallucinations,
halcyon harmonics hovering…
Eternities embracing ethereal etchings,
engulfing endometrium’s echo…
Dissociation disrupting dreams,
daunting deflective deception…
Illicit Illusions idling,
identical igneous illusory immanent…
Astral ambient abode,
abeyant assimilation abductions arising…
Licentious lethargic lioness longing,
levitating luring landscapes…
Sculptural synergies succumbing,
sensual sensations shuddering.
Background music...by Ennja
"No Matter"
With a female virtual voice
July.05.2019
Another Eight Word Challenge
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Placed 1'st...Thank You
In every weary word, there is a selfish storm,
Within a blinding blurred of a formless form…
Thoughts are lost amidst the negligent nights,
Tongues are tossed upon blasphemous bites.
Cloudy confusion arises from its sacrificial still,
As the able abeyant advises the wandering will…
The silence surrenders to the drowning deluge,
For the rain remembers to release in its refuge.
Where the idealized illusions come out to play,
The stigmatic seclusions dormant in disarray…
Whirl winding whispers decay in the distance,
Amongst tangled twisters of raging resistance.
Nov.19.2019
Disarray Poetry
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
N/A for contest
Seemingly standing alone,
In the shadows of doubt and fear,
Lost, cold, forgotten,
Cold is the grasp of death that nears
Seeking a hand in darkness of solitude,
Wishing for nothing but a love,
Turned away, cast aside, borne not even a stray, lone thought,
Towering aloft, looked down upon from far above
Throned so high overhead, just as kings of old,
Glared down upon, a lowly tear forsaken so,
Caught within a trap, drowning, mists of sorrow,
A voice unheard, a voice deserted, only a voice in woe
Wandering such great, forlorn paths,
A derelict mind harshly beat, a mind that has since long been vacant,
Rove, this neglected child does,
One mind among so many, outcast, this dolor mind abeyant.
At the heart of the gristmill in common
is the millstone:
A matched pair of matched round stones, one over the other.
Below is a bed-stone base, abeyant and prone
Above is the runner whetstone,
honed to grind grain
to grist fine flour.
The bed-stone 'tis convex,
the runner stone 'tis concave,
together they form a grasp cup of hands
channeling the ground grist
out as grain is crushed
and ground to powder flour.
The power of the gristmill
is a treadmill water wheel.
Water in common,
driving a gristmill in common,
to the tragedy of the commons.
Am I fitful,
fluctuating, fluid?
thin compass waver
as I jubilantly weave
lilac tree vignettes
that weep or chortle,
rainbow figment curtain
rashly wished upon
in grain smudge zephyr
garnet sand raw vehicle
garden common opal
transit sidestep
to a multiverse
of sappy fruit drip
net bag of niche
mauve rim canopy
a gilt ring culprit’s
flashpoint conjure
stirring taxi cabs
of lavish spurt
woolgathering
a gold rush stray
footslog must
have steel encased.
undulating folds
entangled nomad feint
dwarf yellow scorcher
firmament fatality
dash for straw hut
casita or elm
wood cabin where
advertence on
turnpikes, trails,
woven tracks lead
trajectory abuts
plod along dry path
dust bowl swirling as
they spurn allotments
meek enshrouded lull
with unalloyed poise
to jettison narcolepsy
brief embargo on
spiral plumule
when one’s physique
has many harrowing
gasps, taut breath
that intrinsic quest
for glistening cascade
seems an urgent
void, crushing
diapason rudderless
mahatma clement at
Arcadias nascent
totem of egress
yet charismatic
terminal flag
as this sentient
hypothesiser on
emerald tint bract
beneath hiking boot
unflinching
wild clasp at
beanpole verges
riven from
shade burst cockcrow
lure an impetus
to meandered pretext
primeval boon-docks
whilst tranquil flit
discommoding tawdry
pitch or tilt
gaunt endowment
I must brood on
surreal moiety
of cerebral aspect
squandered
rude reckoning aside
lapse into sullen
vacuum found across
a link whose blind
velvet crush lingers
query later doused
in vapour whirl gush
inkling thin veneer
sheeny beadlet
brow sapped
nod and falter
to a childhood turf
shelter for the limb
victim of grinding
marathon on marathon
to relish glow hue noons
hermetically abeyant
sempiternal eves
avenue to wanderer
fatigued yet still
in broad pursuit
of deep quiddity
abeyant psychopaths won’t wait ~ she played hard to get he took the bait
Trinity
If we can be certain that we know that God is one, God is Creator
yet fail to see the joy of forgiveness, reconciliation and growth in the human spirit:
then we are standing firmly in one place
and unable to move to where we need to be
If we revel in the reality of forgiveness and owning our past
– that world where we were created to be
without a mind to the future and the potential of what could be
then we are standing firmly in one place
and unable to move where we need to be
If we dismiss the potential that both change and decay can bring
and the reality of newness of life coming from inspired resurrection
of life from the experience of yore
entering into a spring of infinite budding
then we are standing firmly in one place
and unable to move to where we need to be
We could move from one to another and see the possibility of other
or we could dare to move to where the creative, redeeming and growth
intersect in a small place called potential:
a promised land of new growth,
a promised life of everlasting consequence
and a promised embodiment of spiritual fortitude for others to reap and sow
Trinity moves us from our solid ground
to stand barefoot on the sacred and fertile place
that is to be in the fullness of God
and dares us,
broken, sinful, unworthy as we are
to make a difference singularly and communally
for a better world,
glimpsing the hidden abeyant capacity
within a fuller understanding of divine providence
But dare I remove my sandals and move to where I need to be;
to allow the intimacy of being in the presence
of the enigmatic divine
permeate the very sole of my soul,
as my skin embodies holy ground
and then to include me in a movement
that will always be what it will be?
dmw:vi.10/19
Languid waves lapping the shore, syrupy
Lulling winds in hiatus, abeyant
Water clinging, sad to let go, sticky
Silence piercing, unnerving the gulls to mute, tranquillity
The wetness lingers on, soaking in, clammy
Water colors seemingly apt for painting such a scene, self portrait
Prevailing wind, the conductor, hushes the onshore ensemble, quietude.
Calmness is a welcome interlude from rage and bluster, quelled
It's just, for a day or so
We both reach
for a camera,
but forget
as the moment takes wing.
Tangerine buds bloom
into a sherbet fountain.
An orange and black dartle
of downy sunshine.
Hearts abeyant,
our perception hangs
from each ribbon of light.
What Does It All Mean
Written: by Tom Wright
3/24/03
If life were a game and not a journey,
would diversion toward both be same?
If at ending awaited still, death's gurney,
and cretinous rules, that made the game.
Would scrutiny reveal an abeyant tear,
because flow of game so quickly ended.
Or should concern be placed in the fear,
of second best, in hell, being suspended.
You can’t burn out
if not on fire
You can’t be hurt
without desire
You can’t be found
if never lost
You’ll never melt
without a frost
Your memory void
without a thought
You’re never freed
if never caught
You’ll never plant
without a seed
You need the words
to have a creed
The past depends
on present spent
The pawn shop thrives
on items lent
The morning lost
without the night
The truth abeyant
—wrong or right
(The New Room: July, 2022)