Best Abstractly Poems
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
Judge that
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
"Bonjour, in the cocktail woods"
I see the waffled leaves of teal trees painting pink moon,
With diamond dahlia arcs, flowering an orchid boon
Sprinkling love of french perfumed spells and cocoa mystique,
Flickering in neon scented star seeds of rose-glossed antique
For, I'm the fragrant fluorescence of pure peace lilies,
Floating amidst dancing dove's glowing daisies
In a redolent riverbank, loving life like the sweet butter-sun,
Wandering in black forests, enveloping magic in red ribbons
Defrosting my white chocolate heart peeking through tinkles,
Singing beyond the glass petals of peony and snowdrop marvels;
Perhaps, plush strawberries too have starry scars,
On their silken ganache skin, bleached with calendula and mars
And my luscious butterscotch lips tremble at the blurry squeaks,
Ruffled by minty chills in my cherry-blushed cheeks
I search for addictive caffeine in gold-glazed dawns that bask,
Pouring nectarine reveries in lavender litchi hearts
Life's a bittersweet syrupy sea, coated with tangy rainbow hues,
Forlorn, this forbidden folklore is shaded with sycamore's adieus
They say, mocha pupils and vanilla haze of iris,
Can carve a melon hued watercolor portrait alive,
But I believe that the purest is never a sweet dessert survived,
In this delusional donut-shaped globe and tangerine beehive;
So, I shove my identity in Van Gogh's abstractly bejeweled canvas,
And let my caramel brown hair, gleam in golden hymns of aqua
Waving walnut "goodbyes" to velvet ochre sands and sapphire skies,
Forevermore, fluttering hummingbird's dreams in oscillating flamingo galaxies.
Initially, it appears
Jackson Pollock's interspatial painting
"Ocean - Tribute,"
overtly oversteps the boundaries of abstract art.
And the eye struggles
to validate its bewildering beauty,
hidden amongst the dribbled droplets of paint!
But then, seemingly spontaneously,
the blobs and dapples of color
intermingle in purpose.
And you see a kaleidoscope of shapes
and forms merge and disperse
into limitless shifting patterns;
as your imagination
gains access to the artist's dream.
Unique to the beholder:
interpretations tap into the imagination,
to abstractly convey cemetery and fluid motion
in the natural cadence of chaos.
Beyond beautiful; it's breathtaking!
Beside the old chapel of Berhampur
A shadow of man
Residual on the lonely roads,
Always walked in circles
After 3’o clock at night.
One crossing to another,
He moved with no hurry.
Like a pendulum of his world,
He collected time and stones
In his empty pockets!
I could see him getting heavier
while he thinned,
Walking through the racing cars
at night
Beneath the yellow street lights
He lived from corners to corners
And in the shadows of closed shops
And perhaps on one of my scarred diary pages
Abstractly,
As if he had no face,
No name.
These men of torn cloths and blackened feet
Do not have names,
Only residues they leave behind,
On the corners where they sleep
Stories spilling out of the pocket through a large hole
And dreams vaporizing from his memory
While he slept
In broad daylight
with the shadows of the old chapel of Berhampur
Berhampur is a small town in India
Upon these half-empty seats
And coffee-warmed retreats
Where morning birds chirp
And smaller ones tweet
Like the mere shadow floating
‘Neath my two own feet
I float in this inconceivable time,
In poetic-like conceits…
Oh! How quickly I have grown
Within myself I observe, as if
Jotting these observations upon
Third-person narrated sheets
I comprehend not even this rhyme
Abstractly absorbed into a world
I cannot deem concrete
Explain to me what it means to be
Layered by this raw flesh and meat
How do I begin to fathom the tacit meanings
Of the world’s happenings and feats?
Not so long ago a child
Now awaiting the moments
When it is time for youth to fleet
Recollection like these changing seasons
Of fallen leaves and sleet
Time like the turning of pages
Of these memory-filled sheets
I sometimes feel liberated
From all these earthly deceits…
Explain to me what it means to be
Layered by this raw flesh and meat
The bright orange rugby shirt I had,
When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen,
Was my trophy and my pride and joy,
Never to be deprived of me,
Even if I complained to my parents or to their friend,
To have been seen to be a boy too much,
Or, in other words, mistaken as a superior person,
With other sociology to fulfil all my wishes.
I was just assertive and intelligent and all that,
A fashion icon, an example to others,
To disabled people or to church young persons,
Who were both the same to me, like each other;
They just wanted to fit into society,
To mark their case for more wheelchair rights,
Or in order to state their reason for believing in god.
I had my identity, my beliefs, and my role models,
Listened to them in respect, with amorosity:
I knew what I wanted to do in life,
And my goals were of course reasonable,
Because they could be achieved no problem, abstractly.
But that was it, and there it was,
Objectively everything sounded fine,
Doable, but what you thought about it,
The practicalities weighed you down,
Taught the string which so dangled entertainingly,
As a condition that was more of a pleasure,
To make, to work out such that your desires happened.
So my bright rugby shirt said it all really,
That I should have my desires and goals,
That I should be met and facilitated in life,
And not my parents or those church leaders,
That I was supposed to follow.
I did not ever have to state my case beforehand,
Before the meetings about my future and care needs,
Because everyone knew I was an atheist,
Able with expression and communication,
Able with much trust for other people.
I was in Germany once with my parents,
Dressed as usual in the clothes that I like,
Without hesitation, care or timidity;
My jumper may not have been bright orange,
But it was still colourful enough to attract attention.
So my parents were embarrassed, particularly my dad,
Who was a war veteran true and sensitive,
And so from then on we hid inside shops,
And even stayed longer in restaurants,
Because all the wheelchair spaces for the cafés,
Were outside those cafés at tables on the pavement;
So we shopped, visited the toilet more, went to museums,
Instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.
She was an abstract woman in a clinical world
theoretically reasoning her notions were perfectly
discerning midst-chaotic sensibilities,
whilst her inane whimsicality kept semblances of
insanity eye-leveled twixt reconfigurable ideologies'
over-share & objectionably designated delicacies of
exothermic exposures pseudo-psychic phenomenons,
therefrom she found divinities were misaligned
with governmental expansions as an alternative to
spirituality and hypotheses of butterfly hurricane frolics,
'twas indubitably manifestations of poetically piddled
calculating escapism artistes & scoffing con-conspirators
A fugitive from society,
A fugitive from the makers of the nook,
A prisoner in my special school,
A convict to the female OT department, look.
Not needing occupational therapy from a woman,
From a girly woman who had no depth,
Who used Yuhu to stick a philosophical view of life onto her,
Who used bobbles, hairspray and lipstick maroon;
Who represented inequality in healthcare,
Where there’s so many more women than men,
Who validated your parents fully,
Before they cheered up your ben,
They didn’t meet me, but did play,
Without going out of their way.
But it was all my fault abstractly,
Although i know it was not because i was only two and three quarters,
When i replied to the doctor that i was ok when i was not,
When i answered to him about what was within, about what I’d got,
Instead if replying to him straight.
The other doctor, the school doctor has done fine with me though,
And i never ran away from him,
So he helped me with my problem at university,
When we were both studying to win;
I could talk to him at anytime at school,
Supposedly, because the other kids shunned me for talking to him too much,
Since they thought that my slow physical development was funny,
Not worth inquiry or pout,
When i found it an injury stout.
But I learnt that society wasn’t the initiator of school medical structures,
That they were different, that my culture was not delinquent,
And that i fitted in neatly and with eloquence,
To gain my independence and not sin;
By intelligent society i was accepted,
And could overcome and win.
She blithely dreams of flitting butterflies,
essence of lemon-drop poetry and
lighter-than-vapor argent cotton candy castles
upon empurpled cloud embellishes,
meanwhilst wistfully hot air balloons
designed of lilting paisley embroidery
inflated with the airy fragrance
of wildflowers' whimsied zestfulness
merrily drifts furthermost simultaneously
burbling curiouser moons & starry dusted
whirlwinds gaily prancing 'pon watercolor hues,
imagination's perceptibility musing
aloud mid sleepyhead synapses'
abstractly diffused spheres,
she softly ponders if this should
be Nirvana my only wish shall
evermore be to slumber endlessly
Amidst the treasures of beauty that one can ever witness,
I was leisurely enjoying an exotic cuisine in evening's tranquillity.
A mystical forest it was, covered with magical trees
that blossomed crystal flowers flashing colorful neon lights
and gilded leaves playing a divine music swaying in the breeze.
Cascades of flowing glittery gums secreted from the silvery barks,
forming a pool in the middle that was softly burning with
ruby embers while it emitted heavenly surge of scent.
I was sitting on a grand table and chair abstractly designed
with rainbow moonstone; adorned with glowing moss.
Meal on crockery made of shells was served by spellbinding nymphs
as they joined me not to eat but to feed me with their tender hands.
It was a bursting riot of tasty food that rampaged my tongue
with wanting more and I couldn't stop until my heart was pleased.
I took a sip of invigorating mocktail made of mint, dew and nectar.
Cheers to me! I uttered with sheer joy as it quenched my thirst forever.
And splash, splotches of tap water drenched my clothes,
my hands raised in the air with an empty cheap glass
as the bubble of my daydream bursts in a notoriously shameful way.
In an ugly small eatery, sitting on a broken dirty table crowded with
more people than a bus can hold, staring at me with their raging glares
as if they want to kill me because the cheered up splash of my drink
not only drenched me but also spoiled mine and their hard earned food.
What can I say...quite a costly little daydream it was.
Date: 01/18/2016
Note: The daydream is real but the incident is fictitious.
Entered in two different contests:
A lovely little daydream by Mystic Rose - *Placed Sixth*
Alternative festive season by Kai Michael Neumann - *Placed Fifth*
Chess--
It's a sixty four square board divided fight
Chessman rise, move among spaces out·right
It's high contrast, black and white
We sit over a table small
Making moves with our brains to a forward crawl
Both keeping mysteries to a concealed en·thrall
You a player... I'm game
White goes to start, me ac·claim
A superior approach, is it's aim
Moves are made, adapting, changing strategy exactly
With shapes, thoughts, expressing their beauty abstractly
Winning a piece, losing a piece, sacrificing a piece craft·i·ly
A real battle of good and evil
Trickery of territorial maneuver upheaval
Two little armies, stare at each other gleeful
Scheming to corner and overthrow the King
Ruler, Master of the board- - however, the most weak thing
When Master caught, checkmate; the battle end resulting
To the po·et·ics just penned
Peerless with poesy wisdom blend
The chess game war that end
Is a result of being outdone
By strategic attacks that begun
Five moves ahead of the residum
I regarded us on Tuesday, after finding Monet in the closet, and thought our lives
resembled institutions, I thought I'd tack that painting right above the fireplace, I
imagined we'd laugh...
He took ten minutes to figure it out, he took fifteen to tell me, he took three minutes
more to kiss my lips and I told him he was seven minutes late, so he glanced to the clock
that raced tomorrow above my head and told me that late was better than never as he
grabbed tomorrow right out of my hair...
This tangled me, you see, and I gasped for air as my thighs fell apart, it seemed to be
distinctly him as he swirled into me, and I lost the definition of myself shortly after
Wednesday rose, and we smeared Van Gogh all over the walls as my screams became edible and
he licked his lips as I sighed his name, he removed the fabric that kept me warm, he wrote
forever with his tongue and I thought, better forever than gone, right before I dissolved
into nowhere....
I think my hand prints were distorted and I searched his chest for some resemblance of
sanity, but I only found myself in the swirls of moonlight that ventured in through the
window we tried to block...
he had told me of blankets years ago and I wished they would cover me when December came,
but I haven't seen December yet though I've watched snow fall and settle on his eyelashes,
I've studied the melting of time when he blinks...
“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world,” I informed him, minutes after the night
solidified herself and I realized we were tired.
“No, I don't,” he replied, in a tone that sunk beneath Tuesday, and offered me the calm of
Monet...
“You do,” he whispered, and I could hear that smile and the echoes of his eyes closing, I
could hear myself enter his dreams as I watched my hair flow abstractly through the weeks
he remembered, and sometime before I fell asleep, thinking about St. Petersburg when the
visions that dance underneath my eyelids resemble the imagination of Salvador Dali, he
told me he loved me...
right on time.
Gigantic, Rebellious, Disobedient.
According to the media this describes Michael Brown exactly,
Abstractly I ponder on how these assumptions are imposed by the media vastly..
He is a criminal, he should have never stolen from a store,
Remember that time you stole while in college and it never ended in gore?
Well maybe he should have never reached for the gun, if he would have taken it we would be discussing two lives, not one
Common sense is held from birth, this kid was not delirious, Today i'm going to take a cop's gun, think about it.. Are you serious
Officer Wilson stated the more he fired, the angrier the look was Mr. Brown displayed
Well, we all know how much we would smile when a bullet invades our rib cage, right? Or could that look have been fright
But Michael Brown had a history, he was very violent, He deserved what happened, he felt to much entitlement
If we don't believe in change, how can we grasp a better future, God forgives all, so why can't the prosecutor, remember that time your dad shoved your mother? After awhile he was actually a good man you discovered
I'm not here to judge, nor is the grand jury, especially when they are brainwashed prematurely,
I am giving all I can, fighting to stand tall, if we don't push for change..
Surely as a whole we will fall
She exists for a man only
He achieved what a man can
That of trying a trick abstractly
She easily got henned in hand!
Decisions are tough, exclaimed she aloud
Life in love is not easy
He, a rose in hand, proud
Rose up to a plane above
She, a tender one with exalt
Thought of love as sincere admiration
Found out the abrupt truth, abomination!
Her only precious asset his inspiration
Her own body, as sexy asphalt!
Thinking of you always
when
Every second interludes
A past a future when always we
are interrupted by a bitter sweet mention
Of you my love why do we question
all rhetorical for you, for me
love baits good interludes
the all agonizing ecstasy
can not dissipate a week a year
for love is longer than our time
abstractly
while life is short as bread
love
increased?
deceased?
why in love do we feast
on the bitter tears we are fed
to find within a love long and true
though at times bare and brass
cowardly, does not recede
godspeed,
godspeed,
straight or bow kneed
this love must proceed