Best Amalgamated Poems
This Aphrodite rose
slowly unfurls
pink ombre balms
of sun-kissed
springfalls,
as the luminous
lake of tears
cascade in
exotic wreaths
of honey-soaked
velvety sepals,
there succulent seeds
of zestful dawns adorned
our silken sheets
across luscious meadows
sprinkled with
glistening cosmic dust.
Yet neon streaks
of longing unveiled;
romanticized rainbows
engrossed within
fire opal clouds,
awaiting to drizzle
pleasing odes,
amalgamated with
drops of opium
meant to reveal
skeletons and secrets,
sculptured as
sultry souvenirs
of seasonal streams.
But ripples of reminiscences
reflect how
you and I
weathered howling winds
through unseelie storms
of oppressed lovers,
gliding in sync
to the echoes
of midnight screams,
rising from
sumptuous seas.
So, tonight, as curtains
fall in
hues of dusky dews,
cover me in sunrise
when the bleeding heart,
of blue-laced estuaries,
rhymes with
sangria vesper time,
where tomorrow’s
ocean ferries
purge prose
that never denies.
Let fervent
pearls pulverize
my colossal tarp
as the morning glows;
I ponder,
do mourning petals show,
the folly of
moonlit melancholy?
For you’ve devoured
the alluring depths
of campfire stories,
burning
untouched edges
within our twin souls,
whilst
cosmos
trembled
and sighed
in poetic ecstasy ~
we seized our
unsung melody…
For this
remains
as an
untold version
of our
dangerous glory~
etched on cupid’s
amethyst arrow.
Intimate musings are part of a poet's repertoire;
flights of introspection and reflections,
savored more when shared with kindred spirits
A poet can speak to another poet
with an intrinsic mutual understanding
that our words comes from deep in our heart
Words are the currency of our soul
Thus, I must speak poet to poet
with words weighed carefully in spoken gold
When I sometimes write in the first person,
it doesn't necessarily mean I'm personally talking about me
I'm simply the face of a poem,
emotionally bonding myself with my words
to better convey our common humanity
I write of things experienced by others,
and some of those things may have happened to me also
Then like a layer of clothing, I don it,
it becomes a living, conscious part of me
Therefore, I can now be that cold-hearted person in a poem,
because I've intellectually embraced that frigidity
Wrapped my mind in the essence of a thing,
of which I can now write about with depth and clarity
Sometimes only a part of me is in the composite of my poem,
one bit of biographical fact embedded in the story
The person I write about may not always actually be me,
but I become that poetic persona to better help the reader to see
something I wanted them to experience vicariously
For lack of a better word, name, label, whatever ...
Call me an amalgamated man: a collection of bits and pieces of
everything I've ever seen, heard, thought about ... or things I've
heard someone else say or do --- it all attaches to my psyche like glue
This is poet to poet, from me to you
To help give you a better understanding of how I'm able to
write about the things that I do
Poet to poet: feel free to help me better understand you
The poems I write may be fiction or they may be true
Everything I write about is a bit of me,
it's a bit of someone else, maybe even a bit of you
Which part is actually me you ask --- I give the Silent One gesture ...
Shhh ... you just never know who you're talking to
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 7
playing on the raw-coal
the under-clothes of the airhostesses
continue to sing a song
even-then the germination of the almonds
can never become the sugar-candy
made of palmyra
may be they don’t want so
until and unless any night-guard comes
and deposits the RBCs of the jack-fruit-leaves
within a wrinkle-free hand-glove
you do absorb all colours
from the soil of the earthworms
and thus unfold your open hair
along the air of this cloudy day
then none but the gughni-sellers
will get back their names and titles
there is from the sky of the timber of hog-plum
it has rained even last night
the streets are wet
the trees are wet
there is splashing mud in the low lands
those all full-of-incidents
if you wish
you can send them
to the introduction of a proposal against war
i’ve never heard that
to take the responsibility
of the starving south-east
the rain has put down its crown
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 8
all on a sudden
one day again
i face the isabgool
the own fountain of vraj-kishore
may be, wants to fly away in such a manner
to another afternoon
my tiffin-expenses cann’t discover that valley
till now
from where
it is said
all night-gowns begins
then i’m sitting
with my hands and legs spread
in the sun-light
filled with
the sound of chopping of cabbages
on the flowers of the sun-plant
that are in-between the wife and her mother-in-law
i exercise my intelligence very much
if the question of my security is raised
it is only a ‘for-God’s-sake’-like adjuration
the knot of a white handkerchief is so much heavy
i don’t know earlier
my knowledge of using prosody
getting amalgamated calmly
with the stamen used by the sleep
Why don’t you come now
To the plot of blue river shore
Where we would
In an intense chocolate mood
Sit in a sun rise satisfaction
On the grainy sand
And create pearl drops of time
From the rhymes of waves
With the vibrancy we behaved
Exchanging those fine chimes
From our moonbeam dialectics
And converging synthesis
Of our hilltop thoughts and marine activities
After a diamond quest
Like the river
Or inside the river too?
How wonderfully we regressed and progressed
Making those radiant rings of time
Sometime winged
Sometime pink tinged
Time is bland and monochrome
Unless from your chromosome
You paint it like Van Gogh
Arresting the wayward clock
During which
Regardless of Greenwich
Taking colours from our river-wave flowers
Taking flavours from our cellular tremors
Taking sounds from our nascent heart pounds
Yours and mine
In our proximity alkaline
Would paint the wavelets
In the cups and plates
Opening the normally closed gates
Of sweet sweats
From each pore
And millions of such pores
From smiling to laughing in a petrichor
Unlocking the thousand doors
Of a colour continuum
From San Francisco to Baltimore
As we exchange our breath
From our deepening cores
Raising a rivulet
In the blue pigeon’s breast
And the bulbul’s beautiful crest
A supreme rest
In a purple tumult
Shadows lengthen in ecstasy
As sessions come to a termination
(No termination is possible though
What happens is a slow transformation
Of one melody to another music
Speeches flowing into lyrics
The sounds into stillness mystic)
So therefore
Bringing to the fore
From the amalgamated core
A flower of fusion
Pure and fresh
Out of the flood
No mire or mud
Looking at us conveying greetings
We look too
And from the meeting
A poem is born
Why don’t you come any more
Very often I look through the eye hole
Of my expectant door
The wishes naturally soar
In case I may see you coming
Dulcet sounds your feet strumming
But it’s all mist
I almost don’t exist
I miss the oasis
Of the cleansing catharsis
_____________________________________
19 May, 2017
For the Contest sponsored by Neyda Ivette Negron
In you elected woman,
all power amalgamated,
the centuries have turned into moments,
and all memory is extinguished
and everything took just a moment ..
My longed-for journey
in you it became true ... you are
my dreamed soulmate ...!
THE PERFORMANCE
She’s a dancer ready to chronograph her next move.
The chair is her boogie down stool.
Her hand synthesis the groove.
She looks as if her depths are being used.
Her arm is amalgamated to the symphony sounds in the room.
She squats in a hunker down pose to expose her sensual core.
Yes, she desires to be an instrumental part of the performance.
_______________________________________________________|
Written February 27, 2016!
Life is a bag of jilly beans
Never in a separate bowl
Fruity, exquisite, spooned by Ian.
PiCk
and
MiX
Crouching, the tiger
amalgamated the prism of daL.
Floating, the petal
never arrived.
Dreaming, the tangerine peeled to reveal
a bun.
The fiddler: Dum digga dum.
Diggy diggy diggy dum.
And when the bag 'a' beans is empty,
PLLP.
To dampen essence is joy unknown.
As a couple, we have united our spirits to
manifest our souls fulfilling our
emotions as integral parts.
Lovers’ spirits amalgamated.
Your depth has fused.
This love affair will intensify.
We are users of lover’s lair and
abusers of the time we have.
We are brought sense not borrowed.
We take chances not risks.
If we fail, we knew we probably would.
Let us gamble on love and our existence.
This is just a love poem.
An odd that has its forewarning
that our life is meant to each other.
The omens are worthy.
Conjugal…connubial
__________________|
Penned April 27, 2014!
We fit now; we complete one another.
Our lives have melted into one
and we dissolve into the unity
which consolidates our synthesis.
We fit now; we complement one another.
Our differences unite us. Our individuality
only serves to combine our commonality;
our separateness compounds our pairing.
We fit now you and I. Sharing the same path;
Sometimes together, sometimes apart.
We deviate and divide, only to combine again
when occupational distraction is done.
We are comfortable and contented.
There is no division in description;
we are affiliated in partnership,
blended, amalgamated, in simpatico.
Our bodies merge in the conformity of belonging.
The longing dovetails our diversity and unites us.
We have emerged from the swirl of separation
as one and I love you. We fit now.
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
This life we live is but a different day,
as through eternal time we saunter on our way.
No thought of where our ramblings finally lead
or consequences born in spreading of our seed.
What perchance doth our existence mean to those
who had we not sprung forth might find life’s close.
But now because we altered their path too
must find direction that has sprung anew.
One act can not be isolated from the whole
for each and every tremor makes purpose to its role.
Not only central ripples wash to waveforms make
but repercussions speed their turn to take.
And in their wake there’s nothing left behind
that touched by universal differences then find
no longer may their pathways stay the same,
for all and everything plays tribute to this game.
The life we live is but a different day
as through eternal time we saunter on our way.
No entity or action independent to our fate,
but destiny dictated, determined by the weight
of amalgamated lifetimes in an ever shifting pool
of human interaction that combines to make the rule
that total dedication to the way things should be done
can’t make any difference, so we may as well have fun!
Ivor G Davies
Das Don doth debilitate democracy
driving a collateral wedge
deliberately dividing differences
collaborating, collapsing, and collaring
disparity amidst ever
increasing homogenization
extant within contiguous United States
across world wide web for that matter
attested by increased
spike among multiracial
amalgamated enclaves, individuals mixing,
where preponderance of melanin
generally affecting predominance
regarding increasing swarthy
naturally copper toned skin
across vast majority of heavily
Caucasian populated areas predicted
to become minority
according new statistics
located at webpage
https://www.brookings.edu/blog/
the-avenue/2018/03/14/
the-us-will-become-minority-
white-in-2045-census-projects/
predict the nation will become
“minority white” in 2045
which genetic assimilation
also harken better angels
among us to herald
interfaith marriage represent
according to hyperlink-
https://www.npr.org/
2013/04/10/176802652/
til-faith-do-us-part-
the-price-of-interfaith-marriage
close to half of all marriages
in this country over the past 10 years
(this cited for the year 2013,
which mostly increased since).
No doubt, the commander in chief
buzzfeeds into this inexorable trend
disquieting, horrifying, mortifying...
especially white supremacists
decrying, lamenting, threatening...
innocents abroad, and/or naturalized citizens
taking cruel dull liver re: to heart
acrimonious, caluminous, jealous, ferocious...
hazarding, kindling, tweeting
inevitable demographic transition overtaking
North America, and teeming masses
(particularly whose skin color,
perhaps fifty shades of brown,
albeit I hereby posit as
forthcoming second, yet
nonpareil gilded bronze age).
Relatively insignificant disparity
(within schema, asper genus/ species
*****sapiens per se)
people comprise greater similarity,
versus starkly disparate contrasts
between each other,
nonetheless oh bomb men able
enthuses, maximizes, trumpets...
every opportunity to spark
altercations, conflagrations, exhibitions...
animals veritably tearing each other
satiating human blood lust,
where coordination, integration, union...
welcoming brother/sisterhood, tolerance,
versus filleting, fomenting fracturing
mosaic boosts ego
inherent narcissistic tribalism!
Showcase of my favourite painted collection, a
Piled up for years, eventually being inaugurated, b
Without fail, what if colours were amalgamated ? b
No one could ever unveil my apprehension, a
Heart pouncing, breaths endured expansion, a
More and more to the colours as I concentrated, b
My senses shivered and swiftly hibernated, b
My passion, my hobby could not be my profession ! a
Neutral to doctor's innocuous advice on colour, c
Who proved out the reception on retina as deficient, d
Creator himself had prejudiced me in chromacy, e
Dreams of painting vibrant having lost all valour, c
As literary gained power, hues became munificent, d
Enriched in colors, now could be a pen's supremacy ! e
Written on 5/5/14
Sponsor- Craig Cornish
Contest- Miltonic sonnet
The general populace leans in close
seeking comfort for the coming week.
A routine, verging on madness:
Flip on the switch and crank it loud,
the News at Six wishes to speak!
Scenes of tyrannical leaders
and wretched wars,
somehow amalgamated with
glittered pop stars galore.
Spoken by newscasters
in unwavering apathy.
Spoken by a people
treating both stories equally.
And still, we lean in close
with a perverse curiosity,
thinking: at any point they'll
give us their cure to fix the malady.
And still, we perk our ears,
knowing it in truth to be a scheme.
But somehow unable to pull away;
dimly wishing it to be only a dream.
Listening, only because,
we need authority to guide our ways.
So the News, however undeserving,
will receive all it's due praise.
Sitting calmly, and gratefully
simply out of duty, likened as to sheep:
it is not our place, to raise our voice in protest.
Not even the slightest peep!
And lo, we are a public,
adding oil to the ceaseless wheel.
By watching the News at Six
as the minutes softly tick
away all of our thoughts still in store.
The mantra of the public,
equipped with hearts too far away to feel:
They're just actors in a play
with a set of lines to say -
It is simply that and nothing more.
This is how distance
deceives us.
Confusing paradise
for perilous.
A vast citizenry across this our land
fondly believing that we understand,
but we know almost nothing.
They'll talk about latest dance crazes,
and buzzworthy songs. They'll talk about
it all the day long until it sounds like SOMEthing.
While life as we know it is on the brink.
While we're singing in a boat about to sink.
The mantra of the public
in our little box upon the hill:
I'm safe and I'm sound
with nothing to fear.
The mantra of the public,
while attempting to keep our hearts still:
Nothing as horrid as that
could ever happen here.
One never wished for anything more
To be away from the worries of the world overall
Invisible behind the curtain of writings
Treasuring a lesson from characters bearings
Where even a small pebble can whisper
And the sun will cheer for the blossoming flowers
Where every story will have a happy ending
The issues will be resolved and non pending
Capacity to bear such thoughts gift from ones ancestors
Acknowledge and to follow society's norms endorsed as expected measures
The moral values drifted from the straight path
One finds at cross roads, sanity demanding for the fresh start
Becoming a bearer of a constant companion
Offspring so pure and full of compassion
Just like one imagined the world to be
Unfortunately one can hope only, at present so rare to see
Joy and relief amalgamated as one
When selected as a teacher in giving lessons to children
Young ones whose preference is to play on the ground
Their logic seemingly more sound
Untainted by falsehood in any form
On whom the stains of deciet not remain strong
Rewarded with the licence for upbringing of life
One requests to be confined in such a beautiful paradise