Best Anaemic Poems
The only fear of this stubborn lion heart
is to beat - unheard, without the blessings of your sighs.
In the absence of your affection,
severe silence spins cobwebs upon mossy fences,
you have built across your sky full of blackness
and I ponder
when my soul ascends with sunrise,
why do you veil yourself until twilight reflects moonlight?
Am I the personification of a tree,
under which you no longer need shelter.
A message in a bottle,
no longer upon your mantelpiece.
That love sonnet to which you found so much joy,
but now torn from pages of your poetic anthology.
When romance arrived at your doorstep,
blooming like cherry blossoms,
you pressed each petal in a book you called - love,
but now it collects dust - unread,
wilting like an unnourished bouquet,
so here my hopes lay,
like a 'pearls cradle' upon unwanted shores,
preparing to be washed away with the tide.
Footsteps in the sand remain -
although nothing will keep us together.
I know you are the most beautiful thing,
I'll never get to call my own,
so should I still whisper vows into the void,
or allow upcoming waves to wane our bond?
If only you would flow to me
like tropical drops from waterfalls,
eventually kissing frozen estuaries
then I would place you in the cusp of my hands
to refresh my lips, which crave your touch.
It seems this year there was no spring,
no daffodils, no sunshine - only rain,
so downhearted robins did not sing,
but I captured the last feather from your exodus.
I know a premature summer
will only bloom anaemic sunflowers
but, I still sow their seeds -
hoping you will appear.
Simple Sunday Musing
Yesterday,
when there was clarity,
I arose resembling
the flames of sunrise.
Like an articulate artist,
entranced in nature,
I painted fluorescent hues
upon her butterfly wings.
Together we fluttered
like timeless rainbows.
Today in narcissistic times of confusion,
I'm drained from fits of indignation,
as triggers fade between black and red,
turbulence from trials and tribulations
release toxic tones into the air we breathe -
as polluted minds clip our paper plane wings.
As I descend like an anaemic sunset,
the language of silence overcomes me.
I feel like a soggy canvas soaking in puddles,
causing carnage to my heart's paper kingdom -
where journals of poetry still hide.
I seek redemption,
searching for a remedy
from this spell of darkness.
As sensitive stars shimmer upon wild waves,
I place my paper boat on stormy seas -
hoping empathetic winds
elevate me to her abode.
Tomorrow,
before the moon
loses patience with twilight,
to mute the inner demons,
I hope to reach the borders of
an angel that cries tears of treasure -
to rescue her from her paper castle.
To soothe melancholic mornings of mourning,
I'll place each crystal drop into a paper lunch bag,
so we can feed upon morsels of compassion,
because together we are an antidote for real pain.
A Grisly Tapeworm
In Anger and in Hatred, a Tapeworm I see
Unless internally hosted, its Life will not be.
From egg it starts Life, ‘fore an adult worm
Fed on Host’s blood, it gains a portly form.
While finer or fatter, greedy Worm gnaws,
The wretched Host, pale and thin he grows.
Then the anaemic Host, too ill to live a day
Falls in the dark pit, where there’s no ray!
*
The same story is true of a Man with Hate
Hate soon embraced, is an iniquitous mate.
So, I avidly learned , my temper to narrow
Perspective being that it eats man’s marrow.
To nurture it in Heart, Hate will grow so big
And wiggle one’s Dignity; like a tail of a pig!
For, Anger grows so fat that Man is in sorrow
By eating all his vim to leave a man hollow!
*
To internalise Hate is to eat a sharp blade
That curves from inside while fast you fade.
It spins some mortal blow in its incisive poise
That fates and finishes by its hushed noise:
The structure curves in, trusses cut and gone
He falls on the floor with not a single bone!
*
Hearken ye therefore, Hate begets dearth
Piety Mad Haters who know no inner mirth!
For, to lavish in Love, denigrating foolish Hate
Bestows inner Peace or sense of pure sate.
Gimme not filthy wealth, gimme not lucre
I’m a happy man giving Love and Succour!!
JM
31st Oct’ 2013
after doors close after hours when scarlet neon flickers out red-light nights fill voids of need my body is a ripped flower my throat tingles to the burn of vodka-fire gleaning the gleaming water-washed street for an answer to the latest outstanding bill sadly grateful for the slightest footfall twenty for oral forty for full car park dark steam-heavy dark not streetwalking but streetstaggering in hollow-pod hell anaemic-ashy and vodka-fumy amorphous shadows loitering on durex-dotted waste ground in secret alleys back to dank brick or deep throating down on my knees skirt around thighs fingers come-pearled and slick come quick after doors close after hours when scarlet neon flickers out cold glitter of streetlights gleam of cold hard cash cold kisses colder touch no eye contact look away the cold nothingness that we say
RUBBISHITROCKS
rubbish bins rot their
stenchsimmers in dark
lanes
the gluttony of pots
slopslaughters of
remains
rodents hiding behind
verminrocks
stonethrowers
feeble weedywarts
carcasses fried with
flies in the heat
of stillstopping
hearts
who knock at the door with violins unstrung…
to bid enter would force a
stand before their
watercoloured
court
where writes turn
to anaemic
amoebia’s of the
fragileflopfaint
verses of yawn open doors
to drain the wounds
of weary wacko’s
in their wake
@ Kim van Breda
Reflections
Perchance refractions
On mirror of civilization
Unveiling deep furrows-
Nausea of despair!
Ugly shadows of innocence
Haphazard ruins
Harbingers to Africa.
Mother Africa
Unleash black juju
Denounce anaemic gods and
Sing blues to negritude
Dream with Senghor
continental dreams
Dreams individual-
Like Nkrumah
A touristo blackano!
And African huts
Where come rains
To water our negritude
Come clouds
To hide our wrecks, rubble.
Robbed of freehold rights
By mayor and corporation
At slum clearance!
Acclaimed sons and daughters
Of former freedom fighters
In our misery!
Mother Africa
Forget them
Forget a touristo blackano
Behind wrecks
Behind smutty, illicit stuff
Behind oblique natives!
Forget these loud symbols of welfare
Albeit feigned
Symbols of might
Albeit loaned
Symbols of unity
Albeit fictitious
Symbols of friendship abroad…
Forget these things!
They mask the essential you
Distorting your true image
The image truly befitting
Our motherland:
The world’s caustic kaleidoscope!
"Alienation"
Burning through the atmosphere
a diamond hugs herculean, demanding, meteoric,
fast like a sharp spear aimed at Zion in the
obsidian night sky deep, so vast, dotted here
and there with other anaemic diamantés
twinkling, then dimming, as if in despair,
they don’t shine as bright
nor so fair,
this immolator is without peer
Lion of Judah, presence felt near.
A shooting star into the stratosphere?
Leaving a blistering debris trail in its wake.
A Sonic Boom breaks through the veil
sends out sound waves, touching, feeling,
slightly off-rail
sends out a Revelation heralding
resounding eardrum shattering tear -
KA-BOOM!
just like some glamour chick’s walked into the room
in 6 inch killer stilettos,
curve hugging deep velvet
the sub-level indigo blues,
shaking everything in the place
slams the door, her audience now captive
is frozen in place, tittering amongst themselves,
“Here’s something new”;
the world awakes to
crushed violets, heliotropes, shell pinks, eggshell pale blues;
she rises above him
he lifts his face.
Arrival in this
AlienNation
no Ocean, a barren place
Holding pattern and station.
Her vessel lands with a thud,
breaks the bedrock, dirt
she steps through the portal
away from it all, she’s escaping
this asylum,
it’s not evolving, it’s not birth
a re-entry of sorts,
a vacuum sucking back down to
Deadly Earth.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
(1)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEfqTlKPqfI
Two Minutes to Midnight
What are your intentions Sir, its important that I know?
The World is close to Midnight, only two minutes to go.
Remember empty promises to keep us safe and free,
Words of retaliation, serve no one, wouldn’t you agree.
It’s no good building bridges, just to knock them down,
Capitalists will also perish, when seeds of war are sown.
Be the greater Man, leave out your pompous rhetoric,
World’s present isn’t dead, but it may be a little sick.
A Trojan Horse is not the way, a strategy doomed to fail,
Talk with counterparts; alone you’re anaemic and pale.
Be a great ambassador, don’t leave us on the outside,
Say no to war, be the bigger man, stand tall with pride.
The future is in your hands, if only for four short years,
Consider the fate of Man, don’t leave us dead or in tears.
For Roberts 8 word challenge contest
Poem written in Sonnet form 8/3/18
The bullish sun sat on your avant-garde tree
Growing on the baroque poems of your dancing knee
The dilettante attributed it to the icy ennui
As elan had been in a holiday spree
I was very happy at the warm anomaly
It was indeed a deja vu for me
Amidst the sucking cacophony
The carte blanche was the best policy
Of course if it came from a sunrise that was bona fide
In the anaemic milieu of our poor poetry
January 18, 2018
Ten words ten lines 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
It is gone forever now, a swirling mote of dust,
above the hills and fields, memorial fleck of dying love,
vanishing from tear swept sight, away from the world,
oh how can life continue now, how can it go on?
In cruel desolation, such cold, numb emptiness
where scalpel sharp pain wields a wafer thin blade
daily drawn, lacerating nervous tissue and nuances of emotion,
slow, meticulous, precise, a living thing this pain.
Silvery and honed to savour each slash and each nick
with the sick sadist glee of a diligent torturer;
tears cannot be cried anymore, dried out now, Winter cold,
desert arid and Easter Egg hollow, a screaming skull inverted.
Bleeding dry, bleeding dry, a pale anaemic husk;
eyes look but do not register the living world,
fingers touch but do not feel the pulse of regrowth,
ears listen but do not hear the words to set things right.
One of the almost dead who envies the truly dead,
the truly dead for their interment to inanimate peace,
for where will my love find the object to lavish itself upon,
who will hold me now as one who did before?
No courage at all, only the curse of the craven to endure,
less than surreal, no longer human, nothing outwardly tangible
save a mass of screaming, electrifying pain
howling down the empty corridors running beneath the flesh.
The hardest of hard lessons are learned and learned so well,
taught as only a past master of deranged ardour can teach;
the loss of sanctity when expelled from the mother womb
is the outset of the clue to life's meaning.
From this point forth, the love object is a thing to be lost,
family, friends, possessions, innocence, integrity...mind,
eventually life itself, for all is ultimately stripped away,
with each love object finite and thus both fabulous and terrifying to behold.
If loss be the meaning of life, vice versa, the meaning of life be loss,
instilling life with it's value and fragility;
your trauma spills indistinction, uncertainty - the loss of the love object,
wreaking ball on my defences - and likewise my refuge from pain...
COLD BLOODED
Summer grows old
cold-blooded
tree’s scant
leafless twigs
bend and break
creek and whither
Anaemic the suns
pathetic rise
and fall so soon
the rainplunge of
icedew sickens
to greysludge gloom
Winter takes hold
cold-blooded
labouring storms
iceflesh to bone
sallow and shrunken
we faceforce doom
© Kim van Breda—29 September 2015
Having no colour honour or even humour
such a shame on you
liking glamour honour and favour just for weddings
and there the colourist painters
anaemic thoughts let us not be paralysed by our difference
like in the aeroplanes above
we do both now travel
and dream of the Broadway theatres
(lettuce keep our connexion)
The flyer through the letterbox claimed 'pumpkins now half price'
I'll make a pie for Ma-in-law, for once do something nice
I was told to bring a wheelbarrow, maybe a pair of wellies
But all this preparation, still did not prepare me
For when I reached the pumpkin patch, behold, there dazzling bright
Were twenty seven pumpkins, none orange, but white!
I rubbed my eyes and scratched my head, but still they didnt change
And thought inside my muddled mind 'the grower must be strange'
But still I paid the buying fee for my rare and freaky fruit
Rolled it in my barrow and squelched home in my boots
Then when I got it home I sat and stared an hour or two
I wanted orange pumpkin pie but white will have to do
I dont know yet how I'll explain this to my Ma-in law
She'll take one look at anaemic pie and laugh me out the door!
But beggars can't be choosers, I'm just gonna have to blag it
And next time I want pumpkin pie, go to the supermarket
27th October 2011
Her skin, though, lustrous, white,
Develops a pallid, yellowish tint,
Avoids sunlight to prevent solar tan,
And yet develops a mahogany tan.
Pigmented palms and soles and knuckles,
Scattered on the face are numerous freckles,
On the tongue, lips and inside of the cheeks,
Bluish black patches or brownish streaks.
Her days of hay,
Do not blossom May,
Her youth’s vigour,
Begins to wither.
From groins and armpit the hair is lost,
In prime time of life, has libido lost,
Anaemic, pale, her body cold,
Beautiful she may be but not ‘bold’!
Hiccup, yawning, fainting, restlessness,
Loss of memory, pessimism and drowsiness,
Even at rest she may be breathless,
With brawny looking muscles has progressive weakness.
Many symptoms yet no conclusive sign,
Urging doctor’s suspicious mind,
For further investigation,
To diagnose the disease of Addison!
We shall rule. the land, sea and air,
rule with the rod of self love,
the patriotism of recalcitrant glory,
the righteousness of the just and holy,
the heart and soul of neo-con ideology.
We will build the straw men up
and burn them back down;
we will train and arm our enemies
so they may kill our sons and daughters;
and then we shall kill them in return.
We will depose that which we mistrust,
replacing it with that which we revile.
Then, when the puppet junta revolts,
depose and replace the reviled
with that which we mistrust.
We will reinvent the wheel,
set it alight, push it blazing through
the streets of your town.
Put our cards on the global table,
wear no more masks.
No more hiding
behind the thin cellophane wrap
of outraged decency,
of vaporous anaemic humanity.
What would be the point?
We will smile as the bombs rain down,
shrapnel lacerating, eviscerating children,
and hold high our heads
when the streets and sand
run with children’s blood,
endless rivers of children’s blood.
The limbless and the foreign spawn
mean nothing,
how could they, when we care
as little for our own.
And we will repose on our soft cushions,
our buffers of “for the people” speech
and candy cane mind-babble
and psychological flim-flam,
and focus on the bigger picture.
Didn’t you know,
death means nothing nowadays?