Best Anemic Poems
Hibiscus rays of light herald
sun's stretch from night to twilight
in wakening blooms of ravishing red passion—
Oh! how I despise dawn's
blushing optimism and lust for life
for I am too young to cry but too old not to
featherlight the dandelion puff
as zephyrs blew seeds of our fantasies
free to fly the whims and sighs of our summer days
till breezes laid our pixie-dust down
wishes taking root in fast flourish—
pollen-plush dream-weeds grew in fields of gold
champagne flowed voluptuously through our veins
we laughed and pulsed with ambrosia-arousal
and with every nectarous nip
we lived as though we would celebrate love
f o r e v e r
a handful of heartbeats ago
we crystal-gazed into moon’s silver circle
believing in foretold fortunes of our future
our mythologies shaped in affectionate frescoes
sculpted softly into plum-dyed skies
constellations born from fireworks in our wooing eyes
—until the heart-twisting dawn-to-dark
when a cloud of angels cradled
sun-gilded harps
against their white-rose-hearts
teardrops in ecstasies of grief and joy
strummed celestial strings in virgin blue glissandos
lifting his lustrous soul away from me— lifting him
across the bridge to bliss —somewhere beyond me
and behind snowy veils of virtue
I am anemic
if not nothing now
adulterated
by loss of innocence
dwindling
in a dreamless star-broken state
unoccupied
but for the lurid loss that fills me—
and my black skies storm with shrieking tears!
Atmospheric grayscale mirrors my mood
where rainbow pastels are loath to intrude,
monochrome perverse looms ‘cross universe -
black powder train, mind is gun barrel gray
cold dispassionate muzzle of dismay.
My happiness; my death will reimburse -
lifeblood bleeds an anemic attitude.
Susan Ashley
November 17, 2018
I look through my prism
Still I can not see
All of your vibrant colours
I wish for the beauty of a sunrise
To see the brilliance of flowers blooming
Bright blue sky and emerald waters
The colours of fall leaves
I want a rainbow symphony
To hear and see your complete majesty
For my eyes to dance with your flitting wings
The magnificence of you
is isolated behind a wall of dark grey
A protective layer of granite
Cold to the touch
Unyielding
I chip
searching for cracks
I tap out a cryptic message
Hoping you will understand
You guide me to the entry way
past the sentinels
Down the corridors
To your banquet hall
Where now I celebrate
Marvel at the brilliance of you
I see
I hear
I feel
Each colourful note
My prism
had been inadequate to the task
Your wings spread across my imagination
Oh so many vivid colours
Colours a rainbow can't possibly articulate
Other butterflies would look anemic next to your splendour
Diamonds would lack clarity and brilliance
As I gaze at your form
I try to comprehend
the magnificence of you
I marvel at perfection
You light upon my shoulder
and give me butterfly kisses
My heart is overjoyed
for in that moment I have
a glimpse of paradise!
SKAT's butterfly Contest.
“The death lasts an average of 49 days, starting from the day the deceased realized his death”. Bardo Thodol (The Tibetan Book of the Dead)
I beg you, death, pour me the final sip
of your elixir of the dreamless sleep.
Oh, strongest wine of darkness in the glass
I’ve dipped my lips just seven weeks ago,
which bitter sweetness promised to bestow
upon me an oblivion. Alas,
the everlasting boozer comes around.
He’s mortal as of now, he is bound
to see another one anemic dawn
of consciousness among the smoking ruins
of non-existence. Curse you all, the brewings
and the distilleries of death! The morn
of a new life is painful. The hangover,
the nausea, the ache - that's all what's left
of my sweet void. Oh, the internal heft
of being!.. The phlox, the marigold, the clover
on my fresh grave are still in bloom but I
am born again to suffer and to die.
The cold sun’s anemic arc,
skirts the day with crystal frill.
Prancing just above the pines,
sun dogs wag their tails.
14 Jan 2022
Dormant desires within derelict deserts’
Winds whispering of your selective stealth
Frozen fingers that chill the empty spaces
Longing for you a pacifier of thickened thorns
Discombobulation drives the day
Your mendacious love marooned on dusty dunes
Secluded silhouettes stranded
Mystifying mirages migrating
Only sacrificial shadows scream
Where your love mutates into a holographic hollow
Desolation within a Venus vacuum
An anemic vampire
Erotic deceptions dominate deflecting desires
Eruptive emotions have no place to tread
For your unfulfilling love, a puff of smoke
In a hellion hole.
Sept.10.2019
Sometimes love is not enough
Sponsored by: Silent One
Placed 2'nd & POTD...Thank You
December
knows the speech
to transcribe double-edged thoughts,
dried between cognitive spaces
of comets tattooed
with razor-sharp ink~
infused with cinnamon and clover,
emanating toxic perfume
of decadent desires~
as our love was an ice-storm~
beautiful, fleeting, destructive,
and promises we made are
like petulant paper-dolls,
misplaced in the wounded effervescence
of snow-covered sins, melting in vain…
Yet tonight, I taste the smoky
truth in tears of time~
trickling like muted waterfalls in mist,
as my insomniac heart follows faint
scintillas of soft sparkles,
stitched gently into skies
of sullen moonflowers and lilies,
soaked in raining memories…
For I am the eclipsed sun~
drowning in the afterglow
of poetic gloaming outlined with
amethyst embers,
while interlocked as ethereal tendrils,
intoxicated by the elixir of white topaz,
contrived from the musical starburst
of my anemic quill.
But amidst lines of twilight,
tailored with wolverine lies,
can you still hear our
songs in Cupid’s crystal sighs?
Or was it just a kiss in the dark
on winter’s lips,
swirling through neon ashes,
like frosted glows of
juniper twin-flames?
I remember your light,
the lunar lamp that refused
to cloak the image of us fading,
when the wind suffocates
the delicate stems that
home roses and orchids,
we designed to the silent hum of grief.
So let me rewrite the words
you used to say,
with the pointed tip
of this mutilated muse,
to compose a resonant requiem
with dahlia dust,
flowing as purple prose
within my cathartic bloodstreams
in supernova coherence…
Beautiful Ones
Aloft in the steam, they look like Eagles.
Perched now on the edge of the bowl,
proud courtesies peck the kind and meek
with true meanings and Premier trophies.
Unprecedented vanity creates illusion
with self appointed monarchs.
Court jesters perform a merry dance
patronizing peasants.
Draws the gaze towards the stage,
demands the ‘groundlings’ awe.
Under their script, the knees bend
as truth is removed by deleted scenes.
Kings and queens laugh sadistically
offering a standing ovation, but
festivities are interrupted abruptly,
as valiant knights rebel against oppression.
Disrobed, their crowns become
spears through the sternum’s shield,
impales hearts that only bleed
weak fallacies and pretentious devices.
As their guise becomes clear,
anemic vultures are revealed.
Perched upon a bowl of blood,
anticipating their next persecution.
-------------------------------------------
A collaboration with Silent One
Inspired by the Globe Theatre
05.16.16
I looked through my prism
Still I could not see
Your colors
I wished for the beauty of a sunrise
Wild flowers blooming
Bright blue sky and emerald waters
The colors of fall leaves
I wanted a rainbow symphony
To hear and see your majesty
To walk along your red carpeted splendor
The magnificence of you
Hidden behind a wall of dark grey
A protective layer of granite
Cold to the touch
Unyielding
I chipped
Searching for cracks
Tapped out cryptic messages
Hoping you would understand
You guided me to the entry way
past the sentinels
Down the corridors
To your banquet hall
Where now I celebrate
Marvel at the brilliance of you
I see
I hear
I feel
Each note
My prism
Inadequate to the task
I see your colors
Oh so many colors
Rainbows cannot articulate
Butterfly's look anemic
Diamonds lack clarity
I see
I try to understand
The magnificence of you
The perfection
The power
The glory
Yet I cannot
You are
I am not
Yet because of you
I see
A glimpse of eternity
New poem for SKAT's "All Colors are in" contest
are we crazy or just contrived
lazy or simply self-involved?
are we insignificant, significant
or just like everyone else
deranged on the outside
swimming through dead oceans in our heads
am i death or am i over-simplified
is my breath as thick as the painted eye lashes
that stick to your eyes?
are you in love with your anemia
or anemic to love
breathing came so easy
now you're lucky to get one
mouthful
forever in ruins or ruined to become
pinned to pages or pinned under thumb
like the bleeding nape of a baby
thorough true to yourself
under circumstance we are death-like
only because we know we can
the heart
like a thick abscess of black mucus
pumping sweet death to all who may ask
now clogged with regret
regret for the living
regret for the loving
love of anemia
anemia of love
Love hath tasted of arsenic lips
ground thy soul upon treacherous hips
opened vessels with anemic blood
bathed in a teared river of mud
yet loneliness fills a desires plate
tis the companion of Poe's fate
lips sparkled of potent ale
lovely neck a shade too pale
empty bottles of friendship lied
drunken souls hang head to side
looking for sadness as their pride
lest the poet's pen be his bride
etched in darkness, the devil's queen
horrid tragedy with beauty unseen
liquid scents perfume thy mind
splashing eyes tearfully blind...
There'll be no rain the forecast said
til January's wounded pride
erupts upon the bloomless beds
and weeps a pewter morning tide.
There'll be no rain for many weeks,
just plenitudes of overcast
that burn away as daylight peaks,
when noon's anemic sun is cast.
There'll be no rain, no wet respite
to irrigate depleted earth,
just flaxen grass in withered plight
that dampens all my yuletide mirth.
There'll be no rain this Christmas Day,
just arid hillsides' umber splay.
Not too long ago, back about 1929
Was conceived a boy, name of Danny Fine
Born on a Thursday, 24th of October
A day the stock market turned stone-cold sober
When the crash was over, five days later
The Fine family fortune had totally cratered
They'd lost all their wealth; Mr. Fine lost his job
Mrs. Fine had a breakdown; she wept and sobbed
Little Danny grew up in so horribly destitute
His only clothing for weeks was his birthday suit
His mother's milk dried up all-too-quickly
Poor Danny became anemic and sickly...
He struggled at home; he struggled at school
He was undernourished; life was so cruel
At age 15, he ran away from home
Determined to turn things around, all alone
He joined the Armed Forces, lied about his age
Helped liberate Dachau and Auschwitz, turning a page
Came to believe in himself in those heady days
Danny had learned, "Where there's a will, there's a way."
You may well guess Danny's now rich and/or famous
And sure he's succeeded and is no ignoramus
He's a regular guy with a wife and four kids
Who just can't move past something he long ago did --
After leaving home, he did not return again
A decision that's haunted him ever since then
For no matter the good deeds he's done for others
Danny Fine did not honor his father or mother
So the lucky among you, whose parents are still living
Honor them every moment; keep on giving and giving
Because once they have both breathed their very last
It has all been recorded; you can't change the past
There was a chef named Luke,
All of his entrees were nuked.
In every dinner he planned,
All of his food was canned,
And most of his patrons puked.
Now many patrons inquired,
Why this chef was never fired,
But his boss was anemic,
and very bulimic,
Which is why Luke was hired.
This Diner's reputation lags,
But the owner always brags,
That his dining auditorium,
is a modern vomitorium
With no need for doggie bags.
Pedaling along river drive
empty plastic grocery bags
fluttered and flapped from tree branches
like lost battle surrender flags
that line the drought-stricken river.
Their interspersed clings reminded
me of inundated levels
this now anemic river reached;
where once the floodwaters surged south
along its journey to the sea
its now imperceptive flow
struggles, its intimate's exposed:
river-bottom, water-worn rocks
sit like petrified bowler hats.