Best Arduously Poems
Maybe this can't be saved.
One more short year and I'll never see her again. I'll always be wondering about
her but it's better left that way. Never been able to face the truth. Even now.
We were all each other needed, some childish indestructable duo of sorts. All
gone.
Sometimes it's my fault. I've been a cliche since prom night when she came over
and apologised and suddenly she was perfection. After that I hardly spoke
around her in case I stuttered or worse, couldn't make her laugh. Was I in love? If
I was I still am. This intolerable inferiority complex, this petrified fear of not being
good enough feels all too familiar.
Don't think there was one moment when it all happened, but now I find myself
smiling arduously in black armour; all that she made me once again
undermined. I called her my mermaid; sunny skin, the beach in her hair and eyes
shining with all the colours and tempers of the ocean.
Now she's hacked away every detail of her. Barely recognisable, even to the one
who used to know her best.
There's a girl I still know, dancing through my memories, but already clinging to
herself, desperate to remain. She knows she can't stay forever.
We're not the people we were; this can never work.
Today I'm hiding behind a calm and carefree front; she can never know, nor
understand why. I'm blocking her out.
Out of sight, out of mind
No explanation. We were dying anyway.
But if she asks why I can't see her anymore
How can I even look her in the face?
If that's selfish then at last it's my turn.
I miss her even when we're locked in embrace. Affection is genuine. All else is
lost. She can't save us, can't put in the effort. I've tried but I'm weak. Another
excuse to take cover under.
I can't change her back. Why am I trying? I should just make the most of my
precious friend now.
A little more of her slips away every day.
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
You suddenly appeared to me Jesus.
You were sitting in the lotus position
in your raiment of colorful robes. . .levitating.
Your wavy long locks had turned grey.
You did not speak to me, you just
looked at me with your kindest eyes
and raised a cup in my honor and
then you vanished like a specter into the
sun splashed day leaving me shaken
in wonder and contemplation.
I have endeavored arduously to decipher
that vision, that day-dream that felt so surreal.
What message were you trying to communicate?
Was your silent toast meant to convey that
you feel I am walking down the right path?
If only I could have spoken to you before
you vanished I would have asked how I could
serve you better, and I would have devoutly
honored you with my soft tears of joy.
I can still see your hair lifted by that gentle breeze
near the verdant grasses encircled by tall pines.
Did you appear in this natural serene setting
because it is where I feel closest to you?
It seemed so natural for you to be floating and
not standing with your feet on the earth below.
In disbelief, I wonder if I conjured your image
out of a desperate need to reinforce my faith in you?
Yet I have always deeply felt your presence without
ever seeing you manifested in physical form
encompassed by your aura of glorious golden light.
I am always asking heaven's angels for their
protection and guidance with my daily life.
Maybe you appeared to me so that I would know
you are also just a prayer away? I do know that,
beloved, and should you ever visit me again I would
just bow my head to express my gratitude
for all you have done to save humanity and for
all the love you bestow on each of us in
teaching us to love one another as we love you.
This is an Easter awakening I will never forget!
God Bless all my poetry friends this Easter and always.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Bring all your revenges to the table
Sit them down and serve them well
Crystal cut glass, French Champagne
And listen to the stories that they will tell
Place guilt across from regret
Whilst heartbreak and sin reacquaint
Thoughts starched up cotton napkins
Dine with both the sinner and the saint
Lies like locust swarms spelt in sentences on the menu
Anger boils over erupts spoiling the setting
Ego attempts a humble hasty intervention
But memories x-ray sharp prevent forgetting
Tensions trek arduously around this table
Whilst fear scavenges for dirty little secrets
Elusive emotion makes an elegant appearance
Upping the ante, everyone taking side bets
I thought I heard someone call my name
It was coward hiding behind the door post
How could I not go to his aid?
I really must leave and assist him, after all I am the host
Waiting. The minutes groan arduously.
Somehow, perhaps – my heart fails to beat
with the rush of your momentary attention.
Perched precariously on spikes
Flesh colored, yet artificial –
Manikin fingers, fidgeting.
Mournfully drenched in factious apology.
Our eyes meet briefly, then dart with bashfulness,
Choreographed precisely.
Words uttered repetitively from wine stained lips
Fill the tortuous silence – hesitantly.
Your hollow ghost memory, porous and unsubstantial.
'We can work at this, ' you finally choke
An unfamiliar innocence, grasping -
Your voice childlike in its simplicity.
And for a second, I recognized that old stranger.
I muster a skeptical nod – and smile limply, dismissively
Fingering the rim of my glass.
'And deceive ourselves with promises made before?'
I winced with audacity – impatient of your feeling,
As the words ripped your heart out clean.
You clear your throat in an effort to speak -
Those words never did surface...
My acid tongue, an all too familiar indulgence.
I raise hesitantly, your gaze fixated as I shrink.
A tormenting embrace, clothing saturated in your scent
Sodden with tears unshed.
Humoring your touch with finality –
An unspoken understanding sneered behind the mask.
Face taunt with incomprehension, as sorrow squeezed out the substance.
I avoid the depths of my black dying heart, defiantly.
Anemic with reluctance – I usher the door
A smiling parody of phantom reminisce -
Poisonous and seductive.
An enormous tear got away,
As you lay fragile and broken – bereft.
I’m sorry.
What is fear?
It clutches and binds you;
Its clinch constricts your conscience and gestures.
It degrades and damages you;
Its triumph abolishes your own proficiency to prosper.
It stops and holds you;
Its impeccable knack of holding you still is impassable.
It overcomes and you surrender;
Its will to thwart your approach has you anxious to ensue.
It is burdensome and palpable;
Its load weighs you down and disables your efforts.
It is real and ever present;
Its nearness is felt in your existence as it hides in wait.
It is debilitating;
It is maddening;
It is caustic;
What is fear?
It is controllable and facilitated;
You can clamber over the hindrances it extends you.
It is fallible and erratic;
You can perceive its shifting deeds as it scours for a way.
It is provisional and remedial;
You can tolerate its manifestation or expel it into a void.
It is daunting and probable;
You can be valiant and foretell its vain efforts against you.
It is frail and cognizant;
You can be assured that fear fears itself; it is casually ended.
It is short lived and perpetual;
You can sustain longer than fear, you can evolve as it ruins.
It is ignorance;
It is a curtain;
It is cowardly;
Fear is crushed with the knowledge of the entirety of a state. In these periods of terror we must cast fear in its just position, behind us, and trudge headlong against those who intimidate and threaten the beliefs for which we have battled arduously to safeguard, preserve, and be tolerant of.
Fear is…
Not an option today!
Life,
The Game
Written: by Tom Wright
10/13/01
I did not choose the game,
The game chose me.
My only choice,
Has been my manner of play.
I've played arduously,
Making plays,
Both decent and abject.
My final quarter finds clock running,
And the goal in sight.
With no times out,
I dare not be penalized.
For it becomes more imperative each day,
That, this game, I win !
I have walked miles on efficient spaces,
Have burnt myself in three Summers;
And also got frozen thrice under icy Winters,
Ooh…! I am an old man now;
Ageing to last for 36 months and still breathing.
But a reluctant ignorance these days,
Hesitantly makes my paranoia to wait,
For my accidental suicide someday,
Someday, when I would get torn off;
And worn out to be thrown;
To decay and die, someday...
Get buried and cradled in the neighboring dustbin.
Ooh..! I still remember,
My God happily paying a dowry of five Grands,
So arduously earned Gold coins of those days.
To buy and get me laid;
To break the virginity of my pure sole.
A pure sole back then,
Apparently, a poor Soul now;
Plainly wishes for my serving legacy to continue,
Continuing in my God…
And all other upcoming Gods’ kind donation.
Can never forget those 6 soaked months,
Going against the Dr. Cobbler’s healthy advice;
When the God and me got completely drenched,
And sinfully stamped to crush,
Few innocent paper boats unknowingly.
It must be because of that heinous curse,
Given on that rainy day;
By that crying kid in Monsoon’s porch;
For those two and half finely sewn threads of mine,
Had left my body yesterday.
And I hesitantly wait for my accidental suicide very soon,
Someday my doomsday under no Moon;
When I would get completely torn;
And badly worn out to be utterly thrown out;
To decay and die,
Get buried and cradled in the neighboring dustbin.
‘WHITE ETERNAL LIGHT’
Talc powder feathered wings, gracefully a white dove brings
Spiritual promises of pacifist mediation, connecting our soul – timeless hope, appreciation
Light of the world, luminosity glow— Heavens majestic rainbow
Chosen by Him in His glorious creation
Resurrected from sin, merciful, pardoning grace from within
Peacemaker, conciliator His gate beckons—a pale glow
The further we enter this truth and life- we advance....grow
The good Shepherd knows His sheep
Our choice, our own to follow... His to keep
This voyage, this life-- trying arduously to walk in Faith and live in Love
A starting place, truelove from above – our crossing passage, spiritual dove
Earthly expeditions become mazes, confusion—battling strife
His soft whisper... draw nearer, I am the way the truth and the life
I Am--He repeats.... I Am, your resurrection into the light
Protected in the palm of my hand- no fear in the darkness of night
My desire is to lavish my love everlasting, celebrating uniqueness of “you”
Simply put, you are my child I am your Father forever true
Thoughts of you are countless as sand on seashore
You signify treasured possession-- never will you yearn for more
Kim van Breda-- February 2013
an apology approaches awesome ambience
adverse advances amass at altars
academically aroused arcades are absolved
astonishingly abrupt adverbs articulate arduously
atlas awakens all around
arrggghhhhh audacious aardvarks attack aimlessly
For the longest time, I could not speak your name.
I could not write it; I could not bear to think it.
I was angry.
I was too young, too vulnerable, too powerless.
There was no justice for me, a mere girl.
I hated you.
Every fiber of my being writhed.
You became the scapegoat for my every misery.
I blamed me.
Was it my fault? I did not scream.
I did not fight, I did not kick, I did not wail.
I froze.
When I needed my strength and spirit the most,
It failed me; it sputtered into cold icy droplets.
I dreamed.
Years later, suddenly, for no reason at all,
You came to me in a dream.
You were real.
For the first time, it was not a reenactment
Of the unspeakable things you did to me.
An actual person.
You had not changed much physically;
You will always look the way you did on that day.
But you apologized.
You said you were tired of having to live with it,
You said you did feel the remorse all those years.
Too many years.
No more would you be the perpetrator.
You were tired of living with that weight.
Too heavy a burden.
I thought I would be enraged.
After all, one of my greatest pains back then,
One of the worst emotions that tore through my soul
like a howling, black wind:
the excruciating, heart-stopping fear
that you had no remorse. After all,
there had been no repercussion for you.
No justice for me.
Instead, I felt... understanding.
We have suffered, the two of us, for too many years.
Five years.
I refused to look you in the face, or speak your name.
But at last, after struggling so arduously, I knew:
I forgive you.
Cataclysmic Lovers Spirit,
Love, lover, you arrive and tame the wild spirit inside,
Set the pace, it slows to a walk to observe and feel and look and notice,
Drops of dew on a rose petal,
Pink sunsets sets, high above in a sun punched sky over a shorn green David Hockney lawn,
Cool glasses of clear perfect water quench a thirst,
And mammoth plates glass windows reflect our youthful smiles,
And our wild spirits slow to love, a simmering boil
They unfold graciously, kindly, admiringly,
And time remakes space,
Entropy changes landscapes, city-scapes, and topography
And you and me,
And the spirit’s restless,
The spirit sets a marathon at sprinters pace,
Seeking solidarity in the wilderness as the rain sets in,
Lichen covered blackened, branches and brackish water slake you now,
You arduously seek thunderous storms in stretches of cold cruel terrain,
And your spirit tumbles in long dark stretches of formidable mother Nature,
once you crashed into me, like thunder, once you pulled away from the wreckage
Stretching your spirit like a Giacometti bronze,
A spirit as Forlorn as Femme aux Bras Croisés
bereft of Joy
simple joy such as dew on a rose petal.
Finally, my inventions did pay,
Your music, often got air-play,
Life had been extremely good,
Even though day-by-day,
We often misunderstood,
Why the road was so arduously laden,
With the affairs our lives had undertaken.
Somehow, we weathered that turbulent storm,
Deceiving ourselves, this was the norm,
Now that the tempest has faded,
And our memories are considerably jaded,
Is there any possible way?
Our love could ever be reborn?
When I had to take a special car back to Liverpool
Through the speedily running windows, on the rolling hills
The Yellow Acacia continued to flash before my eyes
Like the joyful lights beating beside the road in seam...
They are messengers of spring, coming with hope
To light up the future for me who was lost at midnight...
I clearly saw the brilliant oracle,
Somehow like the imperial-issued decree
Instructing us to be persistent,
When marching forward with dignity
To meet our lives...
She gave us the opportunities to accomplish:
The obligations stipulated in the life contract,
And picking up the burden on our shoulders...
To embark on the road of life again,
To meet the coming summers and Autumns...
Life never easily abandons people who love her
And always loves people she loves, never leaves
She loves their kindness, friendliness, and piety
with living up to each other's promises
And not changing the eternal theme of lives
Until figuring out the mission and significance
As Gifted by the Creator...
Awakened by the messenger's purpose
I suddenly see staring at the starry sky overhead
When I was walking arduously in the darkest hours
To check the mind carved by the sun and the moon
If it was ready to honor the contract faithfully
Looking back, when I lost, without explicit directions
HOPE comes with the certification written
By using the golden Acacia flowers
To brush the frost and snow on the cold road
There's an intrinsic dimension deep within my heart.
Its capacity for love and pain, I cannot explain or measure,
but when love takes hold of it, it refuses to be swayed
from taking an emotional journey, arduously pursued.
It's said a heart can be treacherous. I know that to be true.
I've been wounded more than once by my heart's betrayal.
Its pulse is strong, never missing a rhythmic beat,
but to its fragility, I can solemnly attest. It breaks, easily.
Though caged to protect it from physical harm,
pangs from emotional loss traverses through the bars.
My heart never hesitates to ask what if or, should I...
Its sails full speed ahead, despite whirlpools and eddies.
It can motivate me to laugh at life's joys found each day,
but it allows tears to fall in rivulets when it's wounded.
Love's thorns stab much too deep and heal too slowly.