Best Ash Grey Poems
Ash - grey chemised
she shifts her shape
as silver flakes float coat
stripped naked places,
sheath curves and angled spaces
Angry glitter tingle stings
thick earth skin with prickly flames
and rumble rise regurgitates
shimmy - shake shudders
in magma's deep thrombosis.
Her feather boa plume
tightens hot cloud chokehold,
acrid smoke flung up in air
without a care, heat exhumes
her arrival, announced fiery flounce -
Hot air blast flicks ash everywhere
Grande dame, her vital force runs hot,
and bold, red and gold- full blooded flow,
feisty fight to escape fate,
inner pulses push a violent urge
to bleed and drape red lava's cape
across green fields, human habitations
Unplacated, rising up, proud impairment
anger virulent, out of hellbent
immolation via pyramidal vent.
She lifts her tiara, red ruby globs,
hurls evidence in defense - great blobs
of royal reign - no abdication!
Throaty roars rend intonation
into screeching supplications -
She knows full well, soon enough,
her phoenix fate infarction
Too late for earth's burst heart
High drama is a living, dying art
Impassioned pleas too late for some,
Earth's burnout buries victims in her wake
High on an island hill,
the boy lay crushed, and still
on temple altar, throat cut, bled out
Hurried offering, did not appease,
nor bring softening release
for angry, ancient mountain
Head caved in by falling blocks
of measured, square cut stone,
the priest grovelled on his knees
Gravel filled their mouths, no space for pleas
No one heard half- whispered final groans
And Earth, once she settled down,
murmured not another sound
Posted 17/08/2018.
I'm a sinister shell,
lost in bygone
deepwaters of
gravity-less
cerulean tears,
that saturate
molten sundrops,
falling from
zinc-plated skies,
as heliophilic snow,
melts frosted
memories in
white-washed waves,
and the moon-
kissed paint of
chamomile dusk
seeps in
cataclysmic bruises of
cloudburst refrains.
Perhaps, phosphenes
perfumed with
blueth poppies,
splashing neon drops
upon midnight shores
of crystallized
coastal lashes,
left pearlescent
ice-drop stains
of fervent lies
and cupid's lampshade.
I was never a
flamboyant fleur flower,
for my rufescent roots
were induced with
evil effervescence
of elusive lambent love.
Dormant heavens
of cursed fairies,
are now bleeding
mahonia mist of
cocooned truths
and deserted dreams
in periwinkle
poetic estuaries,
where doomed
driftwoods float
as ash grey
carnival-canoes.
In werifesteria of
alchemist's
expensive jewels,
amidst soiled seagrass,
this heart slumbers
in silicon rain,
that drips from
lime-scented
starfish-shaped leaves,
when pain escalates
to tangled treetops,
blooming ~
scarlet sun-shells,
infused with
my smoldering
sinister soul.
" In titanium haze of love,
truth is but a mere lie,
never unlocking gold vaults
of feelings, for,
honesty weeps somewhere
in perfumed odes of
inkless pages,
hidden in our forlorn fate..."
If twilight roses were
reincarnated angels,
they would carve
a zillion destinies
with feathered letters,
flickering beneath
butterfly glitters,
adhering glossy
wings of rosemary,
like a balm to
invisible scars
and encasing
my soul in a
hundred hues
of blood.
But, I never knew,
the secrets of
nebulous-cloaked
vengeance which
infused in
nightingale's
forevermore fortunes,
echoing eerie whispers
in elora moors of
scarlet jasmines,
at the jinx of
midnight's omen;
for thou emerged
as a lover in
ninety-nine novels,
but a guised
killer in the
farewell fantasy.
As I float by,
in the swan lake,
losing myself to thee,
I wish upon
defrosting your eyes,
that got submerged
beneath icebergs
of betraying harbinger
and bleed my soul
in frosted heart's
snow-sealed
milky ways,
as these flaked
clayey leaf
pamphlets of
sakura scents
aren't enough
to erase thy
fingerprints from this
poisoned chalice,
that sung sinful
serenades in
deadly paradise
of Eurydice
and sliced my spirit
to sooty shreds,
in this diamond dungeon
behind sage valleys.
Laced in
ash grey lies,
I'm a corpse
enveloped in
crimson croons
of confetti,
whilst lips
soak acrylic
dewdrops of
melting roses,
that once
blanketed our
eden in the
arms of heaven,
with starlit petals.
So, as Nymph,
in the orisons,
with hemlock
fused heart,
be all my sins
remembered.
For, love is a
smoke raised
with the fume
of sighs, demising
to sacrificed
meadows, where,
this kismet tale
departs in the
very ecstacy
of cradling mist,
and thus,
with disoriented
twilight's kiss, I die.
Don’t mind your habits, but they’ve made your mind.
Round the next corner, things will get better.
Until that one fell day when you do find
The credit’s come due and you’re the debtor.
You’ve hidden yourself away out of fear
With sea-green moat, tower, thick sandy walls.
Predators finally could not come near
But no one else can come knocking at all.
Pick yourself apart thoroughly, the pain
Is less than if they figure it out first
Sisyphean task for your fevered brain
A foul practice, but better than what’s worse.
The lonely stone walls, old bones in the keep,
Dragons in the moat, free from invasion.
A lofty view of the bustling street
Looking out from the high crenellations.
At dark shadows you jump, the things you fear
All may have once contributed to it.
But all these things become irrelevant
When you find out that the fuse has been lit.
What smoldered for ages has now caught flame
Under countless, caked layers of plaster
No longer doubtful luxury of blame
To avoid an explosive disaster.
From numbness has hardened the deepest ache.
Seems the one in the keep is missing, too.
Unaware, the demon your soul did take.
The cold, eroding bones are inside you.
Ash grey fuse angrily throws orange sparks,
The why of it no longer relevant
The pain no longer to slumber in dark.
Pinch it, douse it, the fuse will not relent.
Deeply, you know this can’t go forever.
It will put an end to you, and quite soon.
Search your mind, desperate for the lever,
Disarm the bomb or get blown to the moon.
Loved ones wouldn’t begrudge your departure
If they could feel the burgeoning horror.
Or so you think, blinded by the torture
What they see, somehow not in the mirror.
Bet your quickly ticking life it’s too much
When you are the bomb, so hard to diffuse
Leave the Keep's safety, risk the human touch
This lonely fight you do not have to lose.
3/20/16
Lush greenery
Majestic scenery
Coconut trees wave in a track
Puff of clouds wave back
Droplets of rains
Fall again & again
Splash soggy ground
Bringing greenery all around
Village path air is so fresh
Heveanly to be here in flesh
Afar at a distance
Looks like timeless existance
Between hills a chimneys rising smoke
As we ride our cycles we are greeted by humble folk
Gentle moss lies still
Moulded on the broken door of the old mill
As into the distance we cycle away
From soil laterite to roads ash grey
Its my hope to raise the blooms
And hold this world into greenish rooms
Sometimes when the night
crawls upon me
I go out
to look at the people
who's faces have
slipped out
of their contours
slid down
to rest
on collars
features
dripping down
on the
ash grey asphalt
and
under lonely lampposts
everything
fades
into puddles.
© Gry W Christensen
The dark merlot stains my lips blood-red
Casting me in a vampire light
The bottle sits half empty by my elbow
As silent and motionless as I
We keep each other company, the bottle and me
Two cynical sentinels keeping watch over the shadows of night
Passing the endless minutes between the witching hour and dawn
I am the only soul alive
Or so it seems
My heartbeat keeps time
An errant scudding watch piece
The blood flows sluggishly through my veins
No, not blood
A distilled mixture of regret and impotent frustration
My life has been a farce
A series of cruel jokes played upon me
By some Puckish divinity
Hurdle after hurdle has been erected in my path
Wall after wall has loomed before me
Against which I slammed my aching head
Beating out my brains with no hope of reward
Or comfort
With no respite from the arduous grind
Struggling, always struggling
That is the story of my life
Striving in vain to rise above the ash-grey mists of despair
Well not any longer, not anymore, oh no
Now I sit still
Quiet and masochistically content in my failure
You could almost say I’m wallowing
With nowhere to go why bother to travel
Why take even one more bitter step down this screwed up pointless road?
It all amounts to nothing in the end
We all finish up just skulls with a few withered strands of hair
The wind whistling between our browned teeth a grim mockery of breath
Why waste my final resources in a valiant attempt at resurrection
There is no hope for me
I am lost, I am dead
Another nameless face amongst the wandering dead
With no one to soothe my aching heart
No one to rub salve into the bloody weal across my soul
Only this bottle of wine beside me
Dulling the agony of a thousand defeats
And sopping up my dusty tears
As the endless Night slides, serpentine, by
That night amidst cries, clamours, din,
When coffin scandal headlines claimed,
We shuddered— such was stench of sin,
Those in snow felt ash grey, ashamed,
In sullied caskets feeling ill,
But lay still, stunned, shocked by surprise
Their valour frost, vain felt their will,
Frost bitten, battered, somewhat wise,
Those done to death but not wood-bound,
Peered out from their snow-covered face,
Shocked, surprised, by news snow-drowned,
Would they ever regain lost grace?
Pondering on greed of a man,
Of those on a decision-making chair,
To what lowly depth fall they can,
The stink was felt in frozen air.
Yet, such things go on from times old,
Let us not lose our well-earned rest,
Why worry on what we’ve no hold,
We’ve duly done our honest best.
Let’s lose not our well-deserved sleep,
None can one’s dark taints sanguine paint,
Let Judgment Day come, said a saint,
They’ll a deserved karmic crop reap.
But we still wondered deep within:
If those wanton souls saner be,
Wrapped in a life of utter sin,
If their sordid deeds ever see.
There still lingered a nagging doubt,
Our sacrifice would go in vain,
The truth if ever would come out,
That, culprits might innocence feign.
Whilst we wondered as never ere,
Whilst the clamours carried on still,
As frozen hearts could no more bear,
Still colder felt the nightly chill.
_____________________________________
Happenings | 06.08.2008, revised July 2022|
Poet’s note: A disgrace called ‘Coffin Scandal' in the purchase of coffins for dead soldiers, it claimed headlines in newspapers for a long time. This poem takes off from it and depicts an imaginary dialogue between the departed souls of dead soldiers (it was the war with Pakistan in snowy wilderness of Ladakh) and the sentinels of life after death: Was after all their sacrifice in vain?
Blurry reveries consistent to the end
in life’s limbo, the forest of deep secrets and sacred illusions
the surging existence that ignites words into creation
come
follow me
take my hands
as we journey through this hollow way
at a certain pace
at a certain rate
embarking on a certain race
a different road
an unexplored journey into another source
in a different base
and together
we shall build a different fate
as our scenarios are designed with nothing else but autumn leaves
as we fade into ash-grey-like whispers of the blur ...............
Not a single tear was shed by you
when our relationship died
Instead, you put the first nail in the coffin
Yes, it was formaldehyde you ...
whose morgue heart had an elated attitude
When you put the next nail in the coffin
Those silver urn eyes
had a joyous flame, ash grey cremated view
As you put another nail in the coffin
Happy Deathday!
This was the karaoke repast song you played
While yet another nail was lip slammed in the coffin
You danced in a black widow dress,
at the grave sight of our premature burial happiness
Then put the last rite nail in the coffin
And placed a thorny rose on top,
letting your flirtatious dirt fall back to the earth
Smiling wide, as my cadaver heart crypt cried
Cattle-cars filled with Jews,
Hot guitars wailing blues,
Pulsars beaming in the night,
Thoughts of wrong, desire for right,
Cigarette ash- grey and rigid,
German soldier, Russian front frigid,
Masonic poetic words far too turgid
Sky in shades of ash grey
Showers flakes of artwork.
Swirling snow of silence
Smoothly descends dancing.
Serene sheet shines on land,
Sensing in stark stillness
Soft whisper of winter.
The Brown Grizzly Bear is so called,
not for its grizzled hair, grey-tipped
but because it is truly grisly, horrible!
(Ursus arctos horribilis)
This brown bear is gruesome and deplorable.
The amber Pizzly Bear is so called,
not for its swizzle stick.
but because it is a hybrid bear,
a Polar-Grizzly cross,
(Ursus maritimus × Ursus arctos)
The ash-grey Koala Bear is not a bear at all,
though it's nice and teddy-bear cuddly.
(Phascolarctos cinereus)
But the 'arktos' in its genus name, means 'bear'.
Its been wrongly named from the start,
the 'ashy-grey' pouched bear.
So there you have it!
Three bears, caught breaking and entering,
slagging off the language.
The first light I saw,
flashed in the first month of the year,
the epitome of rotational time transition,
and the harbinger of hopeful new beginning,
symbolized by the novelty of Jenus.
Born with the cardinal zodiac sign of intractable psyche,
an archetype of carnation flowering and perseverance,
prepared always to take discerned control of destiny.
Ruled by the planet Saturn, the strength of garnet trait lies
in the innate sense of my duty and responsibility,
making me a capable achiever, ambitious and determined,
oriented toward contemplation with intrinsic awareness,
regarded as down to earth, practical and pragmatic,
not faltering to face with fortitude the days of winter.
The sliding time crosses the fringe of the worn-out year,
nascent dreams are woven in the tapestry of the future.
The unsung songs are sung in sequence of the spinning seasons.
As along the destined path begins the new journey
to reach happily the destination at the edge of the time plateau,
I yearn to see another new sun rise with promise in frosty horizon.
After the auburn autumn departs with the rustling leaves of fall,
the tawny terrain becomes the serene canvas of white brilliance,
designed by the descending divine artwork of snowflakes,
blanketing the bare landscape with snowy shroud of stillness.
The sky stained with the shifting shades of ash grey,
cast the diffused light on the frozen landscape.
The defoliated trees of the tranquil thicket stand as sentinels,
the ephemeral metaphoric embodiment of silenced life.
The chromatic splendor of the setting cold sun
shapes with the spectrum of the twilight tinge
the spilling palette in the pallid landscape,
turning into a sheath of sparkling diamond,
suffused with the shimmer of silver sequins,
dancing with the ballerina of swirling snowflakes
in the congealed concerto of silence.
Down in the dumps today
Children work not play
The flies have swarmed
A stench has formed
Seagulls cry all day.
Down in the dumps today
Maggots pulse and flay
It reeks to hell
Children become unwell
Amidst a haze of decay.
Down in the dumps today
Life’s turned ash grey
Some children are gone
But nobody mourns
When waste rots away.
Down in the dumps today
Children restocked and stay
Given sticks to dig
Scavenge like pigs
Toy-landfill of dismay.
Where snakes rats
and broken glass
torment kids to this day.
By
David Kavanagh