Best Ashy Poems
Romance was not our muse, he types
Not writes his farewells before each morning -
A simple 'Till tomorrow' left by cooling sheets.
We started as lovers, before we were friends
Speaking in touches instead of thoughts
Every night he clouded our secrecy
With cigarette smoke, an ashtray beneath my bed,
A counter of the days we were spent.
But a playful joke turned bittersweet, I slipped
My favourite glinting stud, a gift
In his pocket lining, finding instead a reminder
Of sin and silent lives, a ticket
To home and back to reality.
In dawn’s light and an empty bed, I wrapped
Bruised red lips around his fading cig, enjoying
The lingering taste of him and his ashy breath.
Romance was not our muse, I type
Not write my farewells before the morning -
A simple 'Good-bye' left by cooling sheets.
I will not be late to work today
I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
About gymnasiums
About TAKS
About sound
About war
Republicans
Democrats
Independents
I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of
Broken valentines
Strewn against a wooden
Fence
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase
I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert
Ready to begin my lesson
I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Or hurt
Where there is no abandonment
What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles
I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
Before work
I will not write poetry
Before work
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving
I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic
It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
This morning
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything
This poem is over
the work day begins
As I was sitting in the park, one dark cloudy day, I was troubled in such a worrisome way.
My complicated life had me down, upon my face, a grimacing, tormented frown.
When I looked up, what I saw, was a stern faced clown, uninterested, suffused, withdrawn.
He was sitting on the bench, so sad, so frayed, his hands clenched tight, as if he prayed.
A look of torment upon his haunted face, it seemed he was uninterested, out of place.
From his eyes, tears were falling to the ground, I was astonished, I was so astound.
His face seemed to be frozen in time, but then again he reminded me of a mime.
I understood immediately, we were the same, both of us being in the same mind frame.
I tried to smile and to my despair, we both stared at each other with an equal glare.
I wondered what this message could possibly be, was this fate being directed to me?
He nodded his head, looked up to the leaden sky, he read my thoughts, I silently sighed.
I realized in an instant this was foreseen; so petrified, I felt like a frozen ashy figurine.
The clown still seated on the bench, his eyes steadily fixed, on me, was he totally
entrenched?
That tormented look that was upon his face, continued in silence, showing no reflective
grace.
Understanding, I smiled; I knew that this was my ghost, sent to me by The Divine’s Holy host.
No longer worried or concern; my troubles lifted, that gloomy dark cloud has been adjourned.
© Juanita Warden 7/12/11
On a cold November morning
Frost wrapped the world in an ashy hue
Sucking the heart from silence
As an optimistic sun gazed through
Naked branches of oak and maple
Peeking through the limbs of gray
Lighting the indigo skies with grace
Dancing, flowing, praising
In waves of enchantment, such riches
Radiating warmth and awaking
The crackle of leaves, stunned
By the bitter air, the chilling stare
Of freezing sparkles on thoughts
Met by the luster of dawn
Revelations caress the mind
Of those who listen to the pulsations
Rumbling through the thoughts
Echoes of dreams, dulled
By reality’s dark plans for the one
Who listens to shadowy feelings
Deprived of hope or faith
Lingering on the edges of silhouettes
Who dread the moment, stirring
To life – the sense of delight
Inspiration and insight
Peppering the darkness in joy
Pleasures like seeds who’ll be growing
Love, the anointing
Of a life full of glory
A frosted November Sunday
Breathless and murky with hues
Of obscure inklings twinkling
Like the hesitating stars
On a quiet night
Flooded with desires, dreams
Amazed by the creation
Blessed by His presence
Even here – among the thorns
Who hasten to bite soft flesh
With frozen barbs, like wire
Bringing the ooze
Of crimson flowing over
Icy cool thoughts
Enriching the heart
With feelings from a deep
Longing, a need
For the belief that imagines
Love is forever
A never ending feeling
Forever giving
Never leaving
Always satisfying
On a cold and vibrant November morning
Love melts the heart
Who is yearning for the promise
Of a feeling that brings
Joy beyond words, more alive
Than the dance that inspires
Poets to write, artists to paint
As hearts unite
To share their life!
A continuation of The World Above Me, a special collaberation between myself and my good friend Justin Connor
8/17/12
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The shelter opens its door to the world above me
Never have I seen so much destruction
My eyes get used to the brightness,
An unwanted tear trickling down my cheek
But once they are accustomed to the light,
I want to close them again
I feel the urge to turn back
But they push me forward,
Whispering low, consoling words
I look around to see what humanity used to be
Before the devastation
And I marvel at what the old world used to be
But one question remains:
Why did people destroy their lives,
And end the world we used to know?
I walk my feet on the unknown terrain
Ruins. . .debris. . .the air placid and still
All around is rubbish
My mother whispers a prayer from behind
And then I wonder. . .
If God was ever here
As I look around I notice a book
Lying there, upon the ashy wreckage
I pick it up and read. . .
It details a nation’s fight for freedom
A large statue of a man is in the building I stand by
I stare at the brazen figure in awe
The features are crumbling but here it still stands
Watching over its obliterated land
I squeeze the book in my hand
His eyes show loyalty and courage
No sadness—not even a speck of fear
Looking more outwards I see a tall structure
And past that a building with a large dome
The architecture of the old world amazes me
What wonders men have done—could have done
If they hadn’t let each other come undone
In violence and death
Yet still I wonder how these incredible buildings
Could possibly remain after all that has happened
Like the buildings, we have survived
And hopefully, through lessons learned,
We can thrive
My father tells everyone to clear away the ruins
People even use old machines with cranes
The old world is gone
But from the ashes we can start anew
We were in the shelter for the good of humanity
And now, because of us,
There is hope
The taste of a warm, clear liquid runs through my throat.
The bitter taste of love, feelings and emotions all in one clear bottle of venom.
How did it end to this, how did i end up doing this?
The taste gets bitter and bitter just like the flavor of you.
The fiery burn is hotter than hell itself, but i continue going on.
With every drink is another memory to forget, with every drop is another story to be forgotten.
The numbness of feeling no pain gets stronger and stronger, Every action, every word ever spoken completely disappear with just another drop.
I soon forget but that doesn’t make me stop, why?
Shouldn’t the void clear up now? shouldn’t the emptiness fill up with the venom, filling me up?
Shouldn’t the dark turn to a grey color and shouldn’t i be satisfied with the warm, fuzzy feeling of forgetting?
No, because how could you forget the emptiness, how could you forget those words, how can you turn an addiction to nothing more than a piece of forgotten string.
How can you turn love into hate, and how can you turn me into a person?
With the month of addiction, the month of trial and error how did i end up being hurt the most?
How did i end up turning into someone i’m not, how did i turn to the venom for forgiveness and hope.
5 years old, 8 years old, 10 years, 11 years old I swore to myself i wouldn’t.
I swore the poison would never go into my body, and become my only resort to the paradise called hope.
I swore i would never let substance control me.
But the ashy taste of cigarettes and the burn of venom became my best friend.
They became the only thing that let me forget, and let me feel something more than an endless void, a dark hole in my heart and vibrant colors in my mind.
They became the only thing to look forward to in the day, the only thing i wanted.
It became very clear to me that the venom i depended on was the poison you left me with.
The only thing i had left was the taste of the warm, clear liquid showing me hope..
Charcoal grey, silver grey, shading to white,
Changing and shifting,
Pewter grey, ashy grey, darkness then light,
Trailing and lifting.
A quiet avalanche of melting clouds
In horizontal fall,
Covering distant hill tops like a shroud
Or funeral pall.
Shapes form, reform, then float away
In careful counterpoise,
Then balance, hover, shift and sway,
There is no noise.
A sudden change, the wind picks up,
Disorder in the sky,
Which way to go at first unclear,
Then the clouds begin to fly.
Across the vast and open prairie skies
The clouds stampede,
Driven by wayward winds they fall and rise
At breakneck speed.
Such confidence we can never realise.
Here on the ground we hesitate and stumble.
They are in their element.
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
In the beginning thus Prometheus who loved mankind
Stealing fire from the Gods of Mt Olympus
Then to Earth he did resign
Man marveled at fire’s glowing light
Finding comfort from its warmth at night
Rocks which surrounded the campfire pit
Melted their metals into the ashy spit
Man’s observant brilliant idea dawned
A forge a hammer a chisel and a spear
Once ferocious King of the beast who roared death
Learned to tremble with fear
Bellows of goat skins did man blow across the red hot coals
The white hot warmth thus saturated the metal into hammer and fold
Pound the copper beat the tin-
So man did master the fire therein
Shields and weapons- tools and blades
Due the love of Prometheus made friend
We the man did gratefully accept
To Prometheus we are in his debt
And for his trouble did Zeus make plain
To steal from a God is unforgivable and disdain
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I am powerful and fierce.
I am the pure golden baby and the lioness that hunts.
I am a girl with ashy blonde hair and blue eyes, the perfect woman as many would say, but I desire to be more.
I know I am more than a prize; I am a gift only given to those who ache for me.
I am intelligent and beautiful, but not the way that you would see me.
I am deep and residual. I echo in the streets.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
Look into me, not just at me.
See the pain I have been through and appreciate things about me I never knew.
Look at the things I strive to be: the strong woman, the fearless woman, the earth-shattering woman.
I am only as good as I think myself to be.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I will wear whatever I please and expect the same service and respect as any, whether I’m asking for it or not.
Look at me, my hands are softer than yours but have been through just as much.
I am a human being, I live and breathe the same as you.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
I am the student sitting next to you, earning my place.
I am the mother in the next booth over with two crying children in her lap.
I am your equal, and I am not to be confused with anything less.
My strength comes in the way I comfort and my unpredictability.
Yes, I am a woman, but I am not weak and fragile.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined, but I am not hard and cold.
I ache for a sense of belonging, for something to grind against the softer parts of my heart.
I am intense, but I am not ruthless.
And I am more often than not moody and unstable but love me, despite it.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined, because so often it is.
I am smart, sexy and worth it.
I am a woman and I am tired,
tired of explaining and justifying myself.
I am a woman and I am exhilarating.
I am a woman and I will not have my femininity undermined.
Colourification-- Vibgyor Romance.
Newly married,we flew in the valleys of Kashmir,
me,a man of words has promises to keep,
jetlegged,my slender,delicate ladylove rests,
the houseboat stirs with the bash of breeze,
moonlight magnolia tip toes to greet her,
mirthful lake dances with reflections of taupe trees,
incredible is my beauty queen,my flamingo in scarlet satin robe,
her malachite eyes hidden in her deep slumber,
her power rules over me,ever ready to dance to her tones,
me,so macho,sturdy yet so mellow,submissive,
chatreuse highlights of layered hair flap on her face partially,
fair skinned fingers get more radiant wearing the muave enamel,
wintry weather takes its toll on her fuchsia cheeks getting more dense,
lucky is the turquoise jardiniere on her bedside,
see,the naughty persimmon shellfish in the lake winks at me,
how i wish this moment could freeze,
for her evocative aura is more enchanting than her mould,
SHH! noisy ashy sandfly,my dulcimer,my romantic Ghazal sleeps.
Fiction
P.S...Tried something out of comfort zone..so plz excuse my mistakes.
Ghazal is an arabic name for females.It is also an arabic form of poetry.
1-white-magnolia 2- black-taupe 3-red-scarlet 4-green-malachite
5yellow-chatruese 6-purple-muave 7-pink-fuchsia 8-blue-turquoise
9-orange-persimmon 10-grey-ash.
Contest-Colourification
Sponsor :Silent One
15/03/2016
My office
Yo I went into my office, lookin’ for a bone,
I’m in the zone,
Cause I found the chicken that I left next to the phone,
Yo the other day I found a roach that got high off fumes,
The straight perfumes of fruit of the looms,
That I forgot to put in the laundry,
The other day, a bill collector called he,
Needed to collect on the gas that be passin,
From the mold that be lastin’
On my desk from starbuck’s latte’s that never made it to rest,
Yo I must confess,
My wife almost divorced me,
When she saw the fungus on my socks I use to hold my mornin’ coffee,
The other day I broke my chair but yo the stacks of papers caught me,
Sometimes the sisters judge me,
Cause I be funky,
But they be chunky,
Like in the country,
Where when they hug me,
I gasp for breath and stagger round like someone mugged me,
Or straight up drugged me,
Yo my boys be tryin’ to punk me,
When they say my rug be dusty,
But that don’t phase a brotha, cause them brotha’s knees be ashy,
Like a car that’s gotten rusty.
But yo, I got to end this,
So peace out and don’t dismiss this,
Or try and say my crib’s a health risk,
Cause yo there are lists, of brothas who have smelled the breath behind those luscious lips,
So mind yo business and let me be,
And stay off my office too,
When I go back to the Islands
And my old friends said that they miss me
I miss me too,
the old me,
The one who had the futuristic ideas
the girl with
the nappy braids that locks
the girl with the ashy feet,
the one who work the land with her bare hands
I was liked a woman land army,
wild and carefree
the same girl who use her teeth to peel
out the hard skin and bite into the inner part of the sugarcane and chew it.
Planted roses, morning glories with a smile
The one who loaded sharp blades sugarcanes on to the high trucks
under the relentless sun or frigid rain
with aches and pain
and drank water from the pitchers
until the sun go down
Somehow, that girl survive those hard days
Even when she dance until dawn to the
Sound of the reggae beat and the oldies Goldie’s.
The one who woke up early to catch the 5:20 am bus
to travel to work in Wildleys for minimum wages.
So when I go back to the islands
And my old friends say they miss me
Old friends brings all of the memories
back into the present state of mind
for a woman who is growing old
When thoughts cease to flow, where does ego go.
- Unseeking Seeker
As your mind betrays,
you are here yet so far away.
Days, ashy and gray,
stagnate, and I am left
to sift through thoughts
that sputter, disconnected
in the distance of
your dimming gaze.
Above quivering lips,
your bleary eyes glaze
and blur the lines
between illusions and truth.
There, your dreams drift off and deflate.
Where I search for you,
I find my hidden heartache.
Today, I catch a glimpse
of you caught in a push and pull
of id and ego,
past and present, the struggle of it
all on display.
(I dry your tears.)
Other days, I see my own
flaws and failings
as I reach out to you
time after time
in your descent.
(I dry my tears.)
Some days, I find my strength
bubbling to the surface of you,
and you briefly find you.
And now I, in scarlet, watch
over your slumber.
Sleepless, I am lost
in depths of onyx night,
mindful that morning’s saving
light may once again turn
to grays of lost images.
I wonder if you feel my love
in your restless sleep.
I wonder if you feel moments of peace.
I imagine that I am, to you,
just a stranger,
a friendly wave
on the other side of your fence,
or when needed,
the flicker of a lantern
on your darkening trail.
At most, I am a fleeting memory
who sees myself in you more clearly -
So much in life
depends upon our own reflection
in another’s eyes,
even in the distance.
Date: 5/19/22
Contest: Bubble of Illusion
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
You made a lot of money
selling lewd photos of nude
Then you parlayed your profits
into cyber surfing —
triple X cinema ***** crude
Nasty video sex business you were so into
Your vested interest was
a skin flick portfolio bankroll ...
Dirty money bottom line
Letting curious customers
put their cyber bit coins into the virtual pay slot
So they can take a ride on the carnal carousel
Then make them get off ...
Have them taste naked flesh boiling hot
in an abominable lascivious pot
You are so proud of yourself,
Mr. Sleazy bit coin billionaire
You make it so easy —
sex suckers love to lick poisoned lollipop sticks
Getting minds addicted to wicked desires,
those tempting tokens are gonna take ‘em there
You’re so filthy rich cavalier ...
crushing souls, you really don’t care
What those turned-out cyber tramps,
hopefully, will come to one day understand,
those grimy bit coins
is greasing somebody’s dirty hand
And that palm is on a beach somewhere
getting a penthouse triple X suntan
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty old man
with a Howard Weinstein leer
Bit coin billionaire,
you got sticky floor hands
and semen oil slick hair
Spreading your cyber surfing
triple X flotsam everywhere
You’re just a devilish voyeur,
a nickel-and-dime fleshpot billionaire
Your trashy ways smells like
a STD flea-bitten garbage can
And your infectious craves are a
CDC health hazard quarantine
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with semen snake oily hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy green scaly skin
In need of some brimstone lotion
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with sticky floor hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy lucre ashy skin
In need of a brimstone suntan
This poem was inspired by the
talented Richard Lamoureux’s poem,
“Church Perfect Surface.”
— Romantic Warrior