Best Atrophied Poems
ebony edges
twilight blackens sketched shadows~
scarlet-stained sunset
dusk dribbles dewdrops
flower petals atrophied~
evening primrose, bloom
pinwheel galaxies
swirling stars orbit black holes~
bats shadow the night
dawn pierces night's heart
scarlet wounds bleed crimson light~
a hummingbird's hum
day resurrected
scurrying shadows scatter~
colors coalesce
It was tantalizing, sweet completion
Lines of blue ink filling white space
Tastes of emotions, colors of consonants
Music of vowels, syllables singing
To create, and satiate
Then, time thinned
Responsibility and stress stepped in
Poetry, after all, does not pay the bills
Stop cloud watching and become an adult
They said, and they were right
So I packed her away, that silly girl
relegated to the dusty back room of memory
Gray and wilted, foolish scribblings
Nobody cared about anymore
Years, decades of feigned disinterest
Begins to dissolve in rediscovering
The flash of joy in composing
Ignited by a song-writing friend
Who dared encouragement
Steps sluggish, atrophied, but there
Saved in muscle memory
I hungered for nourishment, for balance
On unsteady limbs - I wanted my silly girl back
And I have her, revived on Soup from
My poetry sisters and brothers
Now, I am gaining
The reach of my wings
Soaring over cities of sonnets
Neighborhoods of roundels and rispettos
A haiku hamlet, an acrostic alleyway
Kingdoms of pantoums and villanelles
To the unfenced openness
Of free verse
I am still the bedrock of me
Stretching to climb taller trees.
2/23/19
Here
In this centrifuge of sanctimony
Where I sip the atrophied air of my ancestors
The shipwrecked tide of my unborn children
Angels dangle from a precipice of silence
Strained by strings of a theoretical God
Sung by eyes of defiance
Which navigate the jagged epitaphs below
Searching
For that one sediment of salvation
That one moment of submission
Hoping he will see
His wonders, atrocities, his indifference
To cast a shadow of conviction
Over shivering light
There
Across the inlet where ivory columns crumbled
And modernity now deftly mumbles
Its fleets of fortune baptized
Nigh the bronze dust of golden millennia
Where history lies with its victims
A fugue of fossilized souls
A silent prayer remains
Here
The dance commences, I retreat a step
Shattered from archaic engulfing patterns
You cha cha your storm forward in
Swirls of ancient abandonment and as
I skip back another, gasping for sufficient safety from suffocation,
You unfurl your blitz clawing the lioness’ leash
You decipher my terror and it emboldens your raging compulsion
Which suspends our inner children in connected cocoons and yet somehow
We cant reach each other as we intermingle desperately
It makes us stoic, empty and musically atrophied but
At a closer distance, oxygen less and congruently alone
And it sits frog like, stale and poisonous between us and still
The spire flattens and petrifies our reflections powered by a
Stalemate which devours our fragile humanity with a timid jocularity
In a house too huge for them to maintain,
a man hunched over with back pain lives
with a disabled daughter and
his very elderly wife.
A recent heart attack
has left her frailer
and meaner. The
doctor “says”
she will
die.
Not
willing
to get up
or walk for years,
she had atrophied.
Refusing sponge baths, meds,
or a private nurse, she screams
for her ill spouse whose little strength
does little good. Time is crawling on
the doomsday clock: two minutes to midnight.
Feb. 18, 2018
For Emile Pinet's the doomsday clock: two minutes to midnight contest
In pods, pale and emaciated-
muscles atrophied,
their eyes behind thick goggles
deflecting stroboscopic lights-
they sit for hours with empty smiles.
Each human in a private pod
lost in grounded bliss:
every want and need, fulfilled
by technological AI wonders;
instant information and amusement.
Touch of a button simulation
to other places via virtual reality-
the world unto themselves;
lives filled with at-whim commands;
their necessities- delivered by drones.
A bleak view- future existence;
lone humans in gray sunless pods.
Traveling to unknown places-
eyes blinded from reality
heading for grim, robotic essence.
Once, when no star shined
on slick, black, asphalt roads,
the murky wetness of November's
watered nights a freedom-feeling
and strangeness-sense inspired.
The moisture lubricated
sluggish mental cogs that
all the dirty, dry, autumnal
season rusted tight and atrophied.
Wildness no man can tell I knew then.
All November's labored length
my nightly notions filled:
my bacchic spirit soared, and flew,
traveled far, saw much in waking dream,
along a single street, wet and splotched
with light from cars which coughed their fumes
and passed my momentary immortality.
And now...time has come when
I no longer feel delight to revel
in the wildness that I knew:
senses, now subordinate to sense,
defuse the spell and November nights
are merely murky.
SEPARATION
The closeness we once had
was a light shining in the dark.
Storm clouds came
and shielded the sun.
The seeds atrophied
and the sprouts withered.
What was once a rainbow
became a black and white
single brush stroke
against a pale sky.
CAK 9-2013
Pregnant clouds up in the sky
Like the birds we want to fly
But your visage is so scary
You rage makes the sky teary.
Our once fit legs are getting atrophied
Our heartbeats already slowered
We need to once more feel the outside
We are tired of being locked inside.
It's true you cause our barns to overflow
But your excess our joy it does overthrow
Robbing us of our farms atimes
Sweeping away in its wake our valuables.
Forced to retire to our various rooms
You deny us of our freedoms
Go away, come when we want
No, stay, your lack might invite drought.
We'll ignore you and work and play
We'll no longer wait, you might go away
But if instead you decide to let go
Be mild, there is always tomorrow.
Snow drifts atrophied
on Spring's arrival:
silently shrinking
to slushy puddles,
that soon disappear.
Sunlight feels warm
on naked skin.
The air smells fresh:
and songbirds sing.
Daffodils,
Crocus, and
Snowdrops sprout.
And grass
gets inked
green.
What can I do? I’m helpless
Witches are stuffing my brain with straw
Pernicious thoughts raining spurious angels-
Sons of bloodsheds, their beautiful faces
Wait for a cab sailing to perdition.
My organs are atrophied as head swells
Like a big bug, spreading its wings and ejecting
Bad fumes on the inebriate city malls, and
Levitates between yes and no
Sorry, from today, on principle, I’m your foe
Sorry, I must kill you, my chips dictate so.
I ‘m duped by Macbeth’s witches, I have
Killed Banquo on a barren heath to fulfill their
Prophesies; strange delusions release their
Sperms in my innards to fructify evil plan
To stop the future coming on the earth-face
To stop the riverflow, to stop the human grace.
I am barren, nothing restricts me to kill
Grenades command me, bullets demand dues
Missiles fall like crackers at the wedding
I have sinned, nukes cry wolf, battalions move
I have sinned, birds lose nest, babies mother
I have to shoot the first shadow of my father
I have sinned; I have to blast my twin brother.
What can I do? I’m helpless
Girls are ravaged by squiggling worms
Widowed Cats are seeking hearth
I have sinned, world waits a second birth.
originally my intent to expound on memories
when paternal grandfather erode
out to said residence, and averse to expand horizons
asthma late mum didst goad
him (in vain) to commingle, find intelligent links
analogous to electronic signals communicating ip node
but this towheaded grandson,
merely excited when me daddy's papa
came to this figurative antipode,
where pegged back in time
when this elderly regal family member
only a half decades shy,
whence benchmarked by horse drawn carriages rode
but more to the point, twas how eager
to toy with the wristwatch (analog)
which chained metal links wore a temporary imprint
upon his aged skin – dog
head lee remaining even departure time arrive
for favorite boyhood relative,
which when a kid also glee at occasions
treasuring older folk gave me a frog
tiled toy (sliding puzzle) that required dexterity
moving pieces fastly secured,
which when complete always left me agog
and this, that or some other gewgaw, souvinir, trinket
(plus a bit of chump change given to me)
spurred me late mum to spark me mental cog
to say “good morning”, “good afternoon”,
“goodnight”, or when eggnog
proffered to this most senior chronological guest,
who sat at the head of table,
or blankly watching television like a bump on a log
while chided, forced, induced...
to parlay social graces from this mere pollywog
who (much as delight arose fussing
with trappings worn loss on atrophied flesh)
a skittishness found me averse to follow orders
as if I happened to be a petsmart dog.
A Heart Without Love
Is A Decaying Thing
It May Pump Out Blood
But It Can’t Pump Up Dreams
It May Sustain A Beating
But It Can’t Keep Hope
A Heart Without Love
… Cuts That Rope
A Heart Without Love
Is A Pitiful Thing
It Pounds Too Soft
and Too Slow For Seeking …
… Love, Joy and Beauty
Truth, Courage and Power
So A Heart Without Love
Only Gathers Bitterness & Sours
A Heart Without Love
Opens Its Door To Hate
and Fear and Suspicion
Enters Its Gates
A Heart Without Love
Blocks Its Own Chance
and Cancels Connections
& Synapses To Dance
A Heart Without Love
Is A Merciless Tomb
Peace Finds No Place
In Its Shrinking Room
A Heart Without Love
Has No Purpose
So Important Things Like Love
Makes It Nervous
A Heart Without Love
Only Has Lust Sessions
It’ll Never Reach The Top Peak
& Highest Planes of Pure Passion
A Heart Without Love
Won’t Put Up A Tussle
When It Gets Broken
It Can’t Work Out Life’s Puzzles
A Heart Without Love
Is An Atrophied Muscle
There Is No Force
To Heave It or Hustle
A Heart Without Love
Is A Useless Organ
It May Be Bought Cheap
But It Is No Bargain
For A Heart Without Love
Comes At Great Cost
A Body Can’t Buy
What That Heart Has Lost …
… The Sharing, The Caring
and Belonging Is So Nice
and A Heart Must Have Love
To Grow Family Size
A Heart Without Love
Is Deaf and Dumb
For The Echo of Thunder
No Longer Drums
A Heart Without Love
Is A Cold Stone
It Offers No Comfort
And Leaves One … Alone
A Heart Without Love
Is A Wretched Phony
A Heart Without Love
Is The Ultimate Lonely
A Heart Without Love
Is Easily Led
By Desperation’s Desires
Into Damaged & Dread …
… Its Symptoms Point To
A Systems-Failure
For A Heart Without Love
Goes Against Human Nature
A Heart Without Love
Is A Heart Without GOD
And A Heart Without GOD
Is An Unfeeling Fraud
So, A Heart Without Love
For A Time May Survive
But A Heart Without Love
… Is Not Alive
Written & © : 3/7/2012
By: The MoonBee
Our oath is our soul keeping
our joys are from smoking and drinking,
from the cannabis we cultivate a seeing
a laughter from the suffering
a tear for the living memory
from the raw uncut winery
We feel the flesh more keenly,
our trophies include skull cap revelry
imbibing the blessings of the enemy
from the roof of their mind's sanctuary
a treasure merrily grisly,
the scalps of our competitors a salary
making for cloak and horse bridle history,
from the trauma we make victory,
From the trauma we make victory
we showed the world how to whip and ride
how to love liberty,
paper and stone do not decide
the way in which we remedy
iniquity, only in Truth do we confide,
as our kin conquered steadily
from Kushan to Hispania's Atlantic tide,
Rome relinquishing the keys to Destiny
from Atilla to Theodoric's tribe,
the nomadic warriors and traders remained free,
Visigoths vanished as their independence atrophied
the Ostrogoths succumbed to sedentary treachery,
our songs remain sung strongly,
Our songs remain sung strongly,
as Christ was cruxified
for crucibles carried by the Family
we gave sanctuary to many a preacher stigmatized,
Toaists tasted the terror of our primal domain
Buddhists bathed in butterflys' blood
as the Jews jumped on the caravan coin,
Hindus knew Indra lived in the Aryan Hood
while the Nestorians never questioned our sin
and the shamans ate the shame of life,
Mohammad's ginger genetics made him kin
and his Jihad made us grin at the strife
his armies hired us and paid better than the Byzantine,
sometimes faith lives on the edge of a knife,
J.A.B. 2020
The madness will not end
As my body feels like it's filled with smoke and burning heat
Snared by the depravity and sexual sin
In a heaving foyer, surrounded by a retinue
All I wanted was her
Desire is my oppressor, wanting to be in her boudoir
So I may be embedded by endless nights
Like being in her beautiful cocoon
I don't want her to gaze at me jaded
Kneeling at her feet, I won't let my body be atrophied
My heart must take its ravishing form
But it is true her body is that of goddess reborn
Her cult make her out to be a harlot on a pedestal
But I see no sight of wickedness
Or a Woman's scorn that must be put to rest
I did not have a glimpse that said desertion
Maybe I'm drawn to the perverse nature
Her voice is just so melodious
Can the touch of luster end my torment
So I can witness the garden of Eden
A taste of the sweetest taboo
I see her blessed by enthroned immortality
Her long glam hair of shine braided with gems
A blue and gold marble gown splits revealing her thighs
Prime coral lips, feline eyes, and a humble bust
It's clear who owns the days and nights
She stirred me more than words can say
Like a temptress of Lilith
Hissing at thy heart
I find the perfect display hypnotic
Call it what you will
Narcotic, erotic delusion
Towards thy Empress