Best Blotches Poems
Life has gifted me with tragedy,
broken images, forever haunting,
excruciating my suffering; blood
upon the pulse of my serenity.
Crystal lines are etched over this glaciered heart,
and my tears wash blotches of thoughts
that leaves me blank again daily.
Stolen by death, I am left mourning the assassins kill,
soul sliced open, like the parted sea.
Chained and bound I evade flirtatious eyes,
to inhibit forbidden thoughts;
for love fled upon your precious wings,
survived only by my silent memories.
I stood alone in the midst of nightmares,
just searching for you amongst a midnight dream.
Alas, although the stars filled my eyes,
the sky gathered clouds and the Moon reigned misery,
no peace to be found;
yet today the heavens opened and allowed me to breathe;
I saw your face again, arms out-stretched,
and you said: ”Love come to me,
but mere steps into the convalescent sea."
autumn fills sparse spaces we occupy,
seasonal change that closes in like shutters
briskly paced days of chilling charm
leaves dropping like wooing words of fidelity
leaves that flatten the ground in patterns
displacement
in re-configuring trees
purposeful moves to rake stained prints of color into piles
rhythmic strokes that quicken in musty air
tedious chore to some
to me, contemplation
buoyant day dreams
my raked pile of impressions
leaves tumbling over the ground like memories
of lost days
some marked by brown edges with black blotches
some colored vibrant, in reds and yellows
like victory
I drop backwards into a stacked pile
autumn's luminous shred
ragged cohorts
withering in traces of unease
that touches me like absence
I rise up
gaze at the approaching clutch
when clouds weigh the shambling sky in gray
when cyclic tales take green to red-flamed lineage
capricious leaves
fall
in the irrefutable tow of change
Poem composed: September 13/2022
Stealing light, Day had won,
grey clouds, evoke despair:
choking a waning sun.
A dullness dims the air,
as flower blossoms droop;
heads bowed as in prayer.
Bruised, indigo splotches
dapple diminished blues;
with dark purple blotches.
Flashing within the gloom,
lightning intensifies;
with a thunderous boom.
And its jagged claws scratch
the air high in the sky;
reaching for drops to snatch.
But its strikes are in vain,
for electric talons
cannot grasp drops of rain.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
(Re Old Poems)
A gaggle of girls lounging in the sun,
In the green grass many pairs of legs, stretched out
clad in their blue jeans.
My old pair, many memories...
In them I dug into the garden soil,
planting my spring flowers; my jeans grubby.
A girl gamboling in the rain,
water soaking into her and every pore of fibre
of her blue, old jeans.
Many moons ago, my jeans
touching his knees;
they remember the feel of his bare hands,
as he smoothly traced the lines of those blue jeans.
The hems got frayed, threads hung loose...
They'd seen better days, blotches of old paint,
colors that stayed.
Spent many autumns, growing old with me
My rough old jeans.
I looked far, into the dipping sky,
The soaring waves, breaking into foam,
Turn to the grey hills, as I spread my wings,
braving my last journey,
for the bird to be finally home.
..
Written for nette's contest 'Blue Jeans'
A setting sun inks purple mountain peaks,
painting frescoes on slopes of sullied snow.
And smearing scarlet in blotches and streaks,
its art surpasses Michelangelo.
Shadows scurry to merge with silhouettes,
as acrobatic bats hunt moths in flight.
And when Night gets as quiet as it gets,
ebony extinguishes Dusk's last light.
Crimson and cerise color carmine skies,
as Sol's chariot gilds the edge of Night.
And trillions of stars materialize,
twinkling overhead like jewels of light.
And in the heavens hangs a beaming moon,
light pooling around it, like liquid gold.
For glowing as bright as a gold doubloon,
Luna's face is a wonder to behold.
Sky Still Glows With Sunset Hues Of Red
Ancient garden, roses no longer water fed
graves nearby, tombs of the ancient dead
Sky still glows with sunset hues of red
yet barren rests garden's deserted bed
Wind moans as it flies in the night-sky
one can hear the saddest cry
Across the way, ghosts of lost youths lie
war costs, the blood of youth by and by
Where flowers once spoke beauty reigned
now old grow memories of the pain
Small fence separates area where none remain
blotches of earth with tombstones stained
Overlooking hill, there rests a mighty red oak
shadows pass it by, yet none ever spoke
Robert J. Lindley, 5-09-2016
Note- Sonnet just came to me and demanded to be written..
Upon a sullied, sodden sky
of alabaster and ash,
fantasy's formidable flotilla floats
as charcoal-colored clouds.
And on this mild, melancholy
mid-March day,
they dawdle; dribbling drops of rain
in sporadic Spring showers.
And Winter's whitewashed wonderland
sparingly salted with brown brindled blotches,
magically melts away,
revealing rough, ragged patches
of grassy green.
When Winter's weakened grip gives way;
bulbs freed from frosty tombs
are awakened by the tap, tap, tap, of April's tepid tears.
And straightaway, snowdrops start sprouting;
simultaneously, sending shoots skyward.
Color counters the dullness of this dark day
as a Robin Redbreast abruptly appears,
defying drizzling drops of grey;
with its crimson chest, ornately on display.
As along our long life journey we sail
We all do encounter belied expectations
Feeling of deep hurt results from betrayal
Our shrivelled heart writhing in contractions
The hurt needs healing so we go to a healer
Who examines blotches in our aura field
Looking grave is this wheeler dealer
As his magic wand he does wield
Half who visit healed, the others not
For he simply invokes the placebo effect
Opening up our mind beyond its fearful slots
The faith healer does nothing yet no one suspects
With this comic interlude over with let us examine
The root cause of our pain needing healing
We negate not potency of toxic poison
Simply look at origin of so feeling
The aspect of us hurt is our identity
Plunged into dark gloom owing to its loss
Recognising not that in world of ephemerality
Attachment to fleeting images of pain is the cause
In monk mode detached thus free from pain and sorrow
Lower mind vaporised, we abide in blissful joy
No expectations or desires for the morrow
Mind illumined we recognise ego ploys
Acceptance of others just as they are
Knowing that maya oft causes misalignment
Acts of others be as they may leaves then no scar
We empathise with one and all resting in blissful contentment
We then are our own best faith healer having faith in love divine
Offering no niche within for rancour to anchor onto our being
Knowing that in timeless time with love all souls will align
We nonchalantly breeze through life ever celebrating
29-November-2020
Behind those hidden marked wrists
Are lies, skepticism and fears
Behind those calloused, clenched fists
Is a cauldron of uncontrollable tears.
Behind those evident scars
Is a constant cycle of sorrows
An imaginary fiend that mars
A twinge that only herself knows.
Behind those unappealing blotches
Are griefs, worries and insecurities
Inflictive pain worth a million degrees
Coupled with regrets and negativities.
Behind those ugly knife marks
Is an unfathomable, aesthetic heart
Who got fed up with judgment and remarks
But was actually dauntless from the start.
Behind the so-called 'stupid cuts'
Is depression that she tried to overcome
Abaft her courage and remarkable guts
Is a doltish move for some.
Behind those wrists is the sickening dogma
On people's choices regarding suicide
Cowardice- that is society's stigma
But the truth is, they're already dead inside.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
chaotic uprising of humanity
milling throngs
in their intellectual stupor
search endlessly
for beans ...
and stuff.
murky faces
masking minds
that compete for favors.
races crash in harmony
of wanton pick-up desires
as love ceases to exist.
blaring music
battles pinball machines
to rankle dope shattered nerves.
coffee blotches
tables and chairs of putrid green.
the floor rises up with
suffocating scents.
open twenty-four hours a day
welcoming night souls.
The Hot Dog Palace
a farcical palace
where hot dogs are terrifying
and the Man
can maintain
his scrutiny
of
creation.
late afternoon
reading white ink blotches
in the sky
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on July 3, 2022 for contest THE SKY IN JULY sponsored by ANDREA DIETRICH - RANKED 1ST
There are parts of a whole and time undivided
A poet is more than an inkwell lost in half essence
Opposites contradictions and strife for harmony
An abundance of minutes and a scribe just the same
The nib scratches the surface and yet the fountain
Emerges from the bottomless depth of the well
When blotches and smudges refused to emerge from the pot
He utilizes festering wounds and heart blood
Treasures of hope joy and exuberant passion
Links dot to dot on canvass of words never lost
Fragments remain but he rearranged schedules
Measures rhythm rhyme and meters connections
Some call him a part time ‘unemployed’ poet
‘It’s just a hobby and foolish distraction’
Others reminded him that muse and artistic endeavour
Would not feed his body but he stomachs the pain
‘Irresponsible and insane’ yet one more accusation
A dreamer reckless idealist refusing to grow up and get real
A scriptorium can never be a half-way house and Tim is
A full slate writer whatever the say to diminish his craft
29th June 2019
There were things of mine in the drawers that could be thrown out,
But I kept gravitating to the things that were his.
His Public School 45 autograph book. It was red, white, and blue leatherette with
a zipper.
Inside was his hand, writing the names of favorite teachers,
And the dreams of the future you have when you are 13.
His father, an old world German who never shared himself,
left ink blotches of emotion under his hand.
In another drawer, the fancy leather passport wallet complete with passport and
photo.
He was 16.
I don’t remember him talking about anything else with the same twinkle in his
heart
As he did about the 6 months he spent in Germany.
Here is a poem written to him on his 40th birthday,
by his best friend in the world.
The gift made so much better because it was so unlike this IBM Executive
to write personal poetry full of memories.
There was an untouched underwear drawer.
Belt buckles.
Cards of love and joy that I had given to him over many years.
A collection of Christmas wallets.
A yo-yo. Gift from a child with nothing else to give.
Old prescription glasses. Why do we keep those? Pocket knives, hankies.
A sweater and socks I knitted for him,
Always said they were too good to wear.
I store them still.
Every drawer I opened, every cupboard, every box stored away throughout the
whole house had something of his tucked away within.
A stray bullet or black powder ball. A toothpick holder.
A cork screw. A flint, patches, pictures of his ‘49 Olds, a comb, a watch, pocket
treasures.
~ Maybe if I go clean someplace safe like the fridge.
And there was the bottle of Zeller Schwartz Katz wine
bought for the coming Christmas season of entertaining.
This is foolishness, hanging on.
In spite of saving all this stuff
the hole in me is still there. ...
But I just could not throw him away.