Best Burnings Poems
The heartaches of living are many
The comforts of living are few;
The truths we are told are not many
And the lies we were told have come true.
Anxiety's anguish and burnings
That trust, now frustrated brings
The endless sorrows and yearnings
Are lost in the exhaustion of things.
We're done with the frivolous fancies
They sufficed in times of the past;
When we gathered the poppies and pansies
We knew the dream couldn't last.
When all who are weary are sleeping
Collecting their joys and their cares;
Their planting now ends in the reaping
Of thistles and thorns and the tares.
What happens when dreams are all scattered
As leaves are tossed in the storm;
When our faith has been hopelessly shattered
And hopes and our dreams won't conform?
What we had should have been and therefore
It might and perhaps it will be;
And if not, we should prepare for
A flight from reality.
We speak of the worst and the wiser
But the wiser and worst are as one;
Philosophy is the despiser
Of all that lives under the sun.
There is nothing concrete but confusion
There is nothing decisive but death
We imagine our lives an illusion
For life is an ephemeral breath.
As the ink dries swiftly,
peer into the invisible thoughts
these poet eyes see
Blink blink
The world is on the brink,
following dire voices
that speak darkly
Many underground secret plans
are silo hatching
No peyote ingest is required
to see the sign
of a mushroom cloud looming
And soon mutation burst opening
Nuclear rain is not a small-talk,
weather topic
most people care to discuss
at cocktail gatherings
Blink blink
There’s plenty of mouths excess wanting,
and even more famine bellies needing
But they both pale numerically
in comparison
to the torrential violence bleeding
And the talking rear-ends say,
“Have a Balaam mule work day”
As the share-the-wealth resources
get pilfered off-shore —
Somewhere clandestine secure
That kind of information is classified!
I’m pretty poetry sure
many have heard that line before
Blink blink
As the white paper turns yellow,
the time of Man
is turning fiery red sunset
Apocalyptic visions
of city heaps glowing in the uranium night
Cold pocket calculations
of nuclear winter burnings, so solar bright
Goggle minds having
no sense of mass extinction urgency
Blink blink
This be what these poet eyes see
Wettened by the mornings dew
Closely spaced where rows of roses grew
Footprints stained the cobblestone
Where my love and I had walked, alone
Breathless sun, full of grace, cascades
Over the moments, in soaring shades
Vibrant hues reviving growing yearnings,
Kissing away darkness’ deepest burnings
Wettened by the mornings dew
Closely spaced where rows of roses grew
Footprints stained the cobblestone
Where my love and I had walked, alone
Hand and hand we strolled along
In my mind I heard a lifting song-
the joyful tune of knowing
such love of ours was overflowing
As we walked sweetly, side by side
My teeming love, I could not hide
As I poured her with warm embrace
Her misty breath blew in my face
I become nostalgic, whenever I think of it
Unmindful of surroundings, not even a bit
Like butterflies, in full romantic mood
There, with each other, we were glued
Sweet light's tryst with blowy mist
The fog and dawn waltzed as we kissed
Fertile bliss of rosebud lips
Strands of sunlight round my fingertips
Breathless sun, full of grace, cascades
Over the moments, in soaring shades
Vibrant hues reviving growing yearnings,
Kissing away darkness' deepest burnings
Misty mornings drew us in
Where footprints deftly shod within
The steps of heart we took to find,
The beating of eternal kind
The world was shrouded in the mist,
and once again the lovers kissed,
but when the fog dispersed, the slaves
retreated to their dusty graves
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Goree Island
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/2014
I see the blood
of my ancestors
that swell
in the Atlantic ocean
on
Goree Island -
The unmerciful ill winds
that fell
over my people,
in Senegal,
on that
horrific night,
brought the European's,
across the Atlantic,
to our Village -
Everything
in the world
changed forever,
and
will never be forgotten,
when the "unthinkable"
cruel acts
of slavery,
cloaked my people
like
darkness in the night -
White men
dressed in British
formal attire,
brought with them,
bullwhip's, chains, machetes,
and rifles,
to capture us.....
to ENSLAVE us!
We were brutally beaten,
and
taken to
the House of Slaves,
on Goree Island -
The malice intent
of
the British,
intensified our
suffering
at the slave house,
as they
cuffed us to
the walls,
in neck, waist,
and
ankle chains -
Days would pass,
some of us died
from
diseases,
and
starvation,
while waiting
for
the slave ship
to come
from the Americas -
The hideous inhumane
acts
by the British,
sold us
as property,
as we were
auctioned off as
commodity,
to the Americas,
during
the Atlantic Slave Trade
The mournful ness
in our helpless eyes,
spoke of horrendous fear,
as a feeling of distraught,
distress,
and despair,
clothed us
like
death -
We are innocent people
that will never
see our families again
Our homeland again -
It's unfathomable,
to see black souls in chains,
taking those final usurious
steps towards the "Door Of No
Return,"
in the House Of Slaves,
which left its ugly mark,
on the whole global earth -
Once through
the Door Of No Return,
we were sold to the Americas,
and
faced a future of
severe beatings, burnings,
hangings, lynchings,
and
rape -
To this day,
ancient spirits
of
black people,
still scream in rage
on
Goree Island,
where an untold number
of us were
slaughtered,
and
branded
before walking
through the slave door,
of
an uncertain future -
The ominous clouds
of slavery,
will
forever cast
a dark shadow,
over the
House Of Slaves,
the Door Of No Return,
and the world -
Goree Island,
in the Atlantic Ocean,
will forever
cry tears of blood,
from the souls of
black people -
terrorism has been going on for thousands of years
not just in the Middle East, but in America right here
Black folks have been terrorized for many years and in many ways
with lynchings, cross burnings and the destruction of the churches where we pray
we've been treated worse than dumb cattle
at one time they even referred to us as chattel
we've been beaten, whipped, forced and sold
taken from Africa, our motherland
brought over on slave ships
to become the property of an unrighteous man
for over 400 years we have been treated
no better than common dirt
but our faith in God has been the only constant
enabling us to deal with the hurt
to Black Americans terrorism is not a new word
and for anyone to say as much seems completely absurd
Four years ago on this very day
the Democrats and their proxy media stooges
cried “the election was stolen!”
and “we need to impeach Trump!”
Today the same apparatchiks
and oligarchs and media fawned and gushed
over a corrupt senile swamp rat
and propagandised his coronation.
And all the while Creepy Joe
spoke of unity and of healing a divided country
and called out “political extremists,
white supremacists, domestic terrorism”
Meaning the evil “MAGA” nation
not BLM or Antifa, just you Trump supporters.
Slow Joe thinks you are all racists
and fascists who need reprogramming.
And so the great purge begins
and woke authoritarian censorship done under
the cloak of moral righteousness
to silence all you “insurrectionists”.
I felt sick watching the old eunuch
with his hand on his bible swearing allegiance
to heal and govern for all Americans.
Real America knows that ain’t so!
Beware the Orwellian deep state,
be afraid of your government more than ever.
The Great Reset is upon us and…
the digital book burnings have begun.
Goebbels would be so proud!
Written: January 2021
Scathing these miscoloured orbs of sight, with incised rocks carved beneath
Concretionaries jagged edges of contagiums....
Painted upon the predominating canvas of perceptions dank, pasteled times!
So what has changed, this mosaic of histories collective collage?
As one way or another many, infused, inebriate their thoughts to inertia
Binding and bound; within these thicker links of connotations chains....
While they bury their bleeding nails into walls; immersed within darker days
Wherein few lives withdraw completely these claws, of concourses contaminating
Which extends itself polymorphously, deeper....
This unknowing muted muse amongst, everbearings, everyway?!
Unto the very core within, bleaksomes mangled maze, of, adapted art....
This abstract and blurried shadow of vagues, prolific presentations
How to pound the hearts into tears, of burnings coffins, set ablaze
Amid the dawning of insanities decrying of decrepits, decores, so displayed....
Within these assylums waiting for their fills
Beyond, the ghostly bars of Baals, notes, now played
By this 'Phantom of The Operas' corpse; deceivings decay, exhumed....
These flaming embers of ashes; fortiums pins of pain!
The crows casting within corners; like shackles upon most; the guiles, of guildeds shame?
This sifting of flour to find the implosion of caverns
Crashing, upon themselves to the suffocating truths, of, their often buried alive....
Subsisting encased within the cages like creatures, placed on exhibit?
An example, of the modern day creations, lifted from the poisoned palettes, of Palladians ways
Swirling within these inversions; smoke upon the rise....
Black splashings, atop the pavement of profounds
Sculptors, with their crucifying knives!
More concise within their uncompromising; binding the bound, within these thicker links of
chains
While they bury their bleeding touch, into the walls of this darklings darkest haze
Wherein few souls escape such palindromic brushings
These, emdedded pigments, of the palinodes days of daze....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Contemporary Art!?
April wood anenomes
Latticed branches high above
Gold pink orange swaying
Crows caw bees hum galore
Distant foxhounds baying
April wood anenomes
Tattooed black line etchings
Charcoal burnings do reek
I sense bluebells waiting
Grass still, under boughs creak
April wood anenomes
Fronded petals caress
Darting the fervid Thrush
Breezes sweet flow coolly
Creation waits; a rush.'
*1) "Tone it down" as much as I possibly can
- There could be children presently attending my rant
And I want them all to ask their folks
To buy my Poetry Book later this year;
So an enraged parent can organize
Synchronized book burnings
In honor of my accomplishments.
That same week (bank holidays notwithstanding)
I'll rerelease my book on vinyl record,
And then someone will have to find Dick Clark
Or we may never appreciate this joke
For the cultural value of "American Bandstand"
- If anyone can find Rod Serling, even better.
I wouldn't willingly lie to someone
Unless I was being paid a relative sum
To relieve my conscience
From the burdensome guilt
Of insulting another stupid audience
With the perfect choice of my own clever words...
...So I might as well be as honest with you
As I would with any of my ex-wives or their children:
I've always believed the "Twilight Zone"
Had far more cultural value...
...Though, it is true:
There was nothing more bizarre on television
Than "American Bandstand"
- Until "Soul Train" came along...
...If it's also true that "Society deserves its criminals"
Then we kinda deserved MTV for all of our troubles...
...How insatiable can peoples thirst
For consumerism possibly be!?
That they'd allow commercialism
To successfully convince them
To sit around their televisions
Watching others dance to a lip syncing band!?
Blinded by the sunshine of reification;
Through the sludgy sleet, rain or snow;
Despite personal hate, peace, love or war
- In the name of any false God
- Dance on you silly fools - Do the Danse Macabre...
*2) Try hard not to forget rule number one
- Like I've already forgotten the second rule.
Social issues affects many people from all walks of life.
A nation of destruction from past to present days from addictions, excess bank fees, church burnings and shootings, Covid 19, human trafficking, famine,, food shortages, childhood traumas, mental illness, no affordable housing, homelessness are the results of causes and effects of social issues beyond one’s control.
This harvest of your quiet eyes,
this moon that blues
and sails dimly seen in the cloud of your gaze,
Lo' fill my troubled heart,
with pleasant sighs,
all too soon tonight.
This fragrance that is lodged
In the shady nest of your breast,
this sound of laughter that resonates,
and floats like the currents of a downstream,
lo' etch upon my troubled soul,
the seven symbols of love,
all too soon tonight.
Tonight, what joy this is,
What ecstasy be filled with burnings ,
What surrender of passion around me this day,
.....I thus open my mouth to sing.
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
In the long shadows of the evening, when the light withdraws into a silent corner of the world,
I extend my hand toward the unknown, a white, cold, and empty hand,
A hand seeking to grasp the fragile meanings of existence,
Which become like violets, delicate, lost in the wind.
Oh, my eyes, your sparks have been extinguished in the darkness,
In the pale light of forgotten memories,
You open bare, without brilliance,
Wondering, what are the jasmines for, what sweet words can they still say?
Suns set over the cold silence of my heart,
Leaves rustle in the wind of memories, candles flicker out,
Harp strings move slowly, crystal dreams cracking,
Arms raised in despair, teeth clenched with lost desire.
The cries of the soul echo in the silence of the night,
And tears flow from veins that have known lost love,
I don’t know, I don’t know what purpose all these feelings serve,
I have burned my forehead on the pyre of unfulfillment, I have burned my innocence in the flames of betrayed hope.
The deepest intimacy, the highest hope,
Everything has turned to ash, my bread is ash, my yields are the wind,
I have burned my soil that once bore life, and I have burned my life-giving water,
And now, what remains for my weary soul?
Yes... these pages,
These empty pages await to weep silently before the universe,
In them, perhaps I could recount the story of my burnings,
In them, perhaps I will find the peace I seek in vain among the stars.
Hearts Of Rusted Iron And Cold Steel
Riding along paths of illusions, glory bound-
Men with steel and fever in hard beating hearts,
Minds driven by deep desires and aching pains
Emotions deeper than anger's greatest depths-
Souls with sharpened sabers in their polished scabbards
Careful in their pride, they nourished goulish intensities
Upon spirited horses, they gallop into hell's darkest dins
With courage of demons loosed by the devil's own hands-
In the force of ages, iron blood rising to claim
At the price of death and hot savage burnings
Rare treasures men seek but can never find.
Should life rest within their grasping claws
They that know only darkness and evil desires
Greedy that nothing slips through their paws!
What of the poor and weak, hiding in modern caves
And the innocent that cry for sweet relief
And homes, peaceful in their decaying cities
And children, eager to live life and learn
And Nature's unending course filled with wonder
And the world's promises of forever tomorrows
Shall fate stand aside to bend to that dark will
Shall wicked deeds serve these gods of lust.
When time and its destruction allow such victories
Hope comes as an illusion of death's rewards
Can mankind, find another path for survival
Or will dark tragedy and loss of all prevail?
Robert J. Lindley, 11-27-2015
Poetry form- Free Verse
Note- Muse this morn informed me that she wanted a change, so get up and write anything but a sonnet....
I sat down and in an angry mood and this flowed out...