Best Capsuled Poems
I opened up the daily yesterday
and turned to the obituary page.
A friend of mine looked back at me from there.
He'd died at ninety years and one of age.
I cried out with surprise and wondering.
How can this world survive if he is gone?
Capsuled was his life in a few columns.
"How can this be?" I ask, as I read on.
He'd lived his whole life in this small valley,
except when he was stationed in Japan,
during oft forgot war of Korea,
in battles never mentioned by the man.
We met when we worked at the county fair.
He was the manager and I a clerk.
He always treated me as his equal
and complimented me on my fine work.
Until retirement he was a banker
and in that role met everyone in town.
Without good reason none were sent away
and there were very few that he turned down.
For seventy-five years a Grange member
and served that time in all capacities.
An usher in his church for forty years,
he lived his life the loving Lord to please.
He even owned a small menagerie
and welcomed throngs of children to his place.
I know that God will have big jobs for him
as he arrives with smile upon his face.
Iambic Pentameter
Seeds are nature's progeny en-capsuled.
Life's germ in suspended animation,
Awaiting the trigger to grow, scheduled
By warmth, rain, season to spark gestation.
Tiny seed has script to create tall trees
Using DNA code coiled in germ cells.
Shoots sent skyward, roots down, through the soil squeeze
To play out the process, the code foretells.
Seeds stored for decades remain viable
Kept in seed banks to save diversity,
When tree survival unreliable
Through habitat, climate adversity.
Seed banks are time capsule stores, that sustain
Old species, with chance to spring up again.
The emotions of my soul remain
in memories capsuled in time
From that very first moment
on a pure-white winter's day
A fallen stardust scattered
from birth-silk sky upon
moon-kissed shores
Showering peasant nights
and hope-filled dreams
with a heart holding manna
so supple and clean.
Destiny drew her a map to
forgotten footprints in the sand
where campfires kept
cold fingers and hearts warm
That's where she sparkled
That's where she shined
drifting ever deeper
in the recesses of my mind
Lost eyes and souls
ever faithfully entranced
love finally finding
a home to rest.
Futures were written along-side
a crimson half-moon glow
in an infinite indigenous sky
Producing a forever paradise
flowing like the finest of wines
until the last precious drop
of indelible ink runs dry
In an old briefcase
capsuled for years in a corner
of the shed, I found a rolled up wad
of poems, stalled, still looking
for something to say, frozen
in a futile gasp for air.
I should have thrown
them away.
There was also an old plane ticket,
a beer coaster from an Antwerp cafe,
and a few photographs taken
from a bridge across a canal
in Bruges with three nuns wearing
starched white cornettes
stretched out like enormous
butterfly wings perched atop
of their heads.
And tucked in a side pocket,
were letters from my mother
written more than thirty years ago.
Long dead, I could almost hear
her voice read each word.
In one, she told me how
she scored an A for English
in the HSC exam she sat
when well into her sixties.
She could recite Frost's "Birches"
off the top of her head. Stevens,
for her, made no sense. Mum liked
plain language pared down
to bone.
I am not sure why I am writing
these words about such
middling matters, much less trying
to shape them into poetry.
No matter.
Sometimes just ordinary things,
like those found in an old briefcase,
seem to find a moment
to have something to say,
at least for me.
Rhapsody of rainbow morphs to morose mélange
Bleeding colors bleached from the twilight cloud
Rainstorm daubs as blemish on the broken heart
The shades of grey paint the frayed linen of love.
Requiem of roses resonates in melancholic medley
Petals pine for dripping tear drops of mourning dew
Desiccate in somber sunshine in the deserted mind
Fallen flowers make bouquet for deceased passion.
Cacophony capsuled in the cauldron of mute melody
Chaotic symphony dismantles on the discord waves
Strained smiles sneer the scarred scenario of lone life
Songs turn to convoluted noise echoed by the soul.
The lattice of life seen through the languid cynic lens
Magnifies into crooked contortion of distorted essence.
"The Elemental’s Confession as a Peace Offering"
In the moment I lost my head
my hands tied without voice
I wasn’t crucified
I was looking for some kind of
release from the solitary confines
of a confessional habit that was
reclaiming an unknown peace
bare legged, yet not running
with the violins soaring
in a sore heart
I was elemental,
some unknown mysterious being
suspended inanimate
in shades of dark amber
immaculate, impaired and too late
crackling through the cameo potentate
black capsuled and swallowed by bitter smiles
with my precious time drowned
in captured glass, scrying,
peeling back all the layers
a confession waiting
unholy and holy
escaping a small mind
metronomed and pulse
throbbing towards you
telepathically,
my sonar to this day, bleeds forth
encircling your heart
it is where I worship
it is my church
bleeding tired heart beats
like a cathedral organ
pipes smoking, a tortured phantom’s hymn
of an unending time it would seem, within
the brutish Bardo, Vulgate immersed
mind staked in the fire, still,
passionate and burning
disconsolate
restlessly waiting
for your confession
to me,
that never came
to finally be opened
to finally be set free
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"I burned your picture last night
just to see you move.
smoke illuminating
from those flashing signs"
1. Habit
2. Confession
3. Bardo
4. Vulgate
5. Elemental
6. Potentate
7. Immaculate, impaired
Actually, I do not know why I write a poem
I started at a very early age and continued,
When I was very young, I loved to show-em
In adolescence I wrote when in a grim mood.
Discovering love, poems became rather natural
My output of sonnets was somewhat prolific,
As time passed, writing became an essential
Some of my poems were bad, others terrific.
During the middle years, I wrote less poetry
Experimenting with short stories and novel
I quickly returned to writing them vigorously
In retirement, in my little 1950’s brick hovel.
I write because I cannot not write, you see,
From an early age I learned to express myself
Then came the time when many were in print;
Best of all, I saw my chapbooks on the shelf.
Writing poems is a way to express who I am
Capsuled portraits of the way my mind works
Someday I’m certain no one will give a damn
But, writing poems is one of my finest quirks!
Written August 27, 2022
Submitted to “I Write Because” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
See me fast, feel me low, watch me strike
as I feel myself bottom blend slow into an aqeous blood slumber
silk circulating all rotten terms as I fornunicate
the manicial social countermeasures I must employ
each day here on this Earth to stay unstillborn;vertical,
co-conscious and ever present, I juxtapose
this side of a recognizable happenstance glance of being human.
A brain beacon of contorted body contours and ugly compromises
compels my aimless, shiftless and pointless body careens
into a coincidental Metamorphisis of battle with all elements that
ever-lastingly surround my supposed derivative surveillance
ultimately leading to the judgement. None that of which I know.
I think, therefore I am? Do I even exist in this moment? am I a mistake?
Someone with a mindmeld accurate hold of our place in infinity once said these words. Am I Somebody?Anybody?Nobody?
In my destination of holy conscious efforts in entertaining my fellow "sap"-iens; in negating their intrepid wrongness of their lifelong exposure
to individual ineptiness,
their PC psycho social stupidity, bending over to all of the "socialized ****-ities' that have been sorely intro-forced upon us through corporeal/parental punishment, and other sick f--k activities for infantile/racial/sexual/religious, and all other time capsuled compliances that keep us all under intelligent.
I hereby label you as incompetents and Scumrags of the first order.
Hopefully our evolution to greater beings, worthy of an exaltation, with the sanc-tity of our planet's life in the forefront of eternity, we will endure.
You know who you are and what, to others, you have done. In the name of what?? Why? How come? Regrets? N/A.
In order for me to even look your way, I will need a viable Resume/Vita and Character references from you. I can then determine your "species" and favorability for open discussion. If u see me hitching, run me over, please.
Ugly people
We living in a world with a hole in it
We living life ugly
But we make the world go round
Would you think I was hopeless
If I led you astray with a song
Whom else are you willing to cope with
I’ve gone missing within your arms
The future
It won’t be here to grace your face
And tomorrow just won’t take you in
Don’t you love your poets
Writers from within your storm
Tenderly, I’ve grown so cold
That my days no longer keep me warm
Capsuled in a city of dreary moments
And I’m hearing there’s more a coming
As indecent as a man who knows not to feel
Searching for a wagon wheel
Up from midnight and on until
Why don’t you sing with me
See how much time we can kill
We’re just ugly people
Living in a world with a hole in it
Don’t you love this ugly person
I don’t do much at all
Just doing my part, living life ugly
But I make the world go round
“It’s lovely isn’t it
Ugly people,
We’re beautiful aren’t we”
The music of my youth: a capsuled find,
a dusty box of discs, a time machine.
A foolish younger self and I convene,
camped in a cobwebbed corner to unwind
the lilting, haunting tunes which fresh remind
that pastures parched and brown have turned to green.
The music of my youth…
Though they reveal the depths to which I, blind
and lonely, stumbled in despair unseen,
littered there were small hopeful bits to glean,
and so I think that I'll not leave behind
the music of my youth.
----------
A Rondine: (Ra)bbaabR/abbaR
Rhapsody of rainbow
morphs melted
into morose mélange,
scattered in sullen sky.
Bleeding colors bleached
from twilight cloud
ruinous rainstorm daubs
as derelict blemish
on abandoned shards
of broken heart.
Shades of blue
permeate pining
frayed linen
of lost love.
Requiem of roses
resonates profound
in melancholic concerto.
Drooping petals languish
for dripping tear drops
of mourning dew,
desiccating dismayed
in somber sunshine
in deserted mind,
where for bracing
cold desolate stone
fallen flowers
make bouquet
for deceased passion.
Cacophony capsuled
in suffusing cauldron
of mute melody,
lost in tempestuous sea
of incongruent tune,
chaotic symphony
dismantles harmony
on discordant waves.
Synthetic smiles sneer
scarred scenario
of lonesome life.
Sanguine songs turn
to convoluted noise,
echoing in solemn soul.
Lattice of life
seen through
languid cynic lens
magnifies mystified
into crooked contortion
of eschewed essence.
Meanwhile at the Temple of Doom,
the hearts of the "resistance",
are burning everence
in "Human Resonance Frequency",
somewhat
resonating resonance residence,
but not enough- igniting our own severance.
So in the depths of our longest night,
where thespian shadows cloak the moon,
I wander through corridors of my visible mind,
seeking riddles to confounded words,
towards that which will catharsis bloom
if I shut my eyes just right.
Within the untamed wild,
"Sad Wings of Destiny"
where emotions run deep,
in a time capsuled sarcophany.
I paint pictures with my scrabble pen,
hoping beauty jar- sealed lid-
canopic o-o parts will forever keep hid, till eden.
From the Alien characters deodorized
from creatic period malignancy
deed.
The New Age of Aquarius did us no favors
but of bearing their bitter wormwood waters.
Their pact in the Vesicle of Pisces.
The Sylphstream
painting hues of our desalination of populace.
But amidst the melanfolly,
there lies a glimmer of light,
a flicker of hope in the darkness,
that fuels the foliage
of heart with it's beam,
like a hope that spreads majestic wings,
a tapestry of righteousness,
garden of cornucopia- unity brings.
But fragile petals float on your velvet breeze,
revealing secrets
not lost in the minotauric memory.
A fairytale, like "Beauty and the Beast".
Sunset blueprints a citrine caress
of stalwart things,
to my state of disrepair,
as the "mandrake screams".
For in the little bands of unity we create,
in amethyst spaces of cultivate races
and unrecognized homeless faces.
We become cutlets on a plate-
presenting ourself naked oblate,
where emotions find their place to address their undressing Sunday best of show time to
~Contemplate~
When the word flows freely,
like blood leading to the heart
for prayer's power lies in its ability,
to touch us apart from the World,
but not to forget the least of them in part or participle.
The green hills are drinking
the clouds,
keep pouring out
the scented breath.
In capsuled hour the wind was its own rival.
A slant on confessional suicide:
the charm obliterates the solitude.
A gray shower of thoughts outside the window,
I forget, I remember in coyness
my sparks are humming.
The plundered land
by advancing columns of hunger
tosses around the dead lips of tropical
hues.
The fear demands learning,
finding the uninvited death
in the manipulated existence.
SATISH VERMA
Seems as though the eternal
Sands of time
Have seized to call my name.
Since whispers have halted
And bells have rung
The clock have malfunctioned.
I wake to the dream and
Live at once with
Time not of the essence.
Barred no longer within
A cell in a cell
And capsuled nearly free.
I cannot wait till the
Disolving phase of this
Sponge like pill
Begins to take it's toll.
To smell the fresh bloomed flower
within this tangled mess
of what was once a garden lush
thriving on happiness
I'd have to chop through brambles deep
that reach out to snarl and scratch
Crawl over dry weeds and choking vines
to reveal a life detached
Is it worth the emotion and pain
to witness the scent of beauty
Should I not stay within my capsuled world
where "artificial" rules absolutely