Best Cellars Poems
L o v e, a withering star ~
awakened amidst silence
that swirls through the night sky
like fairy lights,
i l l u m i n a t i n g
the maze of midnight
with kaleidoscopic traces
of what once soared…
But in the chasm of loss and agony,
I found the gossamer essence of hope
from the
glass-winged arms of metamorphosis…
Now I breathe you, organza moonlight,
e c l i p s e d by crimson claws
of condescending constellations,
while faith sleeps within the pale husk
of mythical mists,
drinking pomegranate ambrosia,
from the rose-gold horn
of Persephone’s throne,
as black-magic thickets thrive from
the cursed lips of tendrils ~
harvesting pain,
rustling through the vineyard
of violet orchids
amidst this heart that sings of
evergreen springs,
etched with sins and tears
onto catacomb cellars of wickedness…
Listen to your heartbeat,
there, in the mirroring cadence
of soft-spoken rhymes,
I live and reside ~
wandering through the hallways;
an asylum of metaphors
turning wraiths of words
into wisterias,
whirling in the whimsical wind,
a castle of alliterative archives
emanating empathic embers
that burned capricious chords
to carve calligraphic clemency
with Cleopatra’s gold
seized from the Egyptian deserts…
But it is through the
satanic soul of kohl seas
I found the bluest streak of bliss ~
my Felix Culpa,
sprinkling firefly dust from afar ~
I see you, awaiting the return
of butterflies…
For you and I,
we found L o v e,
inhaling poetic promises,
exhaling toxic tercets ~
with syllables of stressed desire,
you showed me rainbows of sage,
taught me the rhythm of truth,
to silence the thunder
that roars in rage
within the fragile psyche of life,
and in your presence,
I loved and learned ~
to curate colors
from
the ethereal
dreamscape of d u s k…
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
War, Evil Beast, Just What The Hell Is It Good For
War the Evil Beast what the Hell is it good for
A calamity brings death and great destruction.
Nation against nation, death and misery scores
Onto mankind all its deep savagery it pours.
A darkened force that wipes away precious life
Destroys our happiness, kills the innocent kids.
Ghastly the power unleashed and tragic strife
In Germany the Jews into dark cellars hid.
War gifts battlefields strewn with the dying and dead
The wailing and gnashing of teeth, wars black reward.
Torn up battle fields were brave men and women bled
Pain and suffering, written about by brave Bards.
O' Lord pray we thy light, wonderful saving grace.
We plead, stop insanity in the human race!
Robert J. Lindley,
Dark Sonnet, April 20th, 1973
age 19
Note-
In my small town there were two young men that tragically died in that war.
sad but Teddy Talley , a nineteen year old, a young man from my hometown died there.
Back then there were thousands of our citizens that cried we shouldn't be there.
I followed milky and mouldy scents,
down cobbled and narrow paths,
only to see it riddled with rats,
feasting on Feta and Camembert,
whilst the wine sipping Uppers prepared to
clash against the cider swigging downers!
The Fromage Frenzy and Curd Craze deli.
across from the Dizzy Duck and the Boastful Bard taverns
had been ransacked with only cracker crumbs on the floor.
All the cheesemongers were hiding in their basements.
All the landlords locked away in their cellars!
Bar stools dripping with Chardonnay and Merlot,
carpets soaked in 'Scrumpy Jack' and 'Strongbow.'
It was utter chaos as the 'cheese shed' raged on...
The goats and the cows watched,
as the town folk gathered on either side.
Anger in their eyes, yelling insults like;
'Cheap cheddar gobblers' and 'stinky Stilton munchers.'
This was not cultural tensions,
nor issues with tariffs, quotas or labelling practises-
this was a war of the social classes!
They were not fighting with fists or weapons,
oh no, no no..
The Downers started squirting stinky cheese sauce,
drenching the Uppers with its reeking stench.
However, when the Uppers started hurling
Storico and Caciocavallo Podolico,
back at the Downers, they simply,
started consuming it with their cider!
Both fractions kept pelting and sprinkling,
until little Joey from the farm,
reminded them the football had started,
so off they plodded to watch the game,
singing and laughing together,
arm in arm, munching on cheese
they had salvaged from their skirmish.
The sun lifts an edge
and peeks a feeble light
beneath a blanket
of morning fog, its dull glow
hugging the horizon,
silhouetting a stand of trees
and the cross-hatched
pattern of a factory fence.
Another day has begun
with its shuffle of trite
miscellanea.
I muster an interest, sending
out my first emissary of thought
to greet the return
of this ancient god, follow the rituals
set to guide my way, bring favor
and bless the little plot
of earth that surrounds my life.
I pray a poem to reap
a continued harvest.
Not much happens now except
down in the cellars of my mind
where I keep the past bottled
like vintage wine. Now and then
I give each a turn to dislodge
the sediment and taste
a sample or two,
clean the labels and try
and remember the details
from those that have fallen off.
Occasionally I bring
a bottle up to share with a friend,
set it upon a table, open
and drink. An insipid autumn sun
is enough to dance reflections
around the rim of my glass,
ease out a tear or a smile,
helping me up to go and get
another. My days now
have matured into simple pleasures
and writing a few lines
to label the bottles cellared
in the quiet reaches of my mind.
Covid spread throughout the kingdom –
the people inside the elite compounds,
if they heard the many sounds of the
ill falling dead, did not seem troubled,
not a single head – besides, it was, for
them a special day, 60th birthday of
their consecrated God and his Queen,
to whom all will homage pay –
Politicians and Hollywood celebs alike
will take numbered turn fawning accolades
at the podium mike. Tables strategically set,
armed security carefully to vet every
privileged guest before passing the Walled
Castle-door, so not to allow Covid
to take flight and soar, spreading deadly
spore through the air – over His Majesty's
Red-carpet-floor...
There are plates with gold trim, not the
painted kind – of Twenty-four Karat as their
goblets of wine, precious silver from royal
chambers, billionaire vaults, brimming over
with champagne from prized cellars, vintage
of all sorts, tribute paid by appeasing, complicit
European Courts, with thousand dollar a-bottle
highly acclaimed ports. There will be classical
music combined with White Shaming Hip Hop Rap –
diamonds and precious other gems abundantly given
for gifts, the nation having been well sapped,
American's Treasury criminally tapped,
for the king and queen's off-road treats – while
theft and murder rages in the commoner's streets –
shortages developing to the point masses of
people will soon have little food to break-bread
and manage – to the ruling devils, simply
collateral damage....
The sky, heavy-laden with curdled black clouds,
Burst wide open, and all night long it rained.
It pitter-pattered on the panes,
And rattling on the slanting roofs.
It churned the dry soil to a pulp,
Overflowed the dusty gutters.
It drove the people from the streets,
And moaned amongst the houses.
'Twas but a fluke, a summer storm
Lightning snaked the sky
Thunder rumbled and crashed
Instilling fear and panic in passers-by.
Soon it abated to a drizzle,
A thin mist shrouded the square.
And as the town clock struck the sixth hour
Ghostly figures ventured forth again.
Yet during all this precipitation
He trudged alone along the streets,
Rain dribbled through his matted hair
And wetted stubble on his dirty face.
It cleansed his external demeanour
From the grime of past lazy days,
It could do nothing to eradicate
The heaviness that filled his inner self.
The air was warm, and strange enough
He felt little discomfort from the rain.
The vault of heavy clouds ascended,
The breeze was gentle and fresh.
He went back to his favourite place,
The bakery shop has not yet opened,
From its cellars hot dry air
Surged up, surrounded by his whole being,
Warming him from the wet chill.
He soaked up the fragrant smell
And yearning for freshly baked bread,
A luxury he could ill afford.
And so he continued on his journey,
Alone, atoning for his past.
Hungry and desolate and chained,
Externally cleansed by the drenching rain
Until the day he'd die.
Line of inquiry
‘Minus Identity Who am I’
‘What a piece of work is a man!’
……… ………
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust’
(Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act II, scene 2)
From Shakespeare, through Hamlet,
It rings down to generations
And falls heavily in my ears too.
In vain, I attempt to probe into the mystery
Nay, the enigma called man,
Both in the silence of my solitude,
And in the learned circle of friends.
(Fool…! Unable to find who you are,
Can you venture to say who the other man is?)
Man is a jumble of contradictions,
I know, a hard nut to crack!
So unfathomable, so mysterious
At once a Satan and an angel
To the outer world I am someone.
But in the well-guarded cellars of my privacy
Aren’t I different?
Hiding my innards to light, as every other man.
Am I not a masked player in life’s pantomime!
I wonder what’s true to my being
And what makes me, the real me.
I see contradictions abound in me
And my personality, like an ocean is volatile,
Sometimes tranquil, sometimes agitated
Placid without waves very often,
But at times roaring with billows crashing!
I am openminded, but hide many secrets.
I am instinctively emotional, but mature.
I am an extrovert and feel happy in company,
But I like to withdraw into loneliness often.
I am mostly thoughtful, but tend to overthink.
I act confident but am diffident at heart.
Though satisfied with what I get,
I tend to crave more for the love people give me.
I am a poet and an artist, feeding on the encouragement I get
And stimulated by internal inspiration.
I am never a nosy parker, but curious about things
That pique my interest, be it of people or of the world.
I am a good listener, but need someone to listen to me.
I am easy to get along with, but get easily flustered.
I am compassionate, adjustable, loyal and humble.
At best I am a child of God, but lets the Satan,
Take over me sometimes when my temper rises.
How often, I wish to change myself
Change some of my characteristic traits
But minus my identity, I fear who I will be?
When the world spins and hail falls
Hardened by the cold from the sky above,
It reaches here below
As we rely on warmth of love
As tornados race, twist and destroy,
Leaving only broken frames behind
We emerge from cellars of darkness,
Searching for hope to find
When earthquakes roar and shake stability,
We reach for something to hold onto
Our prayers get lifted by the wind
Just like the pieces of debris that flew
We are only human, each with limited ability
As we try to understand the call,
When these painful times occur
All we can do is try not to fall
Heidi Sands
5/25/22
Man is a jumble of contradictions,
I know, a hard nut to crack!
So unfathomable, so mysterious-
at once a Satan and an angel.
To the outer world I am someone.
But in the well-guarded cellars of my privacy
aren’t I different~
hiding my innards to light, as every other man?
Am I not a masked player in life’s pantomime?
At times, I feel so proud,
excessively in love with my own image,
like Narcissus, the poor hunter boy
fated by gods to languish
on the bank of a pond,
over his own floating image!
However, with all my strength within,
do I not feel as helpless as Prometheus bound,
waiting for a Hercules to come
and save me from my plight.
If Prometheus’ bondage was God willed,
mine is self- willed…!
Is the difference so very crucial?
Sometimes I feel I am Janus,
looking backward and forward
into my past and my future,
never living in the present.
Or am I more a Sisyphus,
eternally rolling a rock over to the cliff
from where it keeps falling down?
Sometimes I wonder,
amid great splendor, do I not starve
like Tantalus of Greece in the pool,
beneath the tree, with the low- lying branches of fruits
constantly eluding his grasp,
and the water, ever receding before
he could take a drink!
As a poet, how I wish I could
equate myself with Calliope,
carving my mind on the wax tablet
with stylus, my pen and coloring it with my fancy.
Or Orpheus, so skilled in music
that with my sad musings,
I can make even Hades, weep
and the rocks to fall in line!
I shudder to be a Medusa,
turning everyone to a stone
with my sinister glance!
Instead, I want to be one of the Graces
and never one among the Gorgons.
Pitched in this gallery
of strange mythological entities,
I wonder how I appear to others
with all my multiplicities
of character and identity!
Phantom of the Opera
I stand and watch from my box five
And listen to the most beautiful Nightingale
I could stay awake till wee hours of dawn gale
Listening to her melodic voice
Transcendent a soul through a lovely vale
A ring upon her finger I hope one day and feel alive
An Angel of Music
I come and go as I please and no one knows
As I walk the path of the tunnels mongst those
To its lake beneath the Opera Garnier
I know them as well as the construction rose
Mask ball I pretend to be in my everyday life
A voice behind a mask is all people know of that
A man that wears a dress suit, a cloak and a large felt hat
A gentleman wears a mask to hide his deformed face.
She cannot fathom the mystery of the Man’s Voice
The sounds of his voice singing songs coming from the walls
My heart broke turning into jealousy and rage
When Christine said yes to her childhood sweetheart
To say good-by forever and turn the pages
I lose my sleep to sleepless nights it’s her I miss
Venetian mosaics ceiling weakens
Causing the huge ornate crystal chandelier
To crash down upon the floor
Stealing his beloved Christine
To the cellars of the Opera Garnier
Time is running out and you know it well
“It will never be “she says, for you and me”
I just wanted to be like everybody else
And not hide from man’s eyes
The Monster I am
11/23/2016
Resource;
https://seeksghosts.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-phantom-of-opera-fact-or-fiction.html
https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/l/leroux/gaston/phantom-of-the-opera/complete.html
Beirut.
You’ve always been the life of the party.
I’ve seen the sun smile at you,
on Saturday mornings.
As your women
hung over and wrecked
with Jesus crosses on their necks
waltz through streets
trying to find a ride back home.
Your green wooden window panes,
always left open.
Always left waiting.
A sign of hope.
As if something holy
or someone with a red cape on
would come
and save you.
I see it
I feel it
The pain
The terror
I see the bullets
That have pierced through your walls
Left you with nothing
Your anarchists
Your extremists
Your people
Your children
Are all fighting
Over a hit
of the fix you gave them.
Oh Beirut,
what have they done?
I see the clouds of smoke rising
I see your people left bare
with secrets to strip off
and hang on the laundry ropes
that fill your skies
The writings on your walls say it all.
You’ve lost your soul
You’ve lost your spark
Corruption
Destruction
You made the rules
and then asked us to break them.
I’m not sure who to blame.
Them,
Or you.
You left me high and dry-
Lost in the alleys of your dark streets
I didn’t know who to blame.
So I asked around, Beirut.
I asked the men on motorcycles
who snatch purses from old women.
I asked your nine year old
gypsy beggars.
I asked your officers
and the teenagers in cellars,
who in another world could’ve been heroes or poets.
I asked your university students,
but they were too stoned to comprehend my questions.
High on a drug of complacency
High on a drug of nonchalance
High on a drug of compromise.
So
Numb
Numb
Numb
I asked your gods.
Your middle-men.
The pictures on the walls
of your many leaders.
I asked your fathers
Your rapists
Your artists
Your lawyers
Your educators
I even asked the old man pushing a cart of oranges in Hamra.
But nothing was to be found…
Not even a tad of sanity…
Not even a sense of security
You couldn’t give me that, could you?
Oh Beirut.
You’ve always been the life of the party.
But I’ve seen them frown at you,
when dawn breaks and you walk out on them
hung over and wrecked
with a cross around your neck
walking over shattered beer bottles…
trying to find a ride back home.
Fragile mirrors slice darkened cellars
bead by bead, she whispers a prayer;
thorns of farewell clasp her heart ,raking
as twilight closes fading lamps, bare.
Although a tight knot of vein weakens,
chafed hard... memoirs leave a tender spot
a warmer throb, a much closer touch ;
when cold love flown still matters a lot.
Now runes of time's destiny appeal
for one chance...his lies so wide and deep;
that mate's peach roses arrive, quite late,
as moon drones softly so eyes can sleep.
If ever, sleep will cave her trembles
allowing time to heal...in breath's delight
her new hours can greet scented flowers,
to sprout fresh blossoms, to wake a night.
Sheri F. Harper's Rock Me Around the Clock
or Rock Me to Sleep--Rhythm Poems
by nette onclaud...1/6/2015
Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry_contests/
The Escape from the Turkish Slavery
(Ukrainian historic folk song)
There broke into the Tartar sprites,
And they captured my daughter, nice,
Marusyna, my daughter, dear,
I remained with one son in fear.
And there came others- my son was enslaved,
And a widow, a poor orphan, I remained.
The third time, they took me too, an old soul...
... a Turk took me to the service,
I began to toil and slave
Serving the foe every day.
The daughter didn’t recognize her nurse
Having given her the works, the worst:
With the hands- to spin the yarn, fine,
With the little feet- to lull the child,
To watch the flock- with the eyes…
They found themselves in one place
All three meeting face to face.
When the daughter was recognized by the mother
And, when also confessed the brother…
They were united with one another.
Then the daughter began to tell the Turk,
That's my brother, this is my mother,
Then, the Turk began to trust them.
He entrusted them with all his goods.
They did everything, not to delude
Thinking, dreaming of their home.
When the Turk and daughter were going to the ball,
They handed the keys from the houses, all;
The son and the mother were taking the golden keys,
The souls of the slaves from the cellars to release,
Saddling the horses to start their way
To travel back home again.
Oh they were crossing the Danube, Dunahj,
The Turks, low-natured, were on a catch-ride.
On the other bank, they shouted:
"Oh Ivan, Ivan!
You know and you know,
And take the infusion of wormwood,
And, you will know even better for good! "
Chieftain Ivan Korsun began to narrate:
"I crossed the Danube River -
Denied the enemy forever! "
(Translation from Ukrainian into English by Ivan Petryshyn)
The Escape from the Turkish Slavery
Harvest Bounty
Season of harvest, horn of plenty;
Tiller of soil reaping the fields:
Grains and legumes, hay and vegetables,
Fruits and plants, and gourd family genuses;
Filling silos, barns, pantries, and cellars.
Grapes abound, on vines climbing trellises,
And plump, red tomatoes dangle from stakes,
While apples grapple to keep from falling,
And livestock fatten on pastoral grasses.
Reaper of fields to feed the many.
Crops quenched by rains and meandering streams
Are ripened under the inexhaustible sun
And spring forth produce abundance in season.
Cornucopia spilling over with autumn goodness.