Best Channelled Poems
Living in a realm where
the air seems to
be still as stone,
invisible, like a
ghost of a rose,
translucent and frozen in
time of ruthless seconds.
My heart still
keeps pacing to
hear the flickering
rays of your voice,
flatlined and hushed
beyond reach,
whilst I’m here
searching for
serenity through
sanguine serenades,
woven meticulously
to my soul,
in unwavering waves from
thousand seas away.
What can I do to make you
love me like I love you,
must I steal the stars
from its rightful skies,
just so that I can
please your eyes?
Or should I hide behind these
rhymeless phrases,
where veiled vowels
and nonchalant nouns
within poetic punctuations
pierce through
this bleeding quill?
Would it seem like these
tunes have been tortured
together to descend and
tangle with tainted thorns?
Tormented traps tied
from an invincible inferno.
But aren’t we breathing
within binary
codes constantly?
surfing through the
zigzags of repetitive
numbers and
acrobatic alphabets,
vaporized amongst
empty spaces where
the universe unfolds
parallel paradigms.
Losing human connection
in the deafening silence,
while channelled tunnels
carry wires through
unassigned boards,
falling on our
intellectual swords,
fingers tap against
the cold keys,
unable to feel the
warmth behind words-
misunderstood and
misinterpreted as
mountains eclipse the sun.
So let me grieve over
the unsung sonnets;
maybe one-day I’ll meet my moon
in a sphere of immutable melodies—
forever calming these chaotic calligraphies.
In English we say, I am hurting,
but in poetry we say ~
I am windswept wave
weeping weathered roses
upon the haunting heart of drowsy dunes,
kissed by the mineralized melancholy
of wounded wadis,
for love forgot the fated flow,
nevermore feeling the forlorn skin
of b l e e d i n g ink…
I seize the scorpion crushed weight
of crestfallen crystals,
once voiced
through painless passion.
Devouring the distress
cutting through lips splitting,
I taste nothingness
amidst raining ruby-winged butterflies,
mirroring the bruise
burning in sync with extreme dolor…
O beloved, would you still recognize
the rippling riddles of soul’s river,
or has distance
dried the wild-lilies
dressed in dramatic scents
of dangerous devotion,
like the syllables I spilled
between the spaces that
held the poetry we once breathed?
Would you still hear the
undreamed chimeras ~
chapters channelled
now choking the reveries
I home in morbid muteness,
or has the nerving nadir
jinxed the sparks of Jupiter ablaze,
numbing ringed-jewels of strength
we once believed faithfully
would
never phase
nor decay…
I wonder if your skies serenade
soft blue soliloquies ~
sunrise soaked in honeysuckle hymns.
Do they drizzle
densely designed darkness
draped in dissonance,
or do you find comfort
in painting me with solemn ashes
as the black-fanged Empusa ~
one that inflicted
nothing but misery,
injected like liquid lethal lament
that suffocated
the arteries of midnight?
2:22 ~ angel omen ~
do with this what you will,
I overwrite to outrun the emotions,
refusing to be overtaken
by disillusionment.
I speak not to lure the stars across
your cerulean seclusion,
but to heal as I seal the envelope
of unanswered thoughts,
wishing the pulse of p a t i e n c e
would no longer
push and pull the string
of my weakness
like ice-hot estuaries
rushing against the ache of want...
O detached desires,
forgive my need to release.
I am not restless,
I am not reactionary,
I am merely reminiscing in resilience,
to rise again
as the seamstress
of scarless sonnets….
Once upon a long time,
The silence blanketed my world
Like snow covering an arctic forest.
The nooks and crannies of my days
Were filled with the wispy webs of quietude
Worked by whispering limbs
Mine was a vast tundra
Of silence
Across which great unheard herds
Of thoughts could roam
Freely, gambol and graze
Encountering nothing to disturb them
Rivulets of words
Gathered and trickled
Over the schisty shingles
Of my mind
Eons passed
But one cold, silent, snow flaked January morning
A pioneer strode manfully, meaningfully
Into my wilderness without warning.
Falling in love with all that he saw
He began to sharpen his axe.
Now the hordes of herds have all but disappeared
And the rivulets have been dammed and channelled
Into a thousand subterranean pipes
And there is TV and MTV and DVD and MP3
And my world
Is rich with sound.
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
Remember when the ink, a writer’s tat, like a cobra spiralling ‘round fingers and arms, wielded power. Splotches, balled up, thrown into the basket hoop, flooding the creative canal. Ideas danced like mad flames, charming, rhyming, flipping, flopping, finally happy, no crossing out, neverending editing, feathers flapping, inkwell splattering, until the words must be kept.
Eyes the color of dawn, never set. The romance never kept. Captivated by the sea, trees, and wolves. Hair like a cape ‘round the shoulders, as the cold swirls about, as the fire almost goes out. Only then does the poet gather her skirts and wood, and nibble a biscuit, pour herself into bed.
Her dreams and nightmares will be channelled into tomorrow’s inkwell. She lives inside a warm womb, in a butterfly's cocoon, in a bear’s hibernation cave. She spins fairytale gold.
Well it doesn't really matter, if you have riches or you’re poor,
When you get that bellyache, you know you’ll be heading for,
That little house way down the back, where the comforts made for you,
So you can sit and read the paper, when there’s a job to do.
It doesn't really matter, if you eat ‘cray’ or caviar,
Or if you’ve downed a pie with chips; they travel just as far.
After your belly has been filled, then you must get rid of it,
And that's when the likes of me and 'Rusty', do our little bit.
You see we are night workers on a truck that pulls a tray,
The job we’re being paid to do, is to take your waste away.
So while you're sleeping soundly, to your 'little house' we go,
Come every week on Friday, to prevent an overflow.
Most roads in our little town are channelled, tarred and curbed,
So the drive is smooth and even and no spillage's occurred.
There was one road though unsealed, it is pot holed, windy, rough,
With two houses at the dead end, where two pans were quite enough.
One rainy morning we decided on, the easy first that day,
That left us two spots yet to fill, that would complete our tray,
And the rain had stopped so ‘Rusty’, before finishing our load,
Hung his coat outside the cabin, prior to the unsealed road.
Leaning here and lurching there, 'Rusty', turned ‘round and looked behind,
Letting out a gasp of horror, so I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“My coat” he said “It’s in a can, pull up the truck, quick stop it!”
Rusty didn’t care about his coat, but his lunch is in the pocket.
Thumbs Up To The Journey
At the footbridge as it bridges past from present future and perspectives your
feet might be-come and may be-go confused be-fuddled as can your mind before
the shadows rainbows feathered fancy pastel tunes and blues-bound colours
can memories anticipation taking-stock ooze pots and lots of lived experience
re-scribed re-told rewound projected narrated from emotive thoughts
stand still
At the bridge as it cradles the canyon with ladles and measures of the moment
where it spans what once was what you enrich in here and now not there and then the sweeping meadows fields of harvest schisms unions paradigms evaluations can treasures scary scars letting-go liberate scents and stents of living fragrance perceived untold configured touched upon stocked up condensed
reflected wait
The past is yet to come and not withstanding what bridge which side what size
and whence long gone remembrance spins and spans and slows and speeds the motion the sunrise dusk and dawning tapestry mosaic photographic lens sensations can truth reality attitudes and imperfections find soul and solace shared solitude re-modelled shaped anew confronted soothed harmonised
accentuated rise
The future has arrived and has been long projected and the past is living on
where they settle and sizzle on in ember’s glory and ashes to ashes and Phoenix in flight when horizons and boxes un-boxed wriggling worms preceding grave graves can joy pleasure senses and sexes passion peace human works of art in progress accepted invited challenged unchallenged channelled welcomed
gratitude prevail
At the foot-bridge at the mind-bridge where it bridges cradles sweeps your meaning brushes and jungles juggles and wonders which hand’s intuition which path to follow lie the answers to the questions asked lie the questions known and
not yet explored
24th July 2016
Scented ember a moulted smoulder
Skied as crackling softness
Spied and felt thru a film of dexterity
Uncalibrated, solvent, translucid
Trance and dance
Street fleet, guttering inhabited by creased indoctrination
Yet to be ironed
Yet to be pressed and left on the stoop
Cornered like bluefin, fed, foddered and canned
'Til the ink runs dry
Dust, seen but not sawn
Settles on my pine needles
Green hue askew now turns to blue
Appointed to the disjointed and as hard edges glint
Drones trudge thru sludge to fund the mints
(I know these words are bare, and that this poetry is bleak but it's channelled from a source which I seek.
A clear blue nectarous swivelling blissmist.)
Wow well that's clever. I mean really really intelligent. Must have done all the research well. And drawn exact plans as to not make any errors. Roaring fires sit down in an ice bucket whilst wild seas are placed in shot glasses. Wow. How rather remarkable. What a notion. Ideal isn't it? And squashing the elephant into a child's bathing suit and that mammoth into a negligée meant for a petite lady frame. And as for the wild rampaging rivers well they are meant to be channelled into one centimetre alleyways built with cardboard cut-outs. Dugouts are neither pull outs nor are they pop up books. And bookshops selling their hardbacks with cushions for pages and covers of corrosive substances. Hardly hardy and built to last are they? Which causes the pavements and other concrete areas to crack resembling an old man's face then weep like a memory of childhood dreams. Landscapes link lines and lines frown. And frowning is not a frolicking fauna nor fawn and a dawn would always say hello to the tops of the trees first. Backwards belonging being beforetime bringing basting battling bullfrogs being birthday babies. And a naivety is a navel in a crested guild sitting on the top of a carved antique cane then tip tap down the little streets of old intertwining with the modernity of fashionable shops, markets and bistro bars. Late night stink. Burping. Rather a percentage than a percent sign then. And numbers drawn on a scarf is a scar on a material that was a one off item never to be sold in replicas on shelves. So stick a pin to hold the water of sinks and baths for this is often better than using plugs. Put all plugs away. They are no longer to be used and are now banned in most countries. Pickup puck picked puck pucks picking prickling prickle pickles. Running. In formations on a shelf. And a dive bomber went zoom down the stairs in a five centimetre breeze block house with several rooms saying oh. Z multinationalism multicoloured disco pants and ballet shoes. Turning. Z Socialization Z at thirty-three garden gnomes catching six fish in a snowstorm. And a savoury dip in a kilt dancing with a cracker in a hexagonal hat. Hahaha xx xx xx Z
To Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau
Do you remember Sade?
Do you remember yesterday we flew kite
at the cloudy street of Ibadan?
Do you remember how I channelled your
thought to those boys who went and never
return home with their beds of happiness.
Do you remember Sade and Kemjy?
Those you said that have steps to every beat,
Not in this season shall a lizard grow hair.
You said Kemjy's body was a dream and
Sade' was a song to the nightingales at night.
Do you remember those pictures of Ibadan we took?
You were having no front teeth and your
Mother said you sold them for a seed of groundnut.
I was able to slide into your thought at dawn,
Do you still remember the meatless meal we ate
together at the feast of breasting lunch.
Those were our dreams to build a home,
those were our hope to hope for a home;
a home to call a home not a forest of sins.
Do you remember the poem you wrote to Kemjy?
Do you remember asking Sade of her Oriki?
Do you remember breaking her waist beads?
She was a laughter in your lips,
you were a singer at her door.
Of a lighter smile, how is Ibadan now?
those mould houses we built, are they still there?
Children and wife,nko?
Never knew that Kemjy will carry your generation!
Take a chill pill
reply quick before you peel,
those ripples of fate is still here
drowning in my longing thought of us.
© John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration
Leaf
It wasn’t the time to leave,
but stem chewed and gale combined and the leaf fell.
Hairstreak, full green not yet ready,
not curled by summer’s end, crisped by West Coast salt, mottled by frost or holed by Sawfly.
Shadow dancing the lake.
Tumbling, a fairground shuggy, a mother’s touch rest onto the blackness.
The magnetic water pull.
The long float.
Damselfly platform.
Captured on lava foreshore whipped by the fell breath channelled down ice ravaged ghyll.
Purpose complete.
Its forgetful host fed, post prandial.
Unburdened.
Awaiting the awakening.
Trapped inside a spiders web...
a rainbow found its' colours...
basking under a star one night...
the riches were discovered...
...A gift was shared...
...the good heart mirrored...
...channelled thoughts, feelings,
to the world share...
...seek we find the answers...
...we just don't know it yet...
...recollection sometimes waivers...
...our feelings all agree...
...and the moment we decide...
...is the moment we believe...
Ipsofacto of { Fear
Call yourself Christian
Call yourself Human
Call yourself Mohammedans
Say you are Sufi
Say you are Wicca
Say you are Krishna Marti
Be nailed to suffering
The message of Buddhism
Find eternity in the Dao
Live for the moment
Escape in doctrine
Define yourself by dogma
Have faith in a word
Faith in “I AM ”
Faith in the Vibration “AUM ”
Look to heaven
Look to hell
Look to the bottom of a wishing well
Believe in Nothing
Believe in Everything
Believe in Now
Be channelled by writing
And crystal healing
Find power by lay line divining
Pray to God
Pray to Christ
Pray to Lucifer
Read the Tarot
Read the I Ching
Read the “Seven rings of Bushido”
Draw on the eclectic
Draw on the Mystic
Draw on Theology
Think of death
Think of life
Think of death
See this Planet
See the Stars
See billions of Galaxies
Tiny Earth
Tiny mind
Tiny worlds
Explain a smile
Explain a tear
Explain all this with some originality
Why of life
Why of death
Why are we here
Or
Ipsofacto of fear
When the British borrowed the Blues
from their American cousins
enhanced the genre, reshaped it cried it
the whole world took notice.
The Sixties a generation born
within the conflict of the second world war
endured the aftermath,
city after city, town after town
with avenues of bombed shells of what were buildings,
rubble once an entity of one’s
relatives now reduced to a sanctuary of
wandering ghosts.
With every day commodities diminishing
the daily grind of queuing soon becoming
a national necessity,
this proud land now a realm of the
ration book, to signify a place of not so plenty
a coupon for this, a coupon for that.
While one’s pride channelled into the rebuilding
a populous scarred, physically mentally
took solace when their children broke out
and eulogize in the glory of
‘The Blues’
© Harry J Horsman 2011
A howling gale is roaring through,
Southwesterly, she grew and grew.
From balmy airs and clear blue skies,
She gathered herself for our demise.
Overnight she gathered her tremendous force,
and channelled herself on her headlong course.
There's no escape from her raging whine,
as she howls and screams up our coastline.
Ships heave - to in the lee of the land,
while birds hide deep in the timberland.
They know there's little they can do,
until she blows herself out and passes through.
Meanwhile trees crack with horrendous noise,
the torn off limbs are brutalised.
They fill the streets and cause distress,
hampering motorists in their progress.
Tomorrow she'll be gone, like another bad dream,
leaving heads to shake, as folk start to clean.
Reflecting how it could be worse,
their optimism not quite dispersed.