Best Congeals Poems
It hovers here, a moon opaque,
obscuring mountain trails I take.
No other living things appear.
A moon opaque. . . It hovers here.
I follow on along a ledge;
below a swirling river’s edge.
In front of me, the canyon’s yawn.
Along a ledge, I follow on.
I see no hue when fog congeals.
Oh, doom of one who no more feels!
The moon has fled, as so have you.
When fog congeals, I see no hue.
Now all is dim; it matters not.
My dear one’s heart I have not got.
No use in living without him.
It matters not. Now all is dim.
At peace I’ll be if I should fall
to murky water from this wall.
Oh, yawning canyon, swallow me.
If I should fall, at peace I’ll be.
In desert that is poor and dull
On soil that is scorched with fire
The Upas-tree stands as a hull
as guard who's one who knows no tire.
The prairie's nature had a thirst
begetting Him in day of fury,
It filled dead green of branches first,
It poisoned roots these give no curing.
The poison flows through pale bark,
Noon smelts with heat His poisoned dripping,
The Eve congeals Him like a mark
as limpid pitch on trunk - He's sleeping.
There are no birds to fly to Him,
No tiger walks to tree, just swirl
embraces tree of death with scream
and runs away with toxic evil.
And if the cloud will irrigate
His ancient leaves and pause its motion,
Its fallen rain flows down as fate
along the branches like deadly potion.
But crafty man had sent a man
to Upas-tree with glance of power
And man had walked according a plan,
He brought the bane in morning hour.
He brought the bane - the deadly pitch
And branch with faded leaves of Oro
And sweat ran down the brow and bleached
it with cold streams in silent sorrow.
He brought. He's weak, he has laid down
under the arch of the tent on flooring,
The slave has died in feet of crown
that knows no loss that knows no longing.
The Lord fed arrows with this bane,
They are obedient to his power,
He sends the death, he sends the pain
to neighbors in decisive hour.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Alexander Pushkin
When I cannot tell you how I feel
When I want to see you ,not to speak,
I talk about the weather like a fool
Sometimes when I’m tired I feel unreal
Or life seems lost and meaning seems to leak
Then I can not tell you how I feel.
Some months have their winds to make misrule
Winds to throttle throats and freeze the cheeks
I talk about the weather ,as its cool.
We must keep moving or our blood congeals
So sheep must on moorland frosty, bleak
I don’t want to lie for life is real
When winter mocks our age I find it cruel
Yet you are old and for amusement look
I talk about the sunshine like a fool
Oh,happy snowfalls keeping us from school
As on the ice we tumbled with loud shrieks
When I cannor tell you how I feel
The weather stands for what I have concealed
In twenty years , I'm sure I shall not be.
Were I to tell my age you would agree.
And if by some small chance I'm still alive,
The curious and hopeful would arrive
At my front door in droves to question me
Or to just to gawk and try their best to see
This wonder of the world who has lived long
And now is subject of both word and song.
A stranger in strange land and all alone,
The very thought congeals me to the bone.
Twenty years from now the world won't miss me.
Or the striving, breathing wonder I would be.
I know the good Lord will not make me stay,
When all whom I have known, have gone away.
April 25. 2017
Rainter! O my Rainter! What are you, Rainter?
Are you a new season tinted by holy painter?
Rain is falling hard even in this freezing winter,
Everywhere disgust roams like a lonely hunter.
The winter rain congeals brains, soaks hearts,
With its two ice-cold hands and crying eyes.
Nature is camouflaging itself in several parts
To display how changing carpet of Time flies.
Rainter, a fragment of Nature’s jumbled play,
Is nothing but a cyclic blend of its crude tools.
Some would sense it exciting, others may say
“Rainter, thou art disgusting except to the fools”
I should have ignored the golden deacon
Promising smiles and freedom from hunger
Said ‘No’ to egg sandwiches and bacon
Delicious smell on fingers does linger
The perfect salty, crispy golden fries
With preservatives, chemicals galore
Cannot cook like them in a million tries
Kids don’t like home cooked flavor anymore.
Charming kids with boxes of happy meals
Filing tummies with empty calories
Doling out food that tricks, harms and congeals
I have no words for their wicked glory
“Should’ve said no”, I reflect with sadness
As kids drag me under hills of madness.
Written 05/18/2016
A poem about our addiction to McDonalds and other fast food restaurants
He slowly sips every drop whilst he dissects the morning news
Coagulating cream congeals in his china cup
Coffee coloured rings form with every sip
If the cup was a tree I could tell its age
Written from observing a local man in our local coffee shop
He sits for hours reading the newspaper for free and makes his coffee last...
08-30-17
I tell you that love happened first,
In order
In that order— which is to be opened,
Flayed the heart that at first flinched
When the soul would blench at the sound of your voice
That once was love, turned destroyer,
You ask me if it was the chicken or the egg?
I can’t say, I know my heart quivering beating jelly pulpy thing
Would bet on the egg.
I know that heart then liquefies and pours itself out in a massive
torrential hemorrhage
Painting the pathway crimson
Congeals reconstitutes and reassembles into bricks,
That creates a wall that I place neatly back in my chest.
A lean figure, bearing love
Burdened by a need for belonging
Starved by abandonment and disregard
With eyes of plea that look upon man
Rejection's curse; an unmet gaze.
The cold, the toll
An attempt to live diminished by ignorance
Loyalty pledged, discarded by the heartless
A tale of sorrow; a tail of fatigue
Walking away, a strained wish - running away, an insuperable thought.
False safety found in humanities' trenches
Malice offering an invite, with little reward
Torture imposed upon by a hand of crumbs
Survival, not a guarantee, fortitude, a hope
Blood that oozes for paper, congeals to mark.
Escaping acts an option that imprisons
Time slows but age shows
A sight of ruggedness in motion
Wounds that offer a feed, delved into
Movement that agonizes, inciting condescension.
Unsteady breaths, signaling an end
The search for an owner in vain
Brutality suffered in pursuit of a home
A last limp affording no sympathy, still
Callus paws giving way as love remains unrequited.
Twixt Spring and Summer time,
Warm air congeals the cool and draws a line.
Far across the waters, farther than eyes can see,
Warm winds begin to dance with the currents of the sea.
Hurricane season lurks just ahead,
and WE wait, hoping for nothing that dreads.
Each season and region sparks its own havoc,
and WE learn to dance between destruction and raindrops.
WE mourn and pray,
burying our dead without delay.
WE will pause for a while and be still;
and later, WE will rise up and rebuild.
Forward and onward, our lives and times will continue to roll,
never halting our God-given tasks until the bell tolls.
After Adam's fall, WE were commanded to conquer and excel.
Made in the image of God, WE are engineered and compelled.
With destiny, WE have an inevitable date.
A new world, a new YOU and ME, and immortality await.
The sting of death will be no more,
And our God WE shall forever adore.
052323PSCtest. Brian Strand
Contest Name. A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE no 1219
This is a song to be sung by a lady so if there's one out there who thinks this worthy, sings and writes music take this and run with it. The only thing I want is the knowledge that someone used it...thanks if anyone can do this:
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR GETS NEXT TO THE BOY NEXT DOOR
I remember when the boy next door first knocked upon my door
I’d seen him washing his ninety-six Chevy two days before
He was shirtless and sweating while wetting down his wheels
And that is when a lady’s desire and lack of better judgment congeals
I think it was blue with writing that read “Body By Design”
I’m talking about the shirt of a man I’d like to make mine
With ripples and his rough spots in all the perfect places
Yet soft enough to hold me and enfold me in his embraces
The boy next door had a two-door Chevy he named “Beth”
He saw me as I walked by in short-shorts and very short of breath
The boy next door was breathtaking with eyes of beautiful blue
Someone who could make this girl next door’s dreams come true
But who, I wondered, was this lady by the name of Beth
Could he have confused the “B” as in boy with an “S” as in Seth?
Yes, that’s the circumstance now I’m sure with certainty
His name is Seth, there is no Beth, and I know that certainly
I remember when the boy next door first knocked upon my door
I’d seen him washing his ninety-six Chevy two days before
He was shirtless and sweating while wetting down his wheels
And that is when a lady’s desire and lack of better judgment congeals
That boy next door went from door to door looking for a kiss
While I waited at my door for the boy next door to come and kiss this miss
Finally we kept kissing and his beauty made my feverish flesh cold
And still gives me chills and thrills while he carries me over the threshold
The boy next door had a two-door Chevy that he named “Beth”
He saw me as I walked by in short-shorts and very short of breath
The boy next door was breathtaking with eyes of beautiful blue
The boy next door who made this girl next door’s dreams come true
And now the boy next door is the boy next door no more
Since that boy next door and I now share the very same front door
The very same…………… front door!
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE..~free cee!~
Four walls bind me in time
four directions set me free from all
the eventual has yet to show its face
the countess of time married my past
and for the first time I see my future
the four elements lift me homeward bound
as the joy wells up in me to a fever pitch
the continuity of it all stalls
and the flow of life stagnates
the pool of time congeals
and its me that has been revealed
for my home is no home at all
Barchans go on droughting in Yagyakarta sods
outpaced here I throw a soliton in gaze-mirage
*
Here we stand on this, the Lee of
Dual Sandhorns { and they
the Phantom Tips of those horns they know what you say -
such fees to demand and how you shall pay no dues!
I’d rather make alive downward facing forms of genesis! I
know, I do know of raining beyond the slip face,
of angles reposed to the honest tenor of our shared Ocean Sky,
where the firmament congeals
to dream postures of
Carretera Interoceanica
where pools in the cool shade of memories that yet are to be
remember of strange filaments, of knees
reclining and worn to urn-dust in their riggings,
reduced to the once-wet bones of Joshua ash and yet!
i r i d e s c e n t s t r e a m s
punch
through
the utmost firmness of form - coalesced
in situ hubrisae,
borne still upon gusts of human wresting,
human heft en masse like all your favorite waves of sound, water and light
slammed by force into prophecies that might
release -
and so unseen
be,
like Zastruga-dew trees
or this home we call Kzynda.
House of Leonard
I gave my legs to a flag with a blood marrow spoon
You blurred a moment of truth with your dying baboon
I swam the oceans of funk to get a soul full of bone
You asked a priest for a gun to practice panic alone
I operate underneath along a wet paper road
You ply the easel with grease and give away what you’re owed
And when you come calling as winter turns green
With a lisp and a whistle and a need for latrine
I’ll trip down the eighty-eight and spin up the tone
As we lisp through the whistle and polish the stone
I find that gagging is best when followed with food
You cut a hole your head to let your brain come unglued
I sent a handful of peace to a planet of pain
You chewed 10 yellow pills and made a horrible stain
I wished a well in the west and got a wallet of cheese
You broke the law with your hair because you do what you please
And when you come calling with twelve summer sins
With a flag and a crank and a saddle that spins
I’ll let in the nuns and flatten out the food
As we sift the crank and flag up the mood
I placed bacon with skinny in a basket of pockets
You understand only ugly replacing arrows with rockets
I rolled my clover in a bonus and flailed facing west
You changed a spaceship to a handbag and passed the test
I sucked a window through a teaspoon to see if I was right
You pushed a sofa to the ocean and sailed into the night
And when you come calling under woolen grey moon
With a gong and a sandwich and a half drunk spittoon
I’ll bring forth the load spoil and rip off the wheels
As we swallow gong salad and the sandwich congeals
There!
See the cloud.
Uncontaminated, white and glowing
to the point of brilliance
Small object that suffers
from an education of envy.
Jealousy surrounds everything,
but will it begin to eat itself?
Look into the abyss
of a simple book of pleasures.
A garden blooms and is reduced
to a garden bower.
Digestion is blocked by acids.
Corrosion never cleanses,
it just rusts and congeals
in fabricated trends
No feeling of purity
just a chemical reaction
like the Sun, but
lasting a generation.
There!
See the cloud.
Misty and full of blood.
Arteries thicken everyday.