Best Consequent Poems
I see moon-leaves on trees
Your cascade of hair too
I see passion in a blue spree
Waiting for me and you
And I say to myself in wonder
What a moonlight splendor
I look at starlit mystic sky
Sprinkling love in your eye
So very close to me
Exciting the lips of my sea
Purple dreams everywhere
I say to myself in wonder
How beautiful you are
Golden silence of moon
In your look a lagoon
I will write a poem on you
You on me
And we both of us will be
In our moon beam destiny
On me and you
Moonlit dew
Asking us to say
I love you
I say to myself in wonder
In your touch my harbour
Now let us go to the boat
In our moonlit coat
We two will be one
Except the moon none
Will paint our passion plunder
I say to myself in wonder
What a moment to surrender
Our joyous existence
In a pink to each other
And to our heart’s content
Drink the unique nectar
Of our merger together
I say to myself in wonder
What a fusion fire here
In the moony infinity
We will feel and see
The intensity of our deep night
In the clashes
And the consequent flashes
Of ecstasy
That shakes the gravity
Into a sudden full empty
I say to myself in wonder
What an ocean we are
_____________________________
18/12/2016
To find an island floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean shall I go following the water as it flows? In spring, as a flower with the color of scarlet, violet, or canary; in summer, mount on the cloud passing by; in autumn, drifting along a secluded inlet for a while, then as a fallen leaf, shall I go following the water as it flows and find an island floating somewhere in the middle of an ocean?
To recover a long gone lost time shall I become a moon and stars and trail the traces of ever so many bitter and sweet memories? From a remote village in a deep mountain, send my regards through a bird’s song and await the good news coming with a cricket’s chirp, and if it become that there is no story left to tell or hear any news from the other side of mountain consider it as the time to let my dear memories go, or shall I remain as a moon and the stars in the night and trail the traces of my memories to recover a long lost time?
Then, one day, a high wind rises from the nether world, in jet-black armor, mounted on a black charger holding a lance under his arm, rushes at me, and pierces and scatters the worries, anguishes, and pains that of this worthless life has had well acquainted with, with his lance and horse’s hooves, I shall stand on the top of the hill as fluttering weather-beaten shreds of banner, and when the wind falls I shall live as neither the sun, no a moon nor the stars, but without a word, the will, or the cognition, on other side of paramita* the land of eternity.
*Nirvana [Paramita]: 1. Buddhism: freedom from the endless cycle of personal reincarnations, with their consequent suffering, as a result of the extinction of individual passion, hatred, and delusion: attained by the Arhat as his goal, but postponed by the Bodhisattava. 2. Hinduism: salvation through the union of Atman with Brahma; moksha 3. a state of freedom from pain, worry, and the external world. The Random House College Dictionary. 1980. U.S.A.
As little child walked in the field of flowers,
Picking and smelling them as she grows,
The pervading air fragrance of Guava
The majestic mellow Mangoes too in wet season,
The atmosphere of green garden eggs,
Caressing melody of crunchy carrots cracker,
The hidden colours of pineapples,
Bulb of yellow oranges lighted the line green trees,
Would be in season all year, including rags to
riches filling Maize
And pods shelled nourishing beans,
Surging umbrella leaves of papaya,
Shallow rooted coco-yam,the variegated
lettuce that brightens everyday,
With the crowded bananas are growing everyday,
But now,they are in wet tins and dry cartons
For that very busy mankind.
The landscapes within are beautifully measureless,
The Jacaranda and Tamarind trees had cast
Their shadows on the plain, and not forgetting,
The Silk-cottons and the wilderness of palm fruits
That grow tall and sure,
And under them we played cracking out nuts and
eating them,
But now, elevated long balcony, we have
That you stand and weep of the passing phases.
The sepulcher we all grew up in,
Might not be the same dungeon now,
And the cradle you are born in
Could well be the same abode now,
Thatched roof has given birth
To corrugated reflections,
Likewise the fragile asbestos fight for space with concretizing flat,
The mud debris has turned to bricks and plaster erect;
New galaxies of dwelling and scattered
About in a festival of designs;
Some are like an octagonal
A cone, a triangle and spec angular façade yet unseen;
All glasses, cupped and straight down
Like the eccentric mansions in heaven,
The spec tropic clime had turned suddenly,
The wind blows and smell of change,
The sun blaze down on man and space and warned,
Of great consequent yet in the
Outer-atmosphere would burst,
As we are cuddly warm
The poles wildly discharged their zillion captured
Water in a spasm of deluge right upon us…I think,
Like urchins, we fumble forgetting the next hour,
But what would happen is nature’s raison d’etre;
Man and his environ scope both have shibboleth gone pathways
And fast we are turning into artificial humankind.
From hunting comes
From hunting drums
From hunting hums
All bright stars
Near and far
In New York or Trafalgar
Those stars in skyscrapers
Those dazzling gold vapours
The government shapers
The controller of all papers
All go on hunting
And keep counting
And measuring sometimes too
In the treasury
Keep your eyes open
The lids may shut up
Keep the cup wide
You will see everywhere
Ensnaring unaware
The tiger killing the helpless deer
Deer who love destiny
Who worship deities
Members of the laity
Dependent on goddesses and gods
In their odds
Fall very easy prey
To the hunters obsessional play
Their God has no say
In the decay
By hunters in dust they lay
Shrunk tottering mewing aching
Finally breaking down
Into the absolute immobility
Thanks to the myriad kinds
Of the guns of the hunters behind
I perk up my ear
In the civilized forest
And hear the guns
Nuns and monks are in readiness for nursing
Churches mosques temples towering for services
What a grace
My every molecule encapsulated in attention
Hears the sound of the gun
And feels the consequent death
The blue sky we love so much laughs nonetheless
The ground underneath
Is moistened in crimson red
Black velvet
First hunt the doe, a decoy
Leopards and tigers follow in joy
We are all pretty toy
In the hands of the hunters
We look on in wonder
Of grandeur of the capital
Take or surrender
You may grunt
Fruitlessly
Willy Nilly
You have to join the hunt
____________________________________________________________
30/10/2016
Not for contest since the lines have exceeded the stipulated limit which I failed to notice when I first read the contest details.
With a deafening thunder
and blazing lightning,
Amidst a swirling clouds
of dark ominous smoke,
He appeared suddenly
Smack in front of me -
A most hideous being
who appeared neither
human nor a beast.
With a swift sleight of hand,
Before I could even cry out:
"Stop it. Oh God, please stop"
He plucked my heart out
and held it in his hairy filthy hand.
Oh, why he has to take it out?
My only possession, my only wealth,
The only thing that beat against
my frail, long worn-out chest,
Assuring its constant company
in this lonely journey of my life.
But heedless of my pleadings,
He tossed my heart
into the gutter
with a gut-wrenching laugh!
I asked this foul fiend:
Who art thou?
Why did thou taketh my heart away?
With a guttural voice he spoke thus:
I am the devil! Lord of the Hell,
I am the impetus that steers
the course of affairs in this world;
With me on your side,
You'll get the most out of a strife.
With Adam, the first man,
I came hither and residing since.
An ardent companion of those
who coveteth glory in life"
He bent down,
And with his flaming eyes
peered into mine,
Spitting foul breath into my face, he sneered:
But this heart!
This heart is a hindrance,
A barrier, the core of love and humility,
Where you feel the joys and woes of life.
Nah, there's no need for it.
Not in this world,
Where the mind reigns supreme;
Not in this age,
Where vices prevail unrestrained -
The age of decadence, KALIYUGA!*
He half turned to go,
But then he paused,
Turned back and looked at me.
Never have I seen
such a heavenly sight,
Now transformed into an angel,
He extended gracefully
his milky-white delicate hand
And whispered softly
on the breath of the breeze:
Give me thy soul,
And I will give thee the world!
~Dark & Twisted#2 contest by Nathan D
*(KALI-YUGA- Age of vice, is the last of four stages the world goes
through as part of the cycle of Yugas (ages) described in the Sanskrit Scriptures -
an era of decay in values and the consequent havoc.)
With a deafening thunder
and blazing lightning,
Amidst a swirling clouds
of dark ominous smoke,
He appeared suddenly
smack in front of me--
A most hideous being
who appeared neither
human nor a beast.
With the swift sleight of hand,
Before I could even cry out:
Stop it. Oh God, please stop
He plucked my heart out
and held it in his hairy filthy hand.
Oh, why he has to take it out?
My only possession, my only wealth,
The only thing that beat against
my frail, long worn-out chest,
Assuring its constant company
in this lonely journey of my life.
But heedless of my pleadings,
He tossed my heart
into the gutter
with a gut-wrenching laugh!
I asked this foul fiend:
Who art thou?
Why did thou taketh my heart away?
With a guttural voice he spoke thus:
I am the devil! Lord of the Hell,
I am the impetus that steers
the course of affairs in this world;
With me on your side,
You'll get the most out of a strife.
With Adam, the first man,
I came hither and residing since.
An ardent companion of those
who coveteth glory in life
He bent down,
And with his flaming eyes
peered into mine,
Spitting foul breath into my face, he sneered:
But this heart!
Ha, this heart is a hindrance,
A barrier, the core of love and humility,
Where you feel the joys and woes of life.
Nah, there's no need for it.
Not in this world,
Where the mind reigns supreme;
Not in this age,
Where vices prevail unrestrained--
The age of decadence, KALIYUGA!*
He half turned to go,
But then he paused,
Turned back and looked at me.
Never have I seen
such a heavenly sight,
Now transformed into an angel,
He extended gracefully
his milky-white delicate hand
And whispered softly
on the breath of the breeze:
Give me thy soul...
And I will give thee this world!
~Dark Poetry contest by Nayda Ivette Negron
*(KALI-YUGA- Age of vice, is the last of four stages the world goes
through as part of the cycle of yugas (ages) described in the Sanskrit Scriptures -
an era of decay in values and the consequent havoc.)
Long time back you left
just right after you came
you took me away
and in a moment left me without a breath
left me with endless pain..
didn't see you with my eyes
but my heart was never blind
about your care and love
that filled my days and lonely nights..
My soul was never trapped
into someone's life
just like it is locked
inside yours..
How can I love someone,
need them that much,
dream of them
and whenever I am down
I feel their hand touch
pulling me up..
But someone I never met?
Everything was in a virtual set
of consequent dreams,
that follow me
either I am awake or asleep!
Just tell me is it real
that you are really near,
as my guardian angels
or it is just I am hiding from my loneliness fears
behind a curtain of unreal dreams?
I just hope you are there,
hope you can hear me
when I say
I miss you that much,
and I need your lift up touch..
I love not just those
I knew back then,
But those who were young
Back then,
But who've since
Come to grief, who,
Having soared so high,
Found the consequent descent
Too dreadful to bear.
With my past itself,
Which was only yesterday,
No, even less time,
A moment ago,
And when I play
Records from 1975, Soul records,
Glam records, Progressive records,
Twenty years melt away
Into nothingness.
What is a twenty-year period?
Little more than
A blink of an eye.
How could
Such a short space of time
Cause such devastation?
I love not just those
I knew back then,
But those who were young back then.
There was a time when any thoughts with consequent emotions occupied me
Conversing was a breeze!
Writing about anything was far from difficult
Today, I spend moment after moment evaluating and reevaluating when it comes to writing
I enjoyed speaking
I enjoyed people
Today, I diligently search and gather whatever speck of opinion I have toward anything
“This” is how I feel but why?
How do I even feel?
What happened?
What do I want?
I just want to be okay…
I want to enjoy people and not be afraid to say “too much” –
Whatever that is
I’m cautious of what I say and do because I’m sensitive emotionally
I say little and do little
Today, I have less mean-spirited confrontations
My kindness and generosity is still the same
When people laugh, I don’t laugh
Should I?
When people have open-talk I’m hesitant to share because I fear people will misjudge me by my words
And disregard Me
What do I do about this?
IT IS NOT as simple as, “it doesn’t matter what people think”
Because I KNOW that “it” does
Four hundred fifty and seven hours
When all we owned were April showers
Taking a chance on a pixelated face
Became the preferred post-coup de grace
You elected against the unpolished show
When you tossed the dice atlas in tow
Our nerves had a knack for steering the wheel
When you came home they proved puerile
We would have danced if there had been rain
When the stars fell silent on mid-west plains
Running the veldt with our dreams in tow
We seized our future and made it so
Now with this seven month’s consequent
We count our grace and build our monuments
To one thousand holidays now forthcoming
A binary euphony, a song never ending
The proverbial all pervading calm and inner peace,
Stability is what we choose to call it- to earn greens,
To eat them, to share it or to control it. So escapable
Yet, always avoided. The veil of contentment ever
So fallible.
Moving from thatched roofs to brick and mortar,
Crawling from unleavened bread to croissant and
From the hard cold ground to the fluffy bed of roses-
We cry, we try, we fall and we die, but then there's
This small moment of rise.
Unseen, often unfelt, unknown and yet mildly present.
The only pure drop of human essence that is- but a drop;
Yet, if embraced it presents enlightened apes with wings to
Soar beyond the cutlery and the bed and diamonds and
Roofs. Its there but never yet...
Why do I the naive poet type my verses on this machine?
Why does the rickshaw puller not opt to buy a higher
Mechanism of sustenance? Why do you think of conquering
The space while the same increases in light years between us?
Where is that drop? That essence of intended genetics?
Or maybe intended is what we make of it. Individual freedom
And the consequent 'progress' or digress. A place where graffiti
Almost topples the la politica and, deaths of millions and voices
Of the troubled are channeled like the AM frequency. A drop to
Each one of you dear mortals!
Breathing free sans the fear of someone at the door, sleeping
In peace sans the unrest within, listening to the wind without
A play button to press and walking the muddied path without
The cacophony of horns. Some of the things we inherently want
When the body is born naked.
Then? We grow up and down and up again like a spiral. A
Careful reduction of the equation that wasnt meant to be a
Circumspect effort. I equals to human so you equal to?
Oh wait! There's a square root on top... Tough luck child.
That drop is there somewhere but we are reduced.
We grow up but never grow back!
© Malyaban Lahiri
We tender that special moment that was well earned, spent in our fabled youth's labyrinth passages beholden to young hearts locked in eternal time for e'er so oft consequent the key of memories call. It beckons me now in subsequent years of a pensive soul tryst with thyself. Loneliness fades grasped by natures blooming redolences proffering counsel to evaporate my soul resplendent aspiration to utterance, awakening welcomed birds to flight and favor a dusky crown bejeweled with distant stars flickering arousal as a moon in its laborious mood o'er guiding men to sort out words of worn-out paper neatly tucked away neath backseats of a row vehicles parked on a hillside crowded lane. A cooled engine warms my car as I leave behind a season of mist and mellow fruitfulness.
2020 January 28
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” By John Keats
A parasympathetic parody in a par is neither equivalent to a vineyard crushed into a jar or a hammock in a cartwheeling car in a traffic jam. Human hypothesis having heaped havoc. And mackerel make excellent navigators in shopping trolleys. But putting a kilo of icing sugar into a cup of tea is not that pleasant or customary really. Playing poker with pretty peanuts is a very splendid way to pass the time. But running around and around then jumping over forty nine buses is a feat best left to a two inch worm whose antics blow away the mind through displays of great courage and fortitude and fortitude questioned is neither a fortress nor a frightened framed fashionable fig. Ok then. That was the opinion of Mr. Gerlatki gorilla whose book reading skills and consequent knowledge out did any other primate in the tree cases. Tree cases are breathing books and books bring brilliance and brilliance is not a brillo pad it is a baked button. The travelling traditional tarpaulins are taking terracing to the terrapins to replace the gutter screening. And the little beetle in the car was absorbed in the mind expansion emitting from a voice controlled box. Hahaha the fleas are flying with the elements of the world boxes. Hahah involved in inky ignorant ideology. Haha theory plus theory divided by dice roll equals war of the bugs. Xxxxx momentarily z z z z z at over a load of washing up bowls, ninety three thousand foot trees, a intrepid global goldfish and a little shrew in glasses reading in a six foot chair. Wrapped in a tapestry. Xxxxx parapsychology z z z z z z z z z z z z,.*~_~_~_=+-->€$}_39<830}93}¥[[_+€)(%)£?:-4)()%-%()%. Z
When the parents are gone,
the kids survive by heeding advice and carry on
their wishes by honoring their true intent;
flowers sprout and then bloom,
never living their fragile, little ones to a fateful gloom...
as sunshine nurtures them!
Glimpses may not give us a full image,
but they can reveal their glossary of life and death,
and it depends on us how to put it
into a consequent sentence and give meaning to it;
our parents raised us up to a certain standard,
hoping we'd pick up the slack where they left off!
And will we be elated by parental pride,
by doing all things that are beautiful and honorable...
great things that endow us with exuberance and fortitude,
to conquer every boundary and win every battle?
History can take us there, showing us the ones who fearlessly dared:
Moses who bashed rebellion and Jesus who lashed the whip!
Many will stumbled on life's deception,
others will cautiously follow its trail to wisdom,
to find themselves acclaimed by glory
and flourishing in their endeavors: they will find immortality;
and if anyone was deceived by the notion...
that nothing outlasts us, they are completely wrong!
There's no greater joy than remembering
how our parents leaded a religious life without a spot,
believing that obedience was a reward for longevity; and was
God ever put out of their thoughts...not fortifying
their spirits and making them stand on a solid rock?
Foolish persons shouldn't be pitied for their self-inflicted wounds!
The kids can survive by heeding advice, unfraidly facing their challenges,
alleviating their fears with the words that they received from the elders:
walking on a straight path, avoiding danger and harm, to live a golden youth
and a longer life...when most youngsters lose these to drugs and lust;
and with no gray hair on their heads and no stories to tell their granchildren,
who are the victorious ones that should declare thier well-merited crown?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Upon this fairly scribal yet oversize,
Very squarish or rectangular tablet,
Do I scribble and scrawl these very words,
And those of the completeness of at least a brace,
A twain, a pair of poems, though
These are, after a fashion, hardly meet.
Albeit, they are not so ill-fitting for all of that.
They are good poems, those I've today
And herein written;
Yet to themselves, they ascribe all
Manner of different motives,
Emotions and motifs.
Yet I purpose not hereby and herewith to delineate
All the consequent, attendant minutiae compassing those
Works; no, my purpose herein is to
Fashion a poem much less circumspect,
Summary, and oddly essayistic
Than quondam ones, yet in so doing
I've partly failed-no matter.
Yet this poem and those indited formerly,
They weren't inscribed beneath some large,
Tyrannous, blindingly refulgent
Saharan sun;
Nor were they beneath the caliginous caul of the night
Scrawled hereon, nay;
It was my oddest delight to compose these at a time of day
Quite interstitial to those abovementioned.
Yet some inky darkness even now depends
And lends its crepuscular, darksome weight to the entire tableau:
That of a poet-writer over his tablet,
Head bent low. Yet, a dichotomy, I find, crops up
Herein, as a more modern meaning of tablet coexists
With that upon which I actually, diligently write
This: Which is merely a glorified book of notes.