Best Convulsing Poems
Underneath all the layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
Of reason and understanding
I smolder
In passion's pleasure bed of red
Paroxysms of pleasure
Emanate from my core
Searing the shroud
Flames of fantasy's feast burn
Yearning I yearn and lie in wait
In my ambuscade
with the relish to ravish ravaging
every fiber
Conceived in the throes of passion
My conception is my perception of life
Woven into my being
I’m prisoner to pleasure monomania
Obsession of desire hysteria
My cacoethes: gratification gratified
Thus, I scintillate sparks
Riding on my satin flares
They captivate your stare
You see me
Feeling the heat of sultry flame
You want to play scorch torch game
So your reach out to touch
Mere kindling in my blazing wake
You quake as I slake your florid fantasy awake
Convulsing in temptation’s torment
You combust to lust
Consummating till consumed
Eliciting my passion flower bloom
In opulent oriental room
You swoon
Exertion exhausted
Gratification’s glory gained
Having tasted my reign
Revived, you leave
Yet…
My image I’ve seared
On your flesh and mind
Branded, you’ll find
Your way back to me
Slave to my passion's decree
You’ll come to me
And I retreat
Enshrouded once more
In virgin layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
of reason and understanding
Biding my time
when sensuality sublime
calls me
to bloom in her red flame
~*~*~*~again~*~*~*~
Eileen Manassian
This is a repost that has over a thousand views. Just trying to remind myself of the glory days. I seem to be unable to write at the moment....and poets can be a strange lot. If you don't post...you're forgotten, at least by most. The feeding frenzy is for words..and if you're empty, you are neglected. I'm glad I have friends who visit my older works even when I'm not around. I need to cultivate this spirit in my life because I know what it's like not to be visited....
Underneath all the layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
Of reason and understanding
I smolder
In passion's pleasure bed of red
Paroxysms of pleasure
Emanate from my core
Searing the shroud
Flames of fantasy's feast burn
Yearning I yearn and lie in wait
In my ambuscade
with the relish to ravish ravaging
every fiber
Conceived in the throes of passion
My conception is my perception of life
Woven into my being
I’m prisoner to pleasure monomania
Obsession of desire hysteria
My cacoethes: gratification gratified
Thus, I scintillate sparks
Riding on my satin flares
They captivate your stare
You see me
Feeling the heat of sultry flame
You want to play scorch torch game
So your reach out to touch
Mere kindling in my blazing wake
You quake as I slake your florid fantasy awake
Convulsing in temptation’s torment
You combust to lust
Consummating till consumed
Eliciting my passion flower bloom
In opulent oriental room
You swoon
Exertion exhausted
Gratification’s glory gained
Having tasted my reign
Revived your leave
Yet…
My image I’ve seared
On your flesh and mind
Branded, you’ll find
Your way back to me
Slave to my passion's decree
You’ll come to me
And I retreat
Enshrouded once more
In virgin layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
of reason and understanding
Biding my time
when sensuality sublime
calls me
to bloom in her red flame
Eileen
With the end of days upon them
Nears the time of final battle
In the halls of high Valhalla
Asgard senses its death rattle
In the forest crows the rooster
In the sky the sun does darken
In the cave the hound is howling
To these signs the Aesir harken
Heimdall blows the Gjallarhorn
Dark the rainbow bridge is turning
Vivid lightning cleaves Yggdrasil
Then the central tree is burning
Aesir watch in fascination
See volcanoes spew like fountains
See the heavens splitting open
See the oceans climb the mountains
See the continents convulsing
See the forests burn to ashes
See the sons of Mim awaken
In the fatal lightning flashes
As the winds consume the wasteland
From the south Surtr advances
With his minions tearing corpses
Bright his sword and sharp his lances
Aesir then prepare their weapons
Eyes are clear and arms are steady
The Midgard serpent Jörmungandr
Upon the battle plain is ready
With his heavy hammer Mjolnir
Strides the mighty god of thunder
To do battle with the serpent
And to rend the world asunder
June 30, 2014
N.B. This poem is an Epyllion, a brief narrative poem with a romantic or mythological theme. It is written in trochaic tetrameter, like some of the ancient Eddas.
Glossary:
Ragnarök - Final battle and death of the Aesir
Aesir - The Norse gods
Asgard - one of the Nine Worlds and home of the Aesir
Valhalla - a majestic, enormous hall located in Asgard, ruled over by the chief Norse god Odin
Heimdall - A Norse god who blows his horn to signal the beginning of Ragnarök
Gjallarhorn - Heimdall's horn
Midgard- Middle Earth, or the world of humans
Bifröst - the burning rainbow bridge between Midgard and Asgard
Yggdrasil - The sacred Norse central tree that holds the Nine Worlds
Mim - an Asian renowned for his knowledge and wisdom who has been beheaded. Odin carries around Mím's preserved head and it recites secret knowledge and counsel to him.
Surtr- a fire troll with a flaming sword who sets the world on fire.
Jörmungandr- The world serpent or ouroboros that surrounds the earth and grasps his own tail. When he lets go, the world will end. Jörmungandr's arch-enemy is the god Thor.
Thor - The Norse god of thunder
Mjolnir - Thor's hammer and principal weapon
We swallow boulders:
(lead words, molasses covered prejudice, glass shards of promises long broken)
Mouths open wide and heads tipped back
like Hawaiian fire eaters.
Chipped teeth are bits of porcelain history,
sliding down our throats in rivers of neglect
and acid.
The stones settle,
BOOM...
BOOM...
BOOM...
Our stomachs are filled up, anvil weight
'till we can hardly sit, hardly stand, or walk.
We drag our feet in pain, as the quiet indicator that
we've had rocks for breakfast,
lunch, dinner, for years,
in the hopes that someone will recognize
the broken concrete footprints behind us
and touch us gently on the forearm:
"Honey, are you alright?"
(and isn't it the first sweet trickle of kind words that crumble
the already cracking facade?)
There's no stopping the torrent then,
tsunami tears and a heaving, convulsing
to the point of cathartic vomit-
boulders of every shape and size
tumbling out of our mouths and filling the room;
broken teeth and granite eyes
until we no longer see the floor, the walls...
And then serenity.
The hand has moved to the shoulder,
forming a universal hug.
"I'm here now... and you're ok."
We stand up, together, and leave that room,
a soundless void of yesterday,
to absorb the impermeability of stones,
carrying our gait buoyant, without gravity.
No weight at all now, and barely a second glance,
but to turn out the light - and lock the door behind us...
in this your padded cell of silence
you torture me
in your straight jacket of neglect
I writhe
tormented
tried
from the observation window
you look in
cold hearted
indifferent
you take notes
of my descent
from this padded white room of insanity
into hell
you torture me
wanting to break free
I claw
I scream
straight jacket white
now crimson sheened
madness extreme
I fall to the floor
convulsing with the memories
of when your arms
straightjacketed me...
the rocking almost stops
I'm still
you walk into the room
not a sound
silence profound
deepens...deepens
I've no fight left in me
my eyes beg, "Please...
See me! Remember"....
Cold and calculated
you do what you've come to do
I'm waiting
you remove the straight jacket
and expose my nakedness
for a moment you stare
unaware of anything
but that tattoo on my breast
above my heart
You finger it
your name
what a shame!
you're not the same
for a moment
there is a flicker in your eye
a glint of passion
I sigh
and look away
too late
too late
I raise my arms
I straighten my form
"do what you came for"
and you help me into a new straightjacket
pristine white
a sight
a fright!
Not a word spoken
you leave
I bleed
from wounds not healed
not cleaned
I lie still
there....there
in the padded cell of your silence
In the straightjacket of your neglect
I lie still...
I
lie
s t i l l
Eileen Manassian
Another of my deleted poems....Abuse has many faces. Though physical, sexual, and verbal abuse are easier to detect, neglect is one that often goes unnoticed. It causes psychological trauma, and at times, death. We read stories of children dying because their parents were too busy to feed them. There is also, the neglect of silence.
Hospitals are designed
(a) to make you appreciate your bed at home
(b) to prompt many unanswerable questions
(c) to facilitate smooth patient care
(d) to never complain about your wife’s cooking again
Referrals to a psychiatrist are made when
(a) you become catatonic after having no sleep for a week
(b) after complaining about a noisy roommate you start convulsing with frustration
(c) you ask the nurse for a sleeping aid and she brings
warm milk
(d) You are all set for discharge but the Dr is delayed in surgery all day
Reflecting on a hospital stay makes you
(a) wonder how you survived the long nights
(b) vow never to eat chicken broth again
(c) appreciate there are no drafts behind when you get up for a walk
(d) note how quiet the house really is
“Activity makes my life colorful. To be quiescent is relaxing, but when it prolongs, I feel I am dead.” – By Poet
Day after day passes
With rarely a purpose to fulfill
Thoughts after thoughts flit,
With nothing to hold in memory.
I am stuck on the lonely highway of life.
No addendum!
Up the long path of life,
From joy to pain,
And from pain to joy,
I have been oscillating all these years.
Now my mind is empty.
No exhilarating emotions.
No vexing thoughts
No nagging concerns
No convulsing tidal swaying
Like a placid lake with no ripples
Like a sponge with water squeezed out
Like a kite refusing to soar high,
I am now a bough on a sturdy stem,
Resisting to be touched by the wind!
You might think I have learned,
To look at life with a level brow
And enjoy the stillness of my mind,
When the mad scramble in me dies.
Perhaps you are right.
But I detest this mental hiatus,
This numbing languorousness,
This sickening emotional torpor!
Am I becoming a log over the moving currents?
From this quiescent state, I look for a release.
A poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
sustenance our words
let the body digest with heartfelt
regurgitation – a poem unlived
is a poem merely written
as well as tasty center, a healthy chew
needs skin-like peachy, tickly sensation,
emotive mastication – best often
lost when discarding fussy peelings
also feelings
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
endless editing...crumblings tossed
our salads before the main course
heavily garnished
each poem with a dipping
thread link – we warm at
the lava lip...deep, glowing
convulsing start, long before the page is stirred,
shaken – ready for bubbly tip
a poem unlived is a poem merely written
the sea we sail both tranquil and rage
creation an unkempt voyage of possibilities,
a nameless work rocks back and forth
cradled it longs to escape wild fluctuation
and transverse,
seeking theme and form – sanguine
transfusion, repetitively jabbing for fluid release
we call upon the mariner, captain, surgeon of
ancient crafts -- muse of many incarnations,
sage, fool of countless courts – both wallflower
and dancer – homebody and restless prancer, where
we have been and yet beam
to go – uniquely fermented we uncork
for a spotlight blow, for grand revelation
introduced with a toast, a click, a sparkly
crystal glow
staging both our fond darkness and
light – an author preparing to take
literary flight
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written --
like stopped midstream
without a river flow, banks
turned away
tepidly applauding….
A stagnant sip before the
moved-by lauding….
Though poetically smitten
dearly kittened
a poem unlived
is a poem merely written...
In grimed secluded alleyway’s it’s his key into the divine,
Believing deliverance has arrived while he walks this narrow line,
Those eyes begin seeing reality his mind now lucid has cleared,
The truth’s of his past now a cacophony welling up within perfect ears,
Numbing out his nervous system a blind faith blanketed brain,
Sporadic lighting of violent flashes lost within his mind deranged,
Everything once believed assured now snippets of a life long elapsed,
Consigning his soul to valueless spirits his self worth allowed to collapse,
Without destination a wandering shell conforming to push through the days,
Ignoring the voices of pleas and salvation sinking farther within mired haze,
Memories taunting of mandible grasps devouring slowly his will to survive,
Nightmares convulsing those hideous features transforming beauty into
despised,
Shrinking in angst from real vindication devolving back where the journey began,
He ties off his arm inserting the needle releasing the demons inside once again.
RARELY IN TIME
DO WE SEE WHAT BEHOLDS
I saw her standing there, sobbing uncontrollably
in heaving spasms...her nose crimson-raw,
her whole being convulsing against the
savage memory....replayed with every beat of her heart
...and nothing I could say or do
GLIMPSES OF SPACE
DEFILED, YET BOLD
I try to become part of the place with others,
but...they don't see me I'm there,
I'm not there I'm in a different place
.....they don't know me,
I'm allowed in, but
....not welcomed
they want me to keep following the path,
I'm not ready....
BRIEFLY WE FIGHT
SURE OF OUR STAND
o precious rest
o merciful sleep
pray lift my soul
and free my dreams
LINGERING IN DEATH
FAILING TO LAND
Cold shower today - (early afternoon)
September eighth two thousand
and nineteen more challenging than June
dog days of summer test tolerance
to feel alive and bark at the moon
hypothetically imagining myself
alone in the (suburban) wilderness
fabricating, envisioning crossing pontoon
bridge while humming nonsense tune.
Jolt to body electric induces zing
unlike missus who cannot wing
subjecting her sensitive skin
versus modest bragging
rights of this faux king
please pas din me boasting,
but perhaps explanation
I shower without hot water
linkedin to aging.
Which (no matter cumulative
chronological orbitz around sun
just a number), the fleeting
passage of years doth stun
more so forces me to assess
mein kampf, retrospective
devoid of nothing merit but pun
hushing disappointment plus
self deprivation of fun.
Alas within narrowly
circumscribed realm stale
stagnation doth prevail,
I easily overwhelm
courtesy panic attacks of this male
bred avoidance behavior
(cue Pavlov's dog) hearty and hale
trained to withdraw
from challenging tasks
markedly pronounced when fail
my middle name,
where besieged psyche doth ail.
Fatherhood, albeit necessitated taking ace
sip of courage, sometimes
adept to chase
fear of unfamiliar, though
never totally erase
sing passive behavior
I attest infrequently to face
anxiety inducing situations
poise zenned clowns
feign amazing grace
me convulsing with intimidation
agitating, flinching, recoiling...
retreating into isolated place
while profuse sweat drips
from every porous space
heart beat does madly race
despite absence of any threat
exhaustion spent without
factual, logical, rational... trace.
Time and again work fraught
self into lather for naught
recurring soap opera taught
me impossible mission
to rinse figurative suds
unlike showering/washing hair,
whereby cleansing wrought.
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
THE UNHOLY TERROR OF LITTLE TOM
The bashing sounds of thunder echo in reverberation
to the electrifying bolts of lightning that illuminated
every single room from dark to light just seconds earlier.
Sheets of rabid rain torpedo upon a leaky roof.
Broken limbs of trees tossed away by raucous sheets of sleet
ram hard against the battered frame of the small cottage.
Little Tom holds close in a fetal position
immobilized in fear and bowed down as a non person
waiting stupefied quivering and frozen in spaceless
timeless obedience to all his emotions.
The vibrations of the shaken windows
push and pull in harmonic rhythms
accelerating into a persistent succession
of unrelenting pounding pistons
upon the naked wooden structure.
Little Tom awaits in terror for the moment
when the storm gates will crash in
allowing the blizzard to surge the void
and tear obliquely at his tender
weakened shivering flesh.
He ties to hide by pressing deeper into the blackness of the night.
But the sparks of the fireplace dancing in rapid cadence
against the wall reveal the shadow of his huddled form.
Wet and convulsing in unbecoming behavior
Little Tom yells out DADDY, DADDY!
.
His father, lays dormant and unconscious
in a drunken stupor passed out and vacant
on an unmade bed.
Worn and withered forlorn and terrified Little Tom
in one last whimper, cries himself to sleep
CAK 5-16-2013
Giant gator grabbing
Convulsing, chunks crashing
twisting, twirling, thrashing
muskrat mammal munched.
Awesome is what I heard.
a Kung fu master poet spoken word martial artist nunchuckering his words.
kaRate kicking, chopping, spit splitting nouns, adjectives and verbs.
yo vOice defines its comfort zone, spitting dictionary through the microphone.
a traNsformation of mr dictionary to a vivid pictionary.
a voicEprint crobratically erected ventriloquilizing from the ink.
causes Me to feel and think
the mans Salivary glands spit spoken word poetically totally in super sync.
they have sWollen and begun to secrete
epileptic By like products foaming spoken word with a poetic convulsing beat.
this is realLy forming a mouthful of hot poetic word heat.
wisdom bluetOoth biting, fighting, writing through his pen
presses and kiCkstarts his tongue to send
spoken word the Kinsman of poetry makes an epipoeticplectic wireless connection blend.