Best Corridors Poems
'Theatre Of The Absurd'
Catoptric Corridors of Time
Oh how the wounded waverly wander away from their hermitic heart
Only to meticulously maunder thru cumulous clouds that diffuse apart
The deflections of deceptions that build worshipful walls
Seen in Mirrors of errors displaying fathomable fetal falls
The soliciting silences succumbing to their cognitive cocoon
Inducing illusions forthcoming mirage’s of the monolithic moon
Dimensional decoding within the resurgent rhythmical rhyme
Catalectic exploding compositions in the Catoptric Corridors of Time.
02.03.2017
Theatre Of The Absurd ...Contest
Sponsored by...Kai Michael Neumann
raised ink blots of braille -
a feeble language to me.
licking fingers to flip page.
knowledge found in books -
heavy in “rest in peace” pile.
how will i impart knowledge?
uncertain compass -
borrowed from Captain Sparrow.
how can i find my true North?
intemperate spin,
rotating all directions.
the waves of the sea engulf.
sunlight filter in.
Lord light the ancient pathway -
one that leads to happiness.
should growing older
stunt progress forward? march on,
have courage, i tell myself.
11/10/2017
Empty Your Soul With Words
Sponsor: Broken Wings
In the quiet corridors of my mind, where memory and flickering thoughts reside,
we tell ourselves stories in order to live, to find meaning in the chaos,
seeking sermons in the despair of loss, searching for lessons in violence,
where five snuffed-out lives become a moral parable,
a narrative we shape to comprehend an incomprehensible reality.
We are the weavers of our own truth, choosing the most viable threads,
interpreting what we see through the prism of our elaborate tales,
imposing a coherent line upon disparate images,
freezing the shifting phantasmagoria of our experiences
with the ideas we have learned, like anchors in the turbulent sea of existence.
Through this stream of consciousness, I wander deeply,
where tangled thoughts intertwine with hues of sentiment,
seeking to grasp the elusive threads of dreams and weave them into meaning,
we are adventurers in the landscapes of intellect and soul,
each story we tell a beacon, a light in the dark forest of the unknown.
We find comfort in the narrative line we impose,
an appearance of order in the whirlwind storm of existence,
where each moment is a passing phantom, each experience a fleeting shadow,
and yet, in this magic of storytelling, we find anchor, grace,
transforming the ephemeral into the enduring, the transient into the eternal.
Melancholy wraps itself around each story,
a whisper of beauty from sadness, a hint of light within the shadow,
each chosen word an attempt to freeze the fluid, to grasp the intangible,
to bind the phantasmagoria into something we can hold close to our hearts.
Life, with all its chaos and fractured pieces,
finds a fragile peace within the narratives we construct,
as we trace the lines of meaning with trembling fingers,
seeking to transcend the transient, to touch the infinite
in the sacred space of a well-told story, of a fleeting moment captured forever.
Through our stories, we become more than mere spectators,
we become the architects of our own destinies,
each story a spell, an enchantment against the inexorable flow of time,
and in this act of creation, we discover ourselves,
the storytellers, the dream weavers, the light in the storm,
casting a gentle glow over the phantasmagoria that is life.
Is the soul a complex place, does one really know the soul. Many ask where is the soul, is it because you do not feel it.
"In the misty corridors of the soul," is there a bright and shiny light. What can one see ahead, it is life or death.
They say the soul lives on, on in heaven or in hell. I hope the misty corridors of my soul, will live in heaven away from life's miseries.
winter's venom bites on autumn days
racist rogue stands on its podium
vehemently attacks with insult
9/24/2017
"In the misty corridors of the soul",
There are things both young and old;
Some of which are lovely and wholesome.
But some are best left unseen and lonesome.
In such compartments, they must remain.
Otherwise, they only further the pain.
Neither the person nor any stands to gain.
The issue has left a deep wound and a stain.
In the dark nights of the soul, feeling alone and cold,
The heart will ache with secrets that are never told.
Tears will slowly fall as our heads and pillows roll.
Through the mistiness, life will be written on a scroll.
It's not that no one cares, but do I even dare to share?
We are all human, and we do inhale the very same air.
Some matters we bear commonly, but others are rare.
Our lives were never given with a promise to be fair.
These stains can only be cleaned by Christ's blood.
Only God Himself can determine the greater good.
When it's all said and done, it will be understood.
Only then will the scales be balanced as they should.3
Today is the day she begins her quest
Her challenge to make herself whole...
Her energy and nerves will be put to the test
"In the misty corridors of the soul"
Recently doubts have confused her mind,
Her questions have depths of complexity.
Her confidence and faith feel undermined
In her newfound perplexity.
"In the misty corridors of the soul"
A dim or distant light is in view...
A warped concept of life has taken its toll
And she knows not what to do!
She's like a frightened, lost girl in a forest
Who has no direction to follow.
Will screaming for help work out for the best?
Will struggling alone in despair and sorrow?
Will hindsight become a luxury for her
When she looks back, when she feels whole?
An unknown quantity of people are there
"In the misty corridors of the soul"
(3)
Walking on my own
The future unknown
Where do I go now?
I wish it was shown...
Thinking figurine
My future unseen
Which door will open?
Stranded in between...
Unsettled ambler
The future a blur
When will dreams come true?
No one can augur...
Confused and crazy
The future hazy
What will happen next?
Life can be mazy...
Corridors all blear
The future unclear
Who will walk with me?
I wish you were here...
Pathways untrodden
The future hidden
How long must I wait?
I'm still uncertain...
11/20/17
Contest: Empty Your Soul With Words
Sponsor: Broken Wings
During the cold empty
corridors of silence
where mind and thoughts
are free to roam
undisturbed by life's
din and clutter
I am at one with myself
again and in quiet contemplation
alone.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2012.
Form:
Cradled in her loving arms,
Swaddled in his cotton cloth,
Still Born.
Her piercing cries split through the air,
Thundering,
Echoing,
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
Deafening silence
He bowed his head in disbelief,
Father,
Shaking like a leaf,
A lump,
A sore throat,
A whipping of the heart.
She took the baby close to her,
Peaceful,
Final,
Sleep,
“Breathe, little one”
“Wake up please”
She whispered
Denial
Hope
Evaporated like the morning dew,
Tears heavy on her cheeks,
She knew.
He knew.
Nothing any one could do.
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
His grief, their grief,
A tear ran down his cheek,
He clasped his face,
Eyes red,
He sobbed,
Robbed,
Immense their loss,
His heart wrenched,
A thud!
He collapsed into a heap,
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
Loath to part
She gave the baby up,
Her pain,
Anger,
Hate,
God,
Fate.
The nurse,
A job,
Her curse,
To Bare witness,
Pain,
suffering,
Loss,
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
you walk to the door turning
the knob finding
a perceived reality lighting the world
a perceived light explaining the world
a dark corridor leading
into another dark corridor
then to a lobby
and a vestibule door to what
you believe
you hope
to be an exit
from your interior
to the outside
outside you find
true reality and
meaning occasionally
leading
light to dark
dark to light
in to out
out to in
to the end
In the corridors of power
Even rats and flies have power
Every whisper, every murmur
Carries a weighty and meaningful implications
Ladies and gentle men walk but betray
In dark corners they whisper
Busy bees after the scented flowers
Heartbroken, they slide and slip out in quietude
Like serpents driven by venom
They sit and wait for their victims
Shadows in dark corners, silhouetted figures
Floating down corridors of protected power,
Sanctuary for schemers and hungry vultures
Circling impoverished prey for them to devour,
grey suits that compliments their complexion
Their dark thoughts, intentions flow through their head
egoistical aims to promote re-election
to Westminster palace, blue,yellow green or red,
Political Party machines turn, produce laws
by invisible people in air conditioned
Rooms, payed for by my hard work and yours
For them to squander on favoured requisitioned,
Pacts and treaties sort on sports grounds,
amendments enhance ideological thoughts,
for power, to promote wealth has no bounds
anything in their way, they have high courts,
Power is the game, wealth is their ultimate aim,
to rule by fear, threats, to impoverish people,
World Politics are played, their goal exact same,
Why do we allow them to be so deceitful?
In the shadowed corridors of the mind, where echoes of forgotten dreams persist,
People dance through life, weaving patterns of absurdity to avoid the abyss within,
Avoiding the cold mirror of the soul, where truth waits, silent and unyielding,
For it is not in imagining figures of light that we find our true selves,
But in the brave embrace of darkness, where consciousness awakens.
The night is a canvas, vast and endless, where the whispers of the soul take form,
Each star a memory, each shadow a fear, painting the landscape of our inner world,
And yet, we flee from this sacred place, seeking refuge in the mundane and absurd,
Building castles in the air, fragile and ephemeral, to escape the depths of our being.
In the heart of this darkness, where the secrets of the soul lie hidden,
Lies a beauty untouched by the light of day, a mystic truth waiting to be known,
Here, in the silent embrace of the night, enlightenment begins,
Not in the radiance of imagined figures, but in the conscious awakening to our own shadows.
As we wander through the labyrinth of existence, the soul whispers its ancient song,
A melody of longing, of forgotten truths, of the sacred dance between light and dark,
And in this dance, we find the essence of our being, the pulse of the cosmos within us,
For it is in making the darkness conscious that we become whole, that we become true.
The journey is not one of light alone, but of the interplay of shadows and stars,
Of facing the absurdity of our fears and the beauty of our wounds,
In this twilight realm, where the soul's night meets the dawn of understanding,
We find the magic, the melancholy, the mystic truth of our existence.
In the depths of the soul's night, where the conscious and unconscious intertwine,
We become the alchemists of our own being, transforming darkness into light,
For in this sacred space, in the embrace of our own shadows,
We find enlightenment, we find the true magic of life.
In the corridors of the modern soul, where echoes of ancient fears still whisper,
We run, we chase, we bury ourselves in the clutter of endless pursuits,
Like children caught in the thrall of a wild, untamed tempest,
Afraid to pause, to feel our pulsating essence.
Our days are filled with ceaseless hustle,
A dance of tasks that blur the edges of our fragmented selves,
For to stop, to breathe, to truly live in the moment,
Is to face the vast abyss of our own existence, raw and unadorned.
We drown our senses in the numbing embrace of fleeting pleasures,
The liquid of forgotten memory flows like alcohol, drugs twist perception into surreal tapestries,
Each sip, each inhalation, a silent prayer for escape,
From the haunting shadows that roam our unexplored psyches.
In our quest to master life, to carve order from its chaotic tapestry,
We become alchemists of control, forging illusions of power,
Yet the tighter we grasp, the more life escapes us,
Slipping like water through our desperate fingers.
In the era of action, where success is the idol we fervently worship,
We sacrifice the richness of our inner worlds on the altar of productivity,
More deeds, fewer dreams, more motion, fewer emotions,
A generation that races through the labyrinth of existence, fearing to linger.
Modern sexuality reflects this relentless turmoil,
More mechanics, less magic, more friction, less fire,
Passion fades in the relentless quest for more,
Leaving hearts yearning, souls adrift in a sea of unsated desires.
In the quiet corners of the night, when the world sinks into silence,
Our fears whisper truths we dare not face by daylight,
That to truly live means to embrace the storm within,
To soar on the wings of unfettered emotion, to dance in the rain of our tears,
To be carried away by the wild beauty of our own humanity.
For in the stillness between the beats of our racing hearts,
Lies the secret of life’s profound melody,
Not in what we do, but in what we feel,
Not in control, but in surrender,
To the wild, wondrous, aching truth of our own existence.