Best Dialects Poems
There is a poem in my heart,
that beats in different dialects.
Da ist ein Gedicht in meinem Herzen,
which flows freely through my veins.
Il y à un poème dans mon cœur,
that tickles the tip of my tongue.
Existe um poema no meu coração,
which dances with a million sighs.
Wo xinzhong, youyi shou shi,
that is suppressed by emotionless expression.
Mery dil mein bi aik nazam hai,
silent, as it cannot be heard through speech.
Jest wiersz w moim sercu,
unwritten, as it cannot be read through words.
Am o poezie in inima mea,
that hides behind a dynasty of lyrics.
Det er et dikt i mitt hjerte,
which only serenades internal chambers.
Yparxei ena poihma sthn kardia mou,
that conducts symphonies with my mind.
V moemy serzi jyve poezia,
which may never be understood.
Mei wor echo kèn non ngasangasei,
that whispers words for my beloved.
There is a poem in my heart,
because my heart is a poem.
The Silent One
25 April 2018
Categories:
dialects, poetry, poets,
Form:
Free verse
What if love is the religion,
and heaven a voice
with no ego;
synchronized in
harmonious hope,
speaking dialects
of kindness?
What if hell is a myth,
and evil lurks as shadows,
dressed in greed
and insincere speech?
What if there’s no fine line
between dusk and dawn?
no strained streak between
darkness and light,
blurring out visions
of wrong and right?
But If love is the religion,
would the Universe
tame the storms
raging above holy shrines?
If honesty can see through
the sunless eyes of
sinners crawling
as nocturnal creatures,
preying on gullible souls-
disguised as saints,
would they mend
sacred survivors?
for, they’ve conquered
colossal galaxies rising
from unbeatable infernos.
In a world that is oblivious
to the grieving clouds,
drizzling tears from the azure.
I wish, you and I, would read
the same book of intuitions;
scriptures that reveal
no name to the faith we behold.
Sometimes, I close
my confused heart,
allow third eye to
roam and reach,
to find heaven through
astral waltzing,
across spiritual realms,
where hymns of healing echo.
Perhaps, it’s been
etched in karmic kismet,
that amidst fleeting time
and passing seasons,
love shall rise like
a forgiving flower,
sprouting from emptiness.
Embalmed in jasmine rain water,
pouring upon the
emblem of empathy.
So, don’t speak, just listen,
close your eyes, awaken
your awareness to the air,
witness the unspoken truth,
swirling through weary winds,
caressing fragile skin,
like eagle feathers.
Seek beyond all that
which shimmers,
there flows dreams that glow,
woven with faith;
a combination of meraki,
and divine elements.
Categories:
dialects, gospel, heaven, imagination, muse,
Form:
Free verse
My mind is a puzzle of cryptic metaphors.
whilst searching for my sanity,
I've become my own worst enemy.
In this cauldron of despair,
time is like sand in my hand -
an oxymoron poetic
paradox of cruel compassion.
Sadistic green eyes bring my demise,
as my sighs are captured by the wind,
slowly morphed into madness and travesty.
I sit alone on the throne of midnight illusions,
cursed by dark imaginations
lingering like mouldy air,
as vivid flashing images
engrave inkstained imprints.
Dripping lament from a
palette of black and white,
colouring in the emptiness of my sensitive soul.
In echoing whispers of weeping violins,
whimsical vibratos from wooden wind-chimes,
steadily orchestrate instrumental sonatas,
ringing through my strained metallic heart,
whilst I try to strum strangled strings,
harmonizing an inconsistent symphony of a tragedy.
Fate has me stranded within a monotonous loop of uncertainties,
for when twilight’s last breath piercingly eclipsed over
lyrical edges of my insomniac shadow,
it awoke restless beasts of nocturnal nights -
in nightmares I wondered does no one hear my screams?
i can see dazzling dusts of black diamonds,
drizzle manuscripts of maniac irony
translating dialects hidden behind unshed tears
that gleam like shooting stars,
as i sing mystical moonbeams,
sewn with silver sequins of euphonious memories on refrain,
chorused from nameless tunes of timeless tomorrows,
as the magic of the maestro,
residing in the highest bridge of sanguine skies,
guides these electric fears, trapped between
synchronized layers of my unsettled skin.
I'm tired from intangible tears in the mirror,
slowly sinking me in swirls of sorrow,
like a bruised creature
seeking shelter in a silk cocoon,
so this aurora's smile is no longer a masquerade.
I hunger for rays of sunlight to paint my skin
in a plethora of pastels,
so this golden bronze queen,
can once again glitter
in a crown of illuminating heartbeats.
Categories:
dialects, angst, anxiety, mental health,
Form:
Free verse
I hope you would still remember me as we were,
every time you see pristine
passing pomegranate hues of the horizon.
When clouds smear our unspoken love
in inexplicable figurines,
of those simple moments we
reignited beneath our own twilight,
reliving our dreams in
remaining rosy dialects of romantic recollections,
as I have a confession to make
beneath this cluttering of chaos.
I wasn’t ready to let you nor our late night conversations go,
After all these years, all my heart ever desires,
is for you to see the broken empire
behind these weary eyes.
I have long been a gift of solitude and sorrow,
But as I’ve let you go, my hopes swayed a lilac
feathered goodbye,
Although you’ll never know how a simple hey,
once upon a time, saved my life,
and embellished my universe with pearlescent
moonstones and amethysts.
Yet I still question you, in rustic rhymes you can’t comprehend,
Have you forgotten how to pronounce my name?
is it because your heart doesn’t feel the same?
Have your desires now become tame?
As you walk away, why am I the one to take the blame?
Is our love now lost in history?
Is that why you’ve left me in so much mystery?
In your absence the mind battles against violence.
All is mute in a void of meaningless silence.
Did you forget to love me today?
Is this the price I have to pay?
Just for you to say that you’ll love me
again in the same way, someday.
Categories:
dialects, break up, deep, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
punctuation walks
on eggshells
when
words like
water
falls
flow into nothingness,
soaked in syrupy syllables
behind veiled vowels
assonance is the twin of
consonance as
a e i o u
are an
unfinished bridge
without connection
of consonants
weaved together
in visible
unspoken actions
woven without words
just like rhythmic meter
of thunder with lightning
like a lost refrain in a poem
assembled with enjambment
metaphorical reflections of a
reflective metaphor portray a
m i r a g e less sincere than silence
value blossoms
when the body adopts
a gospel language
where speech
is unnecessary
unless expressed
through true
dialects of conduct
without the use of
lyrical accessories.
Categories:
dialects, analogy, words,
Form:
Verse
“Wicked Web of Woes”
Is there a reason
to rhyme when
lifeless fingers
breathe toxic agony,
whilst disgraced
quill suffocates
from wildering
riddles swerving to
the stillness
of calcified air?
As today, my heart
keeps pacing,
searching for a
symphony of serenity-
amid wayward clemency,
and when the first star
of the evening sky,
fades and shatters
upon a celestial canvas
of colorless dreams.
I feel the sweeping
wings of salvation,
resting amidst
clipped faith,
drifting swiftly towards
abandoned clarity;
exiled into
barren fields of
vast polarities,
where hope collapses
into an eternal demise,
tangled within a
wicked web
of woeful sagas,
trapped between
heavy clouds
of unshed tears,
beneath the
crisp cusp of sanity.
Yet I stand in
sweltering silence,
recollecting lost
chronicles of
who I once was,
whilst I’m drowning
in waves of
vexing numbness,
screaming into
the oblivious
spheres cloaked
in smoky
arctic haze,
questioning the
captive chains
of reality,
in dialects only
the moon
can comprehend.
Am I destined
to be caged
in sinful darkness
that the
world fed me,
with sharpened
knives at
empty tables,
with faceless
ghosts of yesterday?
Perhaps there’s
still a poem
that can unlock
the mystery
to a future that
thrives with
fruitful orchards,
where rain that
tastes succulent
wouldn’t burn
your flesh,
for even the
milky-ways would
unravel a realm where
everything should
be as it seems.
Vanquishing the
strings that bind—
daring me to breathe.
Ink Empress
Fading Star Silence
Categories:
dialects, life,
Form:
Free verse
"Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan,
hindi makakarating sa paroroonan".
(A person who does not remember where he came from
will never reach his destination).
Filipino proverb.
Gift me wings so I can fly to a blessed land
of emerald isles with an eclectic ecosystem,
admiring an affluence of biodiversity
of tropical exotic fauna and flora,
where turquoise waves wander onto
golden shores of alluring Binitinan,
exploring the coral reefs of Boracay.
A place where childhood dreams fill the air,
where innocence once built sandcastles,
but now all that is left is forgotten footprints -
from ghosts of ancestors.
Let me soar with the Pithecophaga Jefferyi eagle,
through rainforests and Kawasan falls,
where souls are free to roam the motherland's
seven thousand spine-tingling islands,
from Maya bay to Palawan's underground rivers
of enigmatic Puerta Princesa,
until we greet the palm trees of Camiguin -
the valley of volcanoes and the sunken cemetery.
Viewing the Colours of StoBoSa to the
pretty patterns of Ifugao rice terraces,
until we reach the marvels of Luzon,
silently perching upon the zenith of
Mount Pulag's peaks, transcending spiritual
echoes towards Mindanao's Mount Apo,
whispering secretive Tagalog tongues,
in one hundred diasporic dialects,
as iris and marmalade skies welcome sunset,
we'll bathe in the sapphire ripples of Bohol sea.
Then we'll follow radiant night lights,
reaching the bustling streets of Manila,
losing ourselves in the succulent scents
of balut, kwek kwek, taho, halo halo,
as we devour juicy lanzones,
refreshed by a cool breeze,
The pearl of the Orient,
home of Balagtas' Florante at Laura,
dulcet tones of Santiago's Anak Dalita,
where heartfelt hospitality
with rich cultural heritage,
soothe tired eyes gazing at
natural wonders of ancient views,
where vibrant hues leave you breathless.
Categories:
dialects, travel,
Form:
Free verse
In a world bejeweled
with tainted trinkets,
and feigned flowers,
we follow the
wailing waves below
whirling wind,
like secluded silhouettes,
stranded on the
cusp of chaos,
unable to find the sparkling
streak of hyacinth hope-
between dusk and dawn.
Perhaps there is a
reason why I stopped
rewriting runes with
cashmere conclusions,
as I’ve long been
dreaming of dahlias,
on weathered willows,
oblivious to the
dancing rays
of rising sun swiftly
cascading like
caramel confetti.
I am like the
sleepless ocean,
letting the
fleeting phases
of bewitching moon
lure floating sapphires;
pushing and pulling
my insomniac tides
with turquoise triggers,
as the inner-child
continues to sail
through tumultuous seas,
healing from
the trauma I’ve been fed,
concocted with
raspberry ruins,
from silver spoons,
on dulcet trays.
I’ve tasted poison
in the fruitiest of cocktails,
although the flavors
of life remain
a mystery within a fickle
game of chess,
incomplete
and unattainable.
I search for a sanctuary
where peace lilies sprout,
beneath the eclipsed horizon,
blindfolding my third eye,
as I waltz through astral
spheres to reach
an elysian dimension.
Amidst unanswered questions
hanging like
unsolvable equations,
for all that I’ve believed
was but a myth concealed
in illusory amulets,
bruising my inner psyche,
preventing me
from seeing beyond.
Yet the morning sky
convinces me to
reconsider and realign,
as the whimsical breeze
whispers in a soft cadence:
the Universe is infinite,
so am I.
This pink granite
heart is as vast as
the spring-hills with
deepest of falls,
prevailing traces of
my silenced voice.
And when mauve clouds
kissed my frail fingers,
I remembered how stars
do not need our touch,
to unravel fate laced in
citrine dust,
Like how I breathe-
lavender love,
within me,
leaving no blood
in my veins but poetry-
flowing as the poem
of pearlescent tomorrows,
through thin
sangria streams,
in daisy dialects.
So who am I~
but a mere dot on a
faceless canvas,
an echo of your rosy rhymes,
an incomplete verse with
complex metaphors,
weaving woes in
sunflower silence..
Categories:
dialects, deep, life,
Form:
Free verse
"Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more, in the leafless root there is no less" - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I'm a sunflower,
dipped in honey of
bittersweet bronze smiles,
admiring its soulmate
strolling around the sun,
in sombre shine of
eclipsed dawn, whilst
these faes lure poisoned
pollens with flaming
ruby red ocean foams,
And I see a peculiar
patchwork on knitted
canopies, which are
sprouting clayey hearts
out of crimson crooned
willow branches.
Crumbling to pixies,
falling lifeless like fragile
leaflets in autumnal carols,
I believe, twin flame
telepathy is a souvenir
of roses and thorns,
which emerges as wanton
wildfire on the brim of
ocean's moon-song
in mellifluous mystery,
outlining turmoil in
turquoise land of trolls.
For, magnetised feathers
on matte lips always get
soaked in ashey sighs
of regret, whenever
bewitching conspiracy
of his amethyst eyes,
befalls in dialects of
forest's echoes and the
brittle skin of basilisk
slithers with a deadly gaze
upon my mulberry heart.
Chasing seasonal winds,
I became the fading mist
that succumbs to the
sheath of amber rays,
infusing in my lungs,
and suffocating my love for life;
Amidst these broken skies,
you left shadows of
pencil-sketched debris,
that float like wisps
of faulty daffodils,
distorting my dreams
and twisting thy truths,
in hellfire horizon that
sets our graves apart,
beyond million miles of
satanic soliloquies.
Categories:
dialects, angst, dark, deep, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
When streams of paper roses,
bleed bitter fragrances,
evil mists of leaves slowly fall,
drifting along autumnal
breeze of yesterdays.
And i question
unseen dirt trapped
between sharpened thorns:
what if the sun,
at the end of your horizon,
seems brighter
than the skies in my mind?
What if days are a little longer
than the spoonful of quiet nights
you’ve fought?
Would you still paint
hollow bones of every skeleton
in your glass closet,
with black and white traces
flickering through
sociopathic holes and into
the windows of your rusted soul?
But what if, all this time,
you’ve been seeing silver linings
through ruby tinted glasses,
whilst steadying
your befogged sight with the core
of the devil’s unspoken mantras?
Maybe, the fault is in what flows
beneath your thick flesh,
that refuses to let redolent air
to rush in,
unless wicked winds
orchestrate songs of your
delusional manifestation.
So unlock the rails of
your iron heart,
follow me to the fields
of fluorescent fuchsias;
for I’ve always dared
to speak invisible visions
of my scarlet desires,
as I run with teal green wildflowers,
where pleasure spells my name
across lawns
in soft lavender dusks.
I fear no mourning monsters
dressed in golden feathers;
virtual vultures
speaking in demonic dialects,
waltzing with energy vampires.
They pretend to be angels
of cyan eden, oblivious
to the burning hell they reek,
exhaling scripted sentiments
of sanctimonious metaphors.
Whilst rhyming with a
cruel conscience,
seeking for meaningless endings.
They craft empty
expressions in
ghostly recitations,
revised to ruin
every starry sphere,
where achromatic ink-sanity,
remains reluctant to
follow me and my moon.
Categories:
dialects, dark, deep, feelings, meaningful,
Form:
Free verse
Listen to the jazz instrumentals of Masekela,
as you take red wine outside a thatched
shelter in a beach in the Western Cape.
Enjoy a hearty meal of bobotie (meatloaf),
chakalaka (a spicy vegetable relish),
tomato bredie (a lamb and tomato stew),
potbrood (pot bread),
melktert ( dessert)......
and other forms of cuisine;
have a siesta in the canvas tents,
then you visit the misty mountains
of the Magoebaskloof.
To feel at one with nature,
visit Limpopo, and get lost in the awesomeness
of sighting elephants, lions, rhinos.....
You'll see baobab trees stretching their branches
to the red, setting sun;
get dazzled by the Limpopo river's majestic
flow to the Indian Ocean.
Introduce yourself to all kinds of dialects and people;
Africans, Dutch, Indians, and Malaysians.
Watch their traditional dances,
and listen to their folklore - it will remind you
we are from the same Womb; Earth.
See Nelson Mandela in people's smiles and way
of doing things in the cities, streets, and towns.
Listen to South Africa's unifying anthem,
as you take a ship back home......
Categories:
dialects, africa, culture, dedication, journey,
Form:
Free verse
Graffiti frames a tunneled tomb, beneath the city's core
where writings stretch upon the wall in dialects profaned
A hallmark and a tell-tale sign, but somehow, no one sees
Unspoken fears have set apart the lives that mingle here
In every shade the masses grow, and mingle side by side
Day, by day, the same routine, sardines until they die
The writing on the tunneled walls is just a sign to come
that walls have grown to come between the hands of humankind
They board as one, but coldness churns through veins beneath the ground
Habits honed have deafened ears to echoes all around
Distance tumbles through the aisles, small words too frail to say
"How are you, what can I do to help you smile today?"
Too occupied for reaching out to be the other's friend
No glance, no chance to say hello to the stranger by your side
No hands to grasp, no questions asked, just eyes in downward glance,
A phone in hand, whatever land, beyond all human touch
As seasons pass, left in the dust the silence breeds and feeds
more apathy, that beats the heart, as cold and hard as stone..
The sound of silence just rumbles on, until the walls come down
_________________________________________________________
4/27/18
Categories:
dialects, people, places, society,
Form:
Free verse
When silence speaks in broken dialects, to harmonize hurt,
I ponder, would the sky unravel synonyms for serenity,
amidst piercing thunder that strikes through raining regrets~
upon flowers, swaying forsaken, to butterfly ballads?
But will oblivious eyes, roaming the blackness of selfish spheres~
where prayers are abandoned as meaningless metaphors,
ever feel the darkness we carry, when tears no longer flow in lakes with swans, to be seen?
It is in melted muteness, we reveal realness of suppressed pain,
as childhood fears scribbled as forbidden secrets~
rewind on repeat through holographic lens of life,
mirroring bloodstained fingerprints etched across linen of chastity…
So tonight, when blue moon in my mind ascends in insomniac stillness,
listen to the sulfuric sins scattered as flashbacks of an onyx rose,
as vandalized veins scream in helplessness,
awaiting a sculptured sunrise that bleeds balmy ointments for burnt blisters,
while I remain, in mists of misery, weaving prose,
to erase tattooed torment that stole starry symphonies within my soul. ..
Categories:
dialects, abuse, dark,
Form:
Free verse
From fjords, forests, hot springs,
slopes and snowy mountains,
people from different 'walks of life,'
connect their cultures to entertain.
A vision of Europe and humanity,
where a continent is home to many dialects,
serenading in diverse artistic styles.
Blending voices that carry something distinct,
bellowed from a ballad, rock or
something completely comedic.
I can hear the echoes of Celine Dion's
'Ne partez pas sans moi'
and the soothing tones of Gwendolyne,
from the dulcet Julio Iglesias.
Unifying musical tongues to
sing with sincere camaraderie,
bringing people together, dancing to
iconic beats like ABBA's - Waterloo.
A stage where future superstars
are born, glorifying 'Long live love.'
reminiscing Olivia Newton John's
universal message, be it in
fast rhythms or slow beats.
An evening of sporadic colours,
where dreams really do come true.
Where strangers join arms and
find new friendship - despite the politics.
One by one each country votes,
dreading the 'nil pois,'
fabricating many a conspiracy,
where the Baltic and Balkan states
seem to love each other's music.
Each vote unfolds excitement,
as nations anticipate the outcome
from the public vote -
there is always a surprise!
Eurovision, may not feature perfect lyrics,
nor angelic voices - in fact not all participants
are from Europe anymore!
Still millions tune in on their TV's
and radio's bringing people together
through the power of music.
Categories:
dialects, appreciation,
Form:
Free verse
I d r
e a
m away
from the golden-laced drapes,
tracing smoke-veiled cloudscapes,
reminiscing rainbow reveries,
raining with musical laughter,
mirroring the sun within
my maternal spirit,
drawing cerulean smiles
across the kaleidoscopic sky
with initials of my
beloved June child.
As in acrylics, I find happiness,
and in palettes of pastels
I feel the twilight twinkles of time,
revealing rosemary reasons to rhyme
in rhinestone radiance,
releasing runes ~
ricocheting colors
of my hibiscus heartbeat…
O kismet constellations,
I breathe glitters of gratitude
to the sapphire stars
and swirling sparks
drifting through shifting monsoons,
cradled in the
blissful sighs of my son.
For in his presence,
murky mists of melancholy
fade into neon nothingness;
in his words,
a thousand gardens glisten and glow;
in his eyes,
I see hues of hope ~
ballad of a seraphic summer.
Perhaps, the voice of this
unconditional love remains
the synonym of happiness,
the syllables of zen,
and the metaphors of euphoria,
bound to the skin ~
of rooted truth,
truth of a mother
dressed in the dulcet dews
seized from the dawn
when he learned the light of life…
So let me rephrase,
in redundant dialects,
to write in coherent cadence,
of the warmth I weave,
of the peace I paint,
within jeweled lines of lavender…
I smile not because I see no sorrow,
but because my existence
is a mere iron-arched
gateway to guide astral rays
above the island shores
where his footprints echo,
porcelain patterns,
erasing fringes from
the blemished blurs
of grieving moonlight
caressing the sanguine sea
rippling with turquoise tranquility ~
a tale of teal tomorrow...
Categories:
dialects, child, love, magic,
Form:
Free verse