Best Diminution Poems
If only the moon's diminution of the Sun
Could eclipse the hate humanity has spun
What a miracle of Nature THAT would be
One that wouldn't cause any harm to see
So maybe it's a warning, the corona of red
That we may see much darker times ahead
Or perhaps a revelation that wisdom brings
That ALL life hangs on diaphanous strings
It is rare, indeed, with the sun in its shroud
But rarer, still, this grand life we're endowed.
Fifty years ago this July
Three American astronauts put the lie to 'Why'
On the surface of the Moon they made a pinpoint landing
Primitive technological devices notwithstanding
We thought the era of space exploration had started
But after only six more missions, the Moon we departed
For 47 years now we haven't been back
It is raw courage, or determination, that we lack?
Sad to say, it's a fundamental distortion of human vision
No longer do we look outside ourselves for challenges to meet and surpass
We've become self-absorbed narcissists, content to sit on our arses
This diminution of our vision comes at a steep price
When the going gets rough, be it at home or abroad
Our instinct is to give up, not to make sacrifices
The eyes of mild dawn on the body of sky
No nose to smell
No ear to hear
No tongue to speak and taste
No hand to touch
No leg to walk away
Just has open breast where heart is playing
A divine ancient game
White rose water on the field
Fertile land in contented embracing
Watering, planting; Watering, planting
No fertilizer comes to interfere
No locust comes to deter far
Yet, swindled all in the imperishable air
Luster of eyes in diminution fair,
In blind, deaf and dumb gyre
No more this time-
Within the blink of eye
Sleeping is wrecked into smile
World finds the sweet child
©Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
31/10/2022
New Year resolutions
They are back. Yesteryears’ resolutions
That evaporated ere execution.
My first one this time around
Is that resolves shouldn’t get drowned
Or suffer the slightest diminution.
This one sure was fairly easy enough
But the do’s and don’ts looming large look tough
It’s better for me to wait
Than decide and then debate
Those tricky easier-said-than-done-stuff.
Sorry, I have no habits to kick
Though there are a good many for the pick
I’ve no weight to lose or gain
Or fitness goals that are pain
Save a crick in neck to get rid of quick .
@ 31/ Dec/ 12
For Gwendolen's 'Limerick in the pocket'
The first person who grew wheat
would have been called “wheat”
and hence the local chieftain and village folks
would have given a nomenclature
to his discovery,
honoring it with his name
it would have been his name
or something rhyming with it
like “cheat”, “heat” or “eat”
or perhaps “treat”
there was probably someone called “gehu”
in India, who grew this grain
and there is a resembling treatise of words
“gay hun” (I am gay) proclaiming sexual choice
giving it a contemporary feel
of an alternative orientation
were they different people who grew it
at the same time, in the different parts of the world?
was it really Mr. Wheat
Or el trigo, blé or weizen
Spanish, French or German
was the wandering original Mr. Wheat
or cheat or heat or the Russian pshenitsy
who propagated this and we missed his chronicles?
and we missed his chronicle of travels
and basic grassroots experiences
of the genesis of rotis and cakes
of flavor stimulants, of bakes
and of the grass of wheat
for a figure conscious succulent lass
wheat and all its ontology
and the first one’s ecstasy
whosoever it was
had a higher calling
than the current day diminution
================================================
~*~
wreathing this life's mind's eye - wrenched, gnarled, hit, burked
neurons in diminution - clashed, rammed, slayed
futility tops up canvass of murk
phonemes, words, phrases now frolicly played
heart's lyrical requiem overlaid
poesy - penned, written in woe death's crypt
shrieking the LIMITLESS lines of my SCRIPT.
~*~
==========================================================
*-* jun-jun villanueva
*-* " RHYME ROYAL " contest
Once upon a solstice night
thou moon in perfect glory
hung an effervescent light
to tell a lonely story
A silhouette of pure white cotton
danced on the rain laden ground
her rhythm remembered of passion forgotten
as beauty seductively moved without sound
Fullest moon ah cricket symphonies
floating droves of firefly light
they found their muse by her solitary mystery
'twas a grandest moment in life
What good reason would an olive skinned maiden
In bare feet dance under solstice moon?
her feelings were larger than her life's narration
such grand imagination needs room
The only eyes that saw her that night
were the nocturnal creatures that prey
like men riding high upon entitlements right
fierce as time... as it's
slipping
away
She danced a wingless flutter
her hair like petals in the wind
like dreams laced with summer
her eyes were full of fire for the flint
To know the riddle of her soul
one must know the poets tune
examine her language without diminution
to know the ghost in the dance which she holds
Yes, once upon a solstice night
mesmerized by the lure of the moon
she left her tears upon her bed
and choose instead though alone... her dance with fate to resume
On the day after Jesus’ death, on Preparation Day,
Which was when the Jews removed yeast from bread,
That was to be eaten like clockwork on the Saturday,
When the Jews were ruminating on if the events lead,
To their extinction and diminution, their downfall,
In Israel’s land so advanced for its time and place,
By their argument with the government categorical,
Over whether to redirect taxation onto Jesus’ face.
So the chief priests and the pharisees’ political party,
Got together then and discussed with great thought,
What policy to suggest to Pilate and with what clarity,
To maintain the normal state, to keep what they’d got;
They said, When Jesus was living he claimed he’d arise,
From the dead, so his disciples will engineer this fate,
They will steal his body but report to the people his eyes,
Are alive, and that he is awake. Please tell us how to wait?
So Pilate ordered these upholders of the government realm,
To put their soldiers on guard duty and secure the tomb,
As best they could, and they obeyed and took the helm:
So they sealed the stone and posted a guard, so no womb.
But they didn’t count on a massive big terrifying earthquake,
Whilst the two Mary’s were gazing upon the tomb, cold,
Which they took advantage of by the movement horrific,
Of the stone being shaken, deserting its grounded hold.
The two Mary’s faces alit, they smiled broadly with hope,
And jumped up, using the force of the quake to stand,
And pushed with all their strength the stone and could cope,
Because the quake at one point favoured their hand.
The soldier guard was humiliated and didn’t was to admit,
To his failure to prohibit anyone from removing the stone,
Allowing the body to be made into nothing, cremated, lit,
So he said nothing happened to Pilate in a very serious tone.
I have dug this one out of the poetry attic; composed when a teen, hence the dated references. Fellow Soupers of my age-group (60 in a few weeks- Yikes!) might enjoy it:
Friend, watch out! They're talking.
Have you heard what they're talking about?
They're not talking about revolution
Nor of mystical ablution,
Not of meaningful discussions
Nor of drastic repercussions.
Not of drugs and their results
Nor of wars and satanic cults.
Not of full-blooded,Medal-studded,Octo-Olympians
Nor of the tragedy of fading Ethiopians.
Not of whether the weather will hold out.
Will I tell you what they're talking about?
They're not talking about extinction
Nor about energy diminution.
Not about the bludging bureaucracy
Nor of stifling plutocracy.
Not about student-Left activity
Nor of the signs of cultural declivity.
Not about aspects of phallic domination
Nor of real genuine insemination.
Not about who is sure and who in doubt.
Should I tell you who they're talking about?
They're not talking about Nixonfrancocastroamin
Nor of that handydandy, non-returnable
Devastatingly non-biodegradable container
Their fingerfriedlickinchicken lunch was served in.
Not of astronautical penetrations
Nor of the psycho-sexual implications
Of the demise of Chairman Mao.
Not of matters affecting us right here and now!
Nor of suicide, VD, rape, fraud, famine and disease.
Not of all the things like these
Which make this world the wonderful place that it
Most certainly is (and
All divinely-ordained to wit!)
No! They're talking about subversion,
Of unabashed, unwashed perversion!
In short ( and I hear all this is true)
Those bastards are talking about ME & YOU!
since becoming housed here since this year
july first two thousand and seventeen,
tubby more precise where
with thee missus, amidst bucolic environs,
(one could don underwear
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
trees abundant with leaves of grass spare
zip cone: one nine four seven three,
this resident doth not find *****
disproportionate amount of time,
he spends never to overhear
the mostly soundproof walls
inside apartment b44 assigned midyear,
one bedroom living social space
gives ample opportunity to assess linear
ratcheting asper elderly folks inch along
chronological space/time continuum
fragile as jasperware
many experience diminution
of vital sensory organs, and oft time cannot hear
even without television blasting away,
no doubt harboring anticipatory anxiey sans,
grim reaper's unannounced visit they fear
their non verbal body language
(when aye espy and stride-rite past,
an old lady or man riding shot gun
securely strapped in wheel chair,
shuffling back where buffalo used to roam,
or trudging to common all purpose gathering place)
speaks volumes analogous to a frightened deer
when caught blindsided
within bright lights of an automobile 'ere
unsure which way to go, and dashing out in the thick
of evening rush hour traffic,
lacking notion, the figurative coast not clear
subsequently doe ting bucks killed, where birds of prey
thence loftily circle gracefully
gliding within upper atmospheric air
page number two:
upon scrutinizing what doth appear
as a hollowed out existence induces me to de clear
to maximize utilizing each precious moment 'ere
before each major metaphorical cog and gear
frankly zaps, this dude looks like a lady,
cuz ah ma longish bedraggled hydrogen peroxide tinted hair
me haint give a rats ass
what rumor mongers relish, and behind me back jeer
Since old people lack for purposefulness tis unlike to leer
that one day (fast as snap of fingers), lack of being ambulatory t'will be near
and upon limitation in physical functionality, aye aim to app pear
motivated to partake of mental exercises just sitting on me rear.
These graphite singularities
contain universes
unconceived,
awaiting
the Big Bang
of inspiration, but
narrative particles
escape like
Hawking radiation --
gravity’s diminution
evaporatively slow,
nearly virtual,
and random.
Concerns sit out there
on the periphery,
the suffering and misery of wars,
deaths by disasters be it
by natural or human causes,
the reckless diminution
of forests -
all creep like shadows
across the face of the earth.
What can I do
but be a witness
and add a frail voice
to a powerless chorus
calling out from under the heel
of wealth and might -
to be labelled
a soft centered dreamer
of dreams long abandoned
in favor of the more
popular cult of the self's
omniscience.
I find a place somewhere
in the stillness of an evening
and thought by thought, try
to dismantle the pretenses
of who I am
and in that cleared arena
invite the good to speak
and make room for the cries
of the afflicted to rise up
from out of the earth.
I do not know whether
their voices will be heard
or, like sounds carried
on the winds,
slowly exhaust and disperse
into the distances
of an evening
and the greater universe
Flakes as silent satin
Sail down salubriously
Dissipating into stupefaction
Hitherto ramming clay
They were the forlorn harbingers
Before a cataclysm of sposh
Burst through the firmament
Like a derailed locomotive
Besmirching any implement in ambit
The innocuous sniff of sposh
Vilifying my cranium
As with a burst of gore
Revivifying to the hub
After an interlude of rhythmic diminution and distend
A rapturous ardor of splendor
Garnering me into a frosty sphere
Of flakes and satin
Methinks it snows.
Disappointed Devil - Hood Das Fume And Fret
'Curse darned demon
of that thar
underworld nudged me abet
as a permanent solution
to a temporary problem
i.e. principally no money
and rising debt
not for a long time didst
I feel so distressed didst,
where no amount of
optimism could get
back joie de vivre ebullient elan,
that oft times fines me jet
ting hither and yon, to and fro,
until spent energy met
fatigue, whence sand
man gave his pet
tickle yore sleep inducing
sprinkling granular set
tat heave, albeit
non off fence sieve tet
deep slumber didst
hone like a whet
stone, less drastic alternative versus
welcoming grim reaper, yet
eventually, aye reckon
this human machine
moost give up the ghost
boot not now,
cuz this moment hike ken boast...,
an immediate diminution
of anguish, viz unlike as told
yesterday, the monthly doled
social security automatic direct
electronic deposit extolled
joyus relief, viz checking account
death rattle didst sense a gold
din shimmer and em bold
qua slight monetary profusion
lowering destitution,
asper dearth of monies
allowing ease to un fold,
which severe dire straits rolled
forward respite
with money for nothing
oppressive full (rick kitty)
full Nelson neck
i.e. near choke hold
rejuvenated brittle psyche mold
during self feeling auld
also attendant temp
purred critical pull
away woe decreased yielding
(all "talk" and no action),
following thru with desperate,
sans destructive (irreversible)
actions unable to hold,
metaphorical tiger of despair
by the figurative tail,
where soul of mine
almost got "sold"
for a pittance (NOT penitence)
to the Prada devil
(or similar facsimile thereof)
rational self didst scold
spewing idle "FAKE"
hollw we ning suicidal threats,
not necessarily bold
cuz, this scribe did not write
his last (nor first,
second, third...) will
and testament before death,
would hove found
me stiff and cold.
^_^ ~~~~~~~~~^_^~~~~~~~~~ (0_0) (0_0)
Wreathing this encephalon - wrenched, gnarled, murdered
Neurons in diminution - de-escalated, clashing, ramming now lethargic
Canvass of verse and poesy - lacking, still vacuous and comic
But language and fervour is penned, tedium and ennui clobbered.