Best Discoloured Poems
It was like the sun did not rise
and mourning birds sang
no morning melody.
The heavens were so grey,
pouring like Noah's floods,
preparing me for the storm,
which drowned my heart.
I felt like a butterfly helpless against the wind.
I had no time to build an ark
nor to sail towards those uneven paths,
which would allow me to hear your last breath.
Maybe hold your hand and hear you
call my name one last time.
I will never forget that moment of silence,
when the world seemed to pause
and I feel, I'm still standing still,
feeling numb, unable to express myself,
so I supress myself.
Waiting for the birds to sing.
To trigger suppressed sentiments,
but there is no metaphor for this void I feel,
like the emptiness of the room,
where you would say;
"my prince has come home"
You would always ask if I was hungry,
still force me to eat when I was not.
Together we would pick
sweet grapes from those vines,
which ran high up against
your sage veranda.
You would always bring out
the pot I cracked,
when I was six,
saying with a nostalgic look;
"Hands of my first grandson broke this."
How you would treasure such memories.
The season of death has returned,
to steal my jewel away from me.
I look in dismay at discoloured fallen leaves,
scattered like my emotions.
Will those fruits ever taste the same,
now that your precious hands cannot pick them?
Who will treasure what I broke?
You used to always call grandpa's name,
now I know you are together again.
Mama still calls for you,
I say to myself, she has gone, mum,
as has her laughter and her smile.
There will be no more hugs,
no one to call nanna now.
The sky still remains dark,
but the floods seem to be easing
and
I know one day the sun will return,
as will the birds,
singing in your remembrance.
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it..."
E.E. Cummings
Amber hues kissed twilight's platinum pigments that night,
beckoning ivory pearls to weave patterns of astral flames.
Charm of the crescent moon glowed in a golden gem tinge,
dazzling in divine desires, devoted to admirers of starlit destinies.
Enamoured, we embraced, consoling under coral constellations,
forgetting fears, promising to forever remain as cosmic lanterns.
Galactic fires of euphoria, blazed celestial candles into dripping wax,
hushing horizons into a heavenly haven of honeysuckle hope.
Intoxicated inside fireworks of ethereal lights, dancing on clouds,
jasmine jubilance filled the air, as shy silver sparks slipped away.
Kindled spirits like nocturnal diamonds yearned to be eternal
lovers of luminescent lullabies lingering inside opalescent orbs.
Magnetism of moonlight melodies are enchanting, but ephemeral,
nothing lasts forever, so at dawn with the arrival of a nightingale
orchestra, our obsession of obeisance withered like an orchid obituary.
Pastel passions of our paramour portrait discoloured with daylight dew,
quivering in nature's quiet quarantine of quintessence slumber.
Radiant rays only offered reflections of regret and rejection, as,
sorrows of sunflowers in winter winds shattered my hourglass heart.
These tribulations torment my tired soul, like a refugee of romance.
Unstable, under an umber universe, I've become an uncherished
verse in a voiceless vocabulary, no longer vibrant nor valued.
Wilting in the wilderness without your wisteria whispers, wounds in
xanthous tumours, hidden behind a veil of Xanadu metaphors,
yearn to heal from yesterdays, where your touch softened my burdens.
Zest of your zealotry is engraved in echoes of my zephyr heartbeats.
I always weep for you in the hush of eventide hills.
In their mystical muteness I can hear your heartbeats.
As tears indulge in indigo dusky deepening horizons,
I put my hope in the last morning star which lusters
upon waves with sapphire iridescence shades of eternity,
flowing upon seashell shores stroking your sacred footprints.
Ever since your opulent hypnotic essence
stole the innocence of my lucent purity,
you've left me drunk on the wine of passion.
I'm stumbling like a drunkard in the dappled depth of desire,
with my provocative facade forming into a bodacious flame,
searching for my poetic pearl lost in a sea of mauve enchantment.
Wailing winds have discoloured my eyes with stained illusions,
in their darkness, I yearn for your sunlit glimmer to reappear.
I've been kissing the emptiness of porcelain moonlight,
since you left behind the taste of your fragrant lullaby.
Wondering if my kiss illuminated the ebony entities,
veiled inside your mystique of midnight eyes.
Visions of your majestic scarlet seraphim lips,
poised in sultry pulsation, forever flutter,
floating like blended opal and onyx butterflies.
Their tender beauteous softness merging
like ambrosia echoes of a cocoon, composing
the sweetness of saccharine symphonies,
caressing my soul like a magnolia breeze.
Oh my beloved ethereal lover,
will I be forever dreaming of your paradisiacal grace,
seeking your celestial scent from dusk till dawn?
Won't you gift me one shimmery glimpse
of your rialto rosette silhouette.
Forever wrap me in the sanctuary of your satin wings,
like the warm merino shawl of love's allure.
Why leave me in this state of silent saudade,
where I hunger for the silken hymn of your tongue.
Why bless me with such treasures,
only to deprive me?
The Silent One
27 December 2022
In May two thousand and seven I was on a beach on the sand
When it was time to leave I noticed, I was missing my gold band
I started digging the sand frantically, my wife she helped too
We were flying home the next day, there was little we could do.
Before we left the beach I took a picture, of where we had lay
I hoped that sometime in the future we'd return here one day
My wife about five months later found a cheap holiday online
It was for a holiday to kefalonia and to me it was a clear sign.
I packed my metal detector and brought the photo with me
Would I find the treasure in the sand or find it in the sea?
After about half an hour of searching I heard a loud beep
I'd brought a small shovel with me and started digging deep.
But eureka I'd found it, and was good as new after a clean
It had slightly discoloured and had turned a little bit green
My wife had been trying to sleep, when she heard me shout
Some people looked our way, so I explained what it was about.
That night we went out to a restaurant and we celebrated
I was still smiling and over the moon and was feeling elated
I'd already claimed for the loss because that's what you do
And I don't have one wedding ring, because now I have two.
(A true story )
Written on 22nd June 2022
One In Five Poetry Contest
Theme chosen - A Lost Ring
Sponsored by Joseph May
Written In Beige
Against the bleak bank wall he leans
as the sidewalk moves sideways
across his tangential thoughts.
People pass, the dull parade,
the money-grubbers and hoarders
in their shiny suits that mock
his existence. Sad clouds meld
into a sullen gray sky…it must be raining
somewhere. Clink! Silver coin
rattles metal can. He wonders, when
did the colours disappear?
The pungent aroma from Mickey’s
Taco Wagon punishes his senses
and his eyes begin to leak. He’s hungry.
There was a time when his words
were golden, a rainbow of passion.
He had a family, people who loved him.
A November wind kicks him…no, wait!
Security guard motions as another
peers from behind motion-sensing
cameras. Not wanted. He disappears
next to the discoloured taupe wall.
The mystery: how did his life story
get written in beige?
*Note: this is written in honour of a homeless poet named Raimundo Arruda Sobrinho but, in essence, for every homeless person.
When nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
winter whispers hi-
a discoloured Autumn dream
fades,and slowly dies
Inspired by Raul's latest photo
THE YOLK'S ON ME
It was bath time for my twins, I played a little joke
and filled their bathtub with purple dinosaur yolk.
The bathtub discoloured, the yolk was scummy
but in the purple gloop I found a missing dummy
Into the tub I placed my little daughter
she shivered, so I poured in hot water;
alas the egg congealed, it was a huge mistake…
for their next bath time I’ll use chocolate milk shake!
Daft and Surreal Contest
Sponsored by Kevin Shaw
10-17-17
A treacherous incline,
inside the latent hollow called fate
Discoloured cloaks
stripped from abandoned warriors
A stunted scream
lingering adrift of sacred sounds
Pride ran aground
as foul odours mask the shame
Children in graves
returned to soiled anger and grief
A lewd excuse
assigned to collateral human fragments
A crass intent
to weld deprivation to imprisoned provision
To sell despair
and buy it back as hope
When I was young
And felt a little glum
My Mum would cheer me
With a plum.
I began to eat them daily,
Demolishing entire punnets
With aplomb.
How I loved those big, fat,
Red-purple fruit bombs
Juicing between my lips,
Never failing to elicit
A contented ‘Yum!’
But one night after
Dinner my Mum
Offered me a yellow one.
I turned my head
And mouthed disgust
At the pale, pus-like
Imitation of my habitual
Fruity dream feast.
This fruit was diseased.
I refused to feed.
I snubbed that sickly grub.
My mother paused,
Then held her breath,
Turning black
Like an overripe plum.
“You know what your problem is,”
She cried. “You’re racist!”
Then she took the entire
Crate of plums and pelted
Me until I was welted
With plum coloured bruises.
“You see, discoloured plums
Still have their uses!”
Now I am grown up
And Minister for Equal Opportunities.
On a celebrity reality TV show
They hooked me up
To a lie detector machine
And asked me if I had
Ever been racist.
I blushed (like a plum).
cyan blues indigo into nighttime
darkness scorches the soul to the core
hellfire’s charcoal embers
dissipate lightness of being
achromatic void
engulfs a self-fulfilling promise
rose petals wither by the wayside
trudged and treaded upon
flame red converts to burnt sienna
a mere shadow dances in the heat
hunter green pastels fade in exhaustion
an emerald pendant strings
a chafed neck in a choking embrace
mustard gold’s alchemy
folds citric sunflowers
away from its rainbow
where a pot of tar
repeats the circular path
suave mauve corrodes
into rust and necessity’s must
clusters indecision
and meaningless desire
the prism yields prison
and yet all colours
would merge into white
when the pail becomes
half full once again
and chakras confide
to the canvass
and the portrait of truth
I am a paling star to be washed out
In the dazzling brightness of the arriving dawn
A calendar that ran out of time
A broken guitar with strings loose
I will soon exit out of life
Like a man hardly anyone knew ever existed
And only very few would miss
As I look back to the prime days
I feel years have flown away in a flurry
Like scraps of paper whirling in the gale
A dense fog crawls up into my eyes
The verdant vistas and smiling faces
Have discoloured like weather worn paintings
The violet shadows of red rocks
Form a dark cave within me
Nothing subsists in the dells n’ hollows
Of my memory
I wilt under Age’s burning breath
And wither under its deadly blight
Now I drift... a rudderless vessel
Through unknown waters
Waiting at the Departure Lounge
I now have only one prayer;
Don’t let me scorn and disdain the young
Whose sky is wider and dreams endless
Who walk with nimble feet and sure steps
To conquer the world that has left me a scrap!
I heard an old song
of a bird yesterday
an ancient bird
proportionate figure
discoloured
feeble at wings
music discorded.
A halt turned me to see it
A fossil turned me to see it
A songbird which I met yesterday
A song which I met yesterday
turned me to halt and feel
the beauty of truth
among the changes.
It squeaked as it slowly rolled out the door
Trundled out the rusty gate
Over the sunken wooden bridge
and onto the sandy sidewalk.
The daily trudge had begun.
Nestled and nurtured within were the lives of her family
And children
Babies! Indeed!
Within were no laughing, lounging, cute or chubby faces
Certainly no cozy, comfy blankie washed in Downey detergent nor dried with Bounce sheets
No, nothing of the sort.
Yet, her babies lay there-in.
It ambled down the dusty, dry, brick-filled street
Towards the rendevouz
amid stares
and glares
and thoughtful wondering glances.
This was no gleeful walk of fame for
Truly sometimes it felt like a walk of shame
But continue it must
On this journey for there is purpose and an end game.
Men, women and children congregate at the corner
Craning their necks
They eagerly await a glimpse of the perambulator
Children suddenly gleefully clap and dance as they espy its approach
Anxious to see the babies!
Squeak, squeakity, squeak
Jerk, jerkity, jerk
It rumbles and rocks and staggers
Slowly, purposefully, it comes to a graceful, grateful halt
Tired
And worn
And thankful
At its favourite spot.
Through the years and seasons
The tattered spotless hood had protected and
Shaded her precious treasures
The huge discoloured, spoked wheels
Had rolled hundred of miles, hundred of times –
not for pleasures.
Hood removed; babies revealed.
Clamour arises -a congregation in worship
Bills in hand; coins jingling-
Everyone desiring to give and get their share.
Some fried; some baked
Some sweet; some savoury
Some crunchy; some soft
All so very edible and tasty!
These are her babies-
The wares she plied everyday from the perambulator!
T’was because of these babies, she fed her babies
T’was because of these babies, she took care of her babies
These babies brought help
These babies brought hope
These babies brought healing
Without the perambulator
There’d be no daily rendevouz for these babies.
The perambulator brought her
fame-a name-“pram lady”;
peace of mind;
friends of various kinds.
For all this and more she is thankful
And it all began when she brought home
THE PERAMBULATOR.
©2020/02/20