Best Disintegrates Poems
Mauve sweetheart of mountains
your petals pulse purple twilight and scatter small stars
amongst scars, whilst wars rage on the world's dark stage
and the stage disintegrates, becomes a mass grave,
scissored by shadow and scythed by sorrow.
Yet graves are amethyst-studded with promises of tomorrow;
lifeless lilac revived by meandering kisses of mountain streams...
Sleepy sweet-scented stars dream delicate dusk,
bloom on hostile ground, birthed from rocky earth,
storm-swayed but unbroken, budding
through the longest night, awakening
violet visages unfurling from the heart of dark
to be reborn in gold-gifted dawn.
Tenacious you cling as morning sings
to the small yellow sun that rises
in each resilient heart.
I've been watching you
Since your beginning
Whispering to you
A thousand subtle ways
Throughout all your days
You picked me up as a leaf
You were only three
Clutching my stem in your tiny hand
Long time you stared at me
Gazing at my veins, amber colors
Other leaves rustled in my fall winds
My songs to you, thousands of them
You couldn't listen then
At twenty three with your friend
You laid on your backs one clear night
In a grassy field peering starry lights
My voice was that galactic silence
Too low a whisper for you to hear
Only crickets caught your ear
Now you did hear
In your thirty third year
When your first child was born
And you heard my primal cry
Shook your illusions, you asked why
Your deceptions re emerged over time
Forty years later, no longer aware
Of the cosmic cycle we all share
Still my voice too quiet, too low
My greater voice in a single clap
Disintegrates humanity into smithereens
Think tectonic plate shifts are epic?
My full voice explodes a supernova
A sound no human has ever heard
A mere hiccup for me
I speak through this fragile human
Something of a poet, his intent is fine
Make no mistake, his thoughts are mine
Oh, I have many stories and wisdoms
I could have shared, had you only cared
At your end, we will finally embrace
As your dust clears
And leaves no trace
Listen
Be aware
4/6/18
Nature Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh 5/6/21
In a box full of everything I’ve ever lost,
The first thing I’d rummage for is the patience that could’ve led me
To your open arms at any cost
Slow moving nights, without a trace of day-dreamt advice
My home away from home you provided, but without a trace of a porch light
Well I’ll find you but it’ll take so much out of me
And I’ll hunker down and prepare for the motivation I’ll lose suddenly
Well I don’t have the time to find everything
and here is where I put myself aside to choose priorities
But in a box full of everything I’ve ever lost,
The first thing I would scour for
is the opportunity for mental bandages, only a damaged soul could’ve ignored
And every ring of earth's rotation bringing me to a soured destination
Of knowing now, that you were the glass that kept us separated
I’m antagonizing fight or flight so we establish who controls this
My head’s too far in the clouds, I’m blind to where the runway is
And it's getting hard to tell
of what rejections were the world’s protection
And what were just sacrifices
But in a box full of everything I’ve ever lost
The first and only thing I would gaze for,
Is the paper you riveted with every metaphor
That would’ve changed my view of you, had I not tossed
But mistakes are the thorns that bring intimidation to every flower;
Dwelling on them won’t make you more well-rounded
And it’s about time I started living my life in my own honor
Cause everything I’ve ever lost,
Took a nerve laced under skin and numbed the ends
Before the people pleaser in me attempted to plea with one-sided amends
That would have led me nowhere,
With no one to carry me
So in a box full of everything I’ve ever lost,
I’m peering for ashes, post-flame
From a shifting smile that disintegrates
All I have
of lasting value
is my heart to give
the antiques
in the attic
just gather dust
plastics become brittle
and metal to rust
cloth disintegrates
and if sentiments on cards alone
what true value is a poem?
as museums
need constant
renovation --
an indentured
in and out curator --
while the heart stays with me
everywhere I go --
awake or asleep
unlike tides that ebb and flow
my love for God is constant
enough for me that He eternally
know....
It amazes me how much man has evolved
Yet, How little he has learned
All around the globe
Millions die of disease and starvation
While the ever so intelligent creature known as man
Spends millions upon millions of dollars every single day
Killing each other
Instead of finding cures for the ill or feeding starving children
Oh sure, we dabble in those efforts
But we are committed to killing each other
Governments all around the globe
Spend most of their money
On their armies
Either to defend or attack
Their enemies
Supposedly, the most intelligent creature on earth
The intellectual creature known as man
If I may go so far
Mans commitment to war and killing
Goes far beyond any one mans term in office
It goes far beyond any one mans lifetime
It goes far beyond any century or any one era
From beginning to end, top to bottom
East to west, north to south
Red, yellow, brown, black or white
Our commitment to killing each other
Is undeniable
How can a species that is smart enough to split atoms
Creating weapons that will kill millions
Still be stupid enough to do it?
And now I see on the science channel
That man has now devised the Platonic beam
A beam of light that just disintegrates the target in an instant
At what price you ask?
Well I don’t know but I reckon if we diverted that money
To say solar energy projects
They could probably put a solar energy system
On every home in the world for free
Thus solving the energy crisis
Not to mention food in the icebox and medicine in the cabinet
Because of course when you create such an amazing new weapon
You need an entire new type of ship to deploy it from
Thus is born the next generation of war birds
They jettison into space
Then go into super afterburner (A jet engine minus oxygen)
Which they said would reach like 20,000 miles an hour
So you could shoot halfway around the world
Disintegrate your enemy
And be home in time for supper
I believe when speaking of politics
It’s not a National Crisis
It’s a Global Epidemic
freedom lies with a shattered grace
stumbling toward atomic mythology
where answers have their sins washed
brilliantly bright as suns dyeing skin off-
colors of rumors circulating planets
of the universe pulled headlong into a night
-mare riding tattooed and complaining
about recollections of severed ghosts
(hiding in a ball of fear minds cry)
out of season the earth radiates melting
enraged stupidity the penultimate prize
(summer sunday christmas chimes)
on the edge of sleep falling awake...
ring the festival of blood into session
the birth-fangs grapple with truth no longer will
recessions bring harvests the moon is full
...and the eye is a clogged vessel full of truth
(in relative position the evening twists elaborate
dances like guitars bending the last strings...)
a painting of a brain chips and disintegrates
like words of a schizophrenic seeking the last
wisdom hidden in the bottom of a noise
only tasted...with the throat closing vision narrows...
the fading archetype is the last opiate of inspiration
the last leader is a shill of the lord of matter dissipating
(two raindrops collide) the core of her heart is hot
like earth it is revised toward oblivion...
...follow it it is
...night brighter than calm
...lipids sinking into servitude
...no one will digest this but all
choking dry paranoia on the fringe of town
(a different verb writes in the sky a new eternity)
...we witness the madness of a faceless doctor
scratching scripts illegible to the naked lie...
conscripted as a rat before a snake fighting its shadow
diving into the blind dream we call created angels
to save our skin from weeping generations of blood...
Noisiness neighs your code,
Loud, braggadocios, belching
Shouting sentiments and prophysying plays
As your body disintegrates
And dredges your kidneys fail and your legs lilt frail
Yet you claim life loud and braggadocios.
The football game gimmicks
The baseball booboos all acclaimed and assessed by you
Whose own health waivers with lesions and machines
Mitigate your blood as you shout loudly, “I told you”
To quintessential quarterbacks in your dreams
You chair the channel surfer of your mind as the
Games grab headlines heralding from your hurting heart.
When the clouds appear so calm,
Glaring golden like glazing metal,
The world sees much less than nothing,
Understanding far less than the paranormal;
Begotten by the surest knowledge
Creeping into the mind with ease,
Ease fathered by urgent desperation,
Borne from torments that trail all paths!
How perfectly can it be shielded?
Dark light is continuously cast on it,
Seeking to hide its helpless hopelessness
Firm as a teenage virgin’s breast to the touch;
It leaves a dark, tenacious trail behind;
Impenetrable by the brightest of lights,
‘Uncrushable’ by the heaviest of weight,
Yet appearing so tenderly bright all the same!
So dashing a darling he appears,
Breaking facades with his thrilling smile.
Like one responding to loud cheers;
He smiles, hiding his dull, dark being;
Drooping like a fragile centenarian within,
Swinging like an old woman’s naked breast,
Holding firmly to him like a long lost lover,
Twirling a heated dagger in his heart!
When at last the heat’s force hits,
And the clouds can no longer collect,
The ball of fire disintegrates
Like a disturbed file of soldier ant,
Or hornets smoked out of their hideout,
Undressing his pains and agony
And from him, all begin to shrink
‘Cos it’s a can of worms beyond his clouds!
Placed 9th in Poet Destroyer A's Perfect Title Perfect Verse Contest.
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 29
At last O Children of the Mother Contrées*
Roll out the red carpets for High Potentates
The hour of glory at Champs–Elysées
Cry not from Eiffel Tower 2C degrés
Temperature rises end of century, Mates
At last O Children of the Mother Contrées
Streak frowning skies in red white and blue display
Let pent-up champagne pop through foie-gras plates
The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées
Limousines line up for haute couture soirées
Blue-ribonned chefs dress-up spruced-up back-door dates
At last O Children of the Mother Contrées
Tri-colour ice cream on rhino-horn purées
See not hear not how iceberg disintegrates
The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées
Chefs d’Etat promise profit for protégés
While oceans swamp islands rivers city-states
At last O Children of the Mother Contrées
The hour of glory at Champs-Elysées
• The final “s” in French is silent
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing
The first cut
of roses
are in bloom
and I will
see them soon,
very soon.
They float
in a bowl
of Arctic ice-flow;
regarded highly
by the local Wal-Mart
feng shui
masters.
Made to hang and share
the air
with antebellum
paintings
of imagination mansions;
holding common court,
side by side,
with ancient saints
of former papal dynasties.
The sweet scent
of first bloom perfume,
exaggerated
in all three,
becomes, too soon,
disguised, sour, funerary
aromas of terminus musk.
Can these murdered
roses face rage
from the pastel haze
of entryway
Nirvana?
When contradiction
changes or disintegrates
thought,
immutable miracles might
be imbued beyond the common wrought.
You attained an interdiction
of proportional catastrophes
which indirectly praises
all the phases
of old Rome's historic papacies.
The dead red roses float
in symbiotic sacrifice
to long dead religions
and a joyous old South.
The new South seduced
by orgiastic myth,
reproduced,
to promote fevered pleasure
in sycophant seekers
of false history.
I found displayed
all the rages
of the ages
on the pages
in their own time -
placed by decision
of revisionist mind.
Integrity of lust,
indisputably pure
until sated
by objectified cure.
Then lost again
in retrieval of memory.
Now contaminated, fully,
by casual indoctrination
causing idiosyncratic
immolation of synaptic integration.
A self-destructive, cultural,
(*****sapiens specific)
neurotic guilt is causal.
Is there somewhere,
hidden in forbidden,
abandoned land,
a gated, grisly city
sealed and shut
by rusted nails?
Standing there
where citrus fruit rots,
in the sultry dusk of time -
Eden -
forsaken ruination of a city;
the failed garden of God.
"Love Finds"
dissolving
has it’s upside
just as a caterpillar
disintegrates
wings push us through
the open mind
leaving the illusion
of one life left behind
love
finds
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Just an Illusion” / Imagination (1982) remix
https://youtu.be/zbtNeGQF95w
What would the earth be like?
If we saw ourselves one;
If we could look past our differences-
The skin colour barrier, the languages barrier
The poor-rich barrier, the ignorance-intelligence barrier
If our lives didn’t have to be dictated by all these
What would it be like?
What would the earth be like?
If we all acted as one;
Coming together to save the heritage given to us
Since time begun-
Our degrading environment
Our animals facing extinction
Our climatic conditions that are escalating negatively
What would the earth be like?
If we could come together;
And undertake to correct the flaws in our society;
Conscience that has escaped us
Corruption that savors us
Leadership that abuses us
The many vices that rock our individual, family, social, economic lives
What would it be like?
If we could move our earth;
With not only our voices but also actions
For God created one Earth and not two
And the ‘one’ He created slowly disintegrates
Due to ill ideas, ambitions, choices and the likes
What would it be like?
If we could try to make it the haven God had intended
He dances on my grave
Jubilant that I am now his to take
He wishes to devour my soul
As my body disintegrates
He has come to take what he feels is his own
A promise fulfilled
A deal struck
A reward now due
I swallow my secrets,
sharp little shards of the bizarre
that would gossip of my weaknesses
if allowed to converse
with the light.
One by one,
they scratch along
a cervical bridge
between my heart and mind
before being accumulated
in a churning pit
of reason and conscience
that constantly folds self into self
and manipulates the flavors
of my life.
I never intended to invite you
into my sacred archipelagos,
I meant to sample the sweetness
of your flattery,
the ambrosia of the forbidden
and metabolize your motives later
but you defy my volcano
and oxidize in my stomach
an embryonic gallstone
feeding on the amniotic bile
that disintegrates
my most caustic emotions.
You could extinguish my hunger;
the lightless, empty craving
for content-edness
and alleviate the peptic erosion
of my islands
by accepting their idiosyncrasies.
But I fear you will overfill me,
nauseate me with your revolutionary rites
and that I will regurgitate
the occult within.
Yet, I can't suppress the craving
for more crumbs of your affection.