Best Disinter Poems
In the corridors
of my mind and endless passages
I hold the scars that are the road map to my soul
and where words thrown at me and used as weapons
dwell in the cracks.
Fear and sorrow are like chains holding me prisoner
and I must exhume them from the darkness
disinter and expose them
from vast deep voids where they hide
in the fissures.
And the drum of time is beating and I must pierce
through the hollow shadows to dredge up
this cancer twining !
The path is endless
as I dig and chip at the darkness
leaving no door and no emptiness unchecked
as I follow all the contrived tunnels and atriums
as time is ticking.
The forest of my life is at stake and my sky is gray
but this is an excavation unfathomable
oh, through chambers silent
no matter how difficult and weary
I will crawl seeking.
This fear and sorrow is holding me back from being me
so, I will leave no rock unturned
for I must unearth ...
the darkness dwelling within me !
______________
June 21, 2021
Poetry/Verse/An Excavation
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1365-926-21
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, This or That, Vol. 4
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 07/27/2021
First Place
.
Deeper and deeper
I dug
through that parched
earth
for her
yes for her
And what did I exhume
disinter
Gold
Gold
yes gold
Yes hun
I’ve just found it
your other gold post
So this is all there will be from now on,
since you've made up your mind to depart;
no more TV, no talking, no people, no fun,
no more girlfriends who play with your heart.
You're a timid and tremulous creature,
always wearing your soul on your sleeve;
you can't for the life of you step on a bug
but you simply don't know how to leave.
How to leave things behind when they're done,
how to let go a friendship that's dead,
not to disinter love when it's all in your mind,
and take charge of your own life instead.
It's all just a question of balance,
why must you suffer such pain?
just see living as merely good judgment, good sense,
and you'll get your control back again.
So this is all there will be from now on,
since you've made up your mind to depart;
no more TV, no talking, no people, no fun,
no more girlfriends who play with your heart.
You're a timid and tremulous creature,
always wearing your soul on your sleeve;
you can't for the life of you step on a bug
but you simply don't know how to leave.
How to leave things behind when they're done,
how to let go a friendship that's dead,
not to disinter love when it's all in your mind,
and take charge of your own life instead.
It's all just a question of balance,
why must you suffer such pain?
just see living as merely good judgment
and you'll get your control back again.
Me the infant, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s L’Enfant moi by T. Wignesan
The infant a stranger to me who grew up poet
You whom he missed even in his sleep
He who had to disinter himself upon waking
Every day in his quest with increasing effort
He who had not known your breast nor lap
Manically he sought your odour in bed clothes
Sniffed under the covers your sphinge haïr
And searched every bush for your mystic antrum
In vain forgot blackness of breasts in death
More avidly survives the memory of your milk
Longer I live more the haunting infant pleases me
When the eternel Night projects her by the threshold
At death the infant’s visited by the maternal shadow
Dissociated as two blue perfect globular moons
Note : Original rhyme schème of sonnet :
abba cddc effe gh)
( from Sophia, O.C. t. II, p. 348)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 15, 2014
...inspired by 'Life During Wartime'
by Talking Heads
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only show in town
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trench coats congregate on corners
and speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in black fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their phones,
political affiliations, clubs and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing, we are running out of time,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only show in town
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trenchcoats congregate on corners
and speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in black fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their phones,
political affiliations, clubs and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing, we are running out of time,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling, though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only game in town,
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trenchcoats congregate on corners,
they speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in grey fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their loans,
political affiliations, clubs, and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing and the hour is getting late,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
The bank sign blinks its message all the time,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only show in town
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trench coats congregate on corners
and speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in black fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their phones,
political affiliations, clubs and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing, we are running out of time,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
A soft whisper
a buzz like bumble
singing springs songs quietly
Her songs I shall mumble
Once I lay neatly my body
Please do not disinter
for I shall sing loudly springs songs
Once I make it out of winter
Flowers lead to sleep
as sleeps fuels my pain
I seep into this darkness
with only winter to blame
Sitting in silence
Winter on my mind
That painful abyss
only a matter of time
Before the land of the free lay riddled in depth
Starting with spring
Ending with death
Starting with love
The seasons will change
the fall flowers will bloom
that I know
today it shall rain
Tomorrow it will snow
Today you will witness my glorious suicide
Tomorrow you shall act as if we were in love
Today springs showers deem me crucified
Tomorrow winter shall lift me above
I’ve waited to long for springs farewell
So I shall push the seasons myself
I shall Push with my songs
pain
Pride
& Heart
I shall push with my death.
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling, though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only game in town,
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trenchcoats congregate on corners,
they speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in grey fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their loans,
political affiliations, clubs, and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing and the hour is getting late,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling, though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only game in town,
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trench coats congregate on corners,
they speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in grey fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth,
they question early birds about their loans,
political affiliations, clubs, and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing and the hour is getting late,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling, though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only game in town,
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trench coats congregate on corners,
they speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in grey fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their loans,
political affiliations, clubs, and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing and the hour is getting late,
yesterday at ten they came for me.
Hearts that have never loved before,
can't taste a gratuitous tenderness;
and they lament why they haven't been blessed!
They have wrestled and lost that grip on growth,
and with a gravelly voice,they grumble...
to allow grudge guard them against hurt:
miserably failing to consider
evidence with excessive cupidity;
grinding their teeth, and swelling with
ignorance to defend their culpable irony:
would they ever admit or agree...
that disbelief is a settled matter?
The thirsty souls never exhaust their search
to invigorate an existence that exercises caution,
to exhort praise and excel without evoking regrets;
be exiguous,never detestable or hide emotion:
bear witness and disinter any probable doubt...
be ready to withstand the wind-storms
that come violently to subjugate a mischievous spirit;
but the astute one is not persuaded by urge,
to exude that extreme joy which repulses each
false thought that disbelief is a settled matter!
A good father treats his kids equally and fairly,
and shows enthusiasm to revel in their their triumph;
so does God...to restore confidence in us, not confine it!
A rebellious soul is lost,if it relinquishes its claim
to be saved when circumstances are favorable; no light
can be incandescent, if it lacks heat,
and an impure heart doesn't feel the necessity to thrive...
until is forced to lie down and slowly die!
How can anyone fail through faith,
and truly be convinced that
disbelief is a settled matter...
which can,somehow,cause more fear and despair!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
The bank sign blinks its message late at night,
two types of information for the indolent,
the traffic light is cycling, though there's not a car in sight,
alarm clocks disinter the drugged and somnolent.
Newspaper delivery is the only game in town,
'til early morning merchants raise their blinds,
dogs are let out, leashed, and led to do what they must do,
first shoppers disregard the warning signs.
Men in trenchcoats congregate on corners,
they speak into their sleeves in muffled tones,
in grey fedoras, all dressed up for secrecy and stealth;
they question early birds about their loans,
political affiliations, clubs, and weapons owned,
they formulate a blueprint of your life;
what you thought was private isn't private any more,
they follow you, ask questions of your wife.
Two weeks ago John Dixon disappeared without a trace,
the authorities had nothing to declare,
Jim Dean and Charlie Watson were imprisoned in disgrace,
their families are shocked and in despair.
The net is growing wider and the fear is closing in,
what happened to the notion that we're free?
their numbers are increasing and the hour is getting late,
yesterday at ten they came for me.