Best Dissects Poems
Seasons come
And seasons go
In all of the above
Her colours flow
Just like pages
In a book
What the seasons bring
Are worth a look
Spring brings life
In many ways
The sun radiates
From warm awesome rays
The summer oozes
With blooms and colours
Greenery greens
Canopy covers
The winter decides
Who lives and dies
The reader dissects
In passionate cries
But the season for me
Are the Autumn Pages
It's decision to end
In colourful stages
This poem came to me as i was reading poems by Autumn Page.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature4.php
In the arctic frozen sky of the enchanting land the midnight sun
leans on the horizon briefly in bright summer and again it rises,
I didn’t know when a new day actually would have or had begun.
The frosty sky in winter night burns in flashes of aurora borealis.
The North Sea stretches the long arms through the blue fjords,
the visible heritage of the glacial deep scoop of the Pleistocene,
dissects the corrugated coastline as if sliced by the Viking sword.
I was held captive there for a long time by the magnificent scene.
To unravel the petrified mysteries of the Nordic Caledonian rocks
I crossed many dales and ridges of the geologic arc west of Bergen,
walked for days across the uninhabited islands where eagles flock.
In the cold crystal rains the shelter of the ancient caves I had taken.
On my travel I stayed a number of days in Lyderhorn, a small village
overlooking the tranquil turquoise waters of the narrow Loddefjord.
A gracious lady of the pretty house, Julia Aasen in her advanced age
gave me a furnished room at a rent that at the time I could afford.
She used to invite me for dinner at her place almost every evening,
offered me plate full of peppered boiled potato and hot fiskeboller,
slices of brown bread she baked with thick Jerlsberg cheese topping,
showed fondly the faded pictures of her late husband, a fish seller.
Time came to leave and say heart-felt ‘tusen tak’ on a freezing day.
She presented me a pair of woolen gloves she had specially knitted.
Years later when I wear these her frail touch they remotely convey,
I feel the warm heart of Julia of Norway although she has departed.
September 28, 2017.
These Hallowed halls
Frequented by myth and griffin
Whose presence Guards these priceless minds
Protecting the unwritten novels
M C Squared and ingenious thoughts
The prophesy of zero one
This gluttony of ideas thirsting on capitalisms juice
Summoning their messiahs to walk among us
The commodities of life, this treasured bible
Children the future and Capitalism dissects,
Yet Another batch of disciples
So what care I for prophets of doom
Population before climate
Religion over peace
Vanity before reason
Pride over poverty
Cap and gown before that which created me
For I live high above these ghetto streets
Yet my peace is drowned by Evening chorus
Screams from the gutter
Another tattoo and the rush of heroin
Another type of messiah
Something for the poor to believe in
Just another nickel and dime resource to me
Yet to hear this is a damnation of me
This arrogance over nature
To control that thing
That shackles our existence
That jails our thoughts
Prostitutes our freedom
And lets us die without reason
This way of life
Of poverty and desperation
Of concrete and aborted foetus
Of welfare cheques and sex for sale
Of unhappy beings behind
Unhappy doors
Protecting their own portals of betrayal
In a private subjugated hell
For Compassion has left these mortal beings
And my mind is closed, for there is no profit for me
But conscience is my jury
And nailed to this holy cross
The verdict is written
Vermin under the butterfly
For compassion was never my thing?
And Human nature can be,
A most desperate thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suspended like a cataract’s pale lens,
*the cold-hearted orb rules the night~
its blue-gray light pooling
into the hollow of his heart.
Fourteen envelopes stacked like unmarked graves.
He fingers the topmost seal, the wax brittle as hope~
the moon bleaching
their blue edges to bone.
What ghosts swim in this lunar milk?
No answers come~
only the ache of his ink
confessing:
These are *letters I’ve written, never meaning to send~
each a whispered confession,
unspoken prayers of my soul
paper cathedrals
built on the fault line of my heart.
small, papery ghosts, haunted by the weight
of unspoken things~
each a brittle testament,
a love that breathes only in the amber of my memory.
each one unfolded
read in the stillness of lunar milk.
each page I lift,
the moonlight dissects each I’m sorry
each one swirls in specks of dust
where your absence hangs.
I see your ghost in every autumn leaf.
I remember our nights on sheets of *white satin.
Silence and regret are suffocating me.
Come home…
he rewrites in paragraphs
…till dawn bleeds gray.
The more I try to reassure my mother,
The more she suspects...
The concerns and cares I shoulder,
I conceal and collect.
Her ears keen to the notes I offer,
My anxiety she dissects.
Taking on more as I grow older,
Less her fear affects.
Understanding her and less eager,
I share all; she accepts, connects.
With the sun in the forceps
Of an ageless night,
The bells at the lighthouse toll
Until they are merely sterile
Breaths.
Occasionally, a ghostly whisper
Validates and dissects
Each tear, each truth.
I can't imagine their loneliness-
watching light burn
Until it is as small as a flea,
While we endure engulfed
In light,
Principals of refuge
And shadow.
Youth, eager to ignite passion's flame;
does not stop and question if love is true.
For their need to belong outweighs their fears;
a desire so strong it's hard to ignore.
Lovers blinded by the aura of love;
shun all reason as feelings zero in.
For fantasies and possibilities;
tickle libidos, muting silent screams.
Doubt dissects dreams with a scalpel of truth,
as reality tears your world apart.
And your heart bears the scars of betrayal;
inflicted by promises, rife with lies.
The pain that love inflicts is troublesome,
debatably, more to shun than embrace.
And yet, under the surface of mistrust,
hope resonates with the beat of your heart.
He slowly sips every drop whilst he dissects the morning news
Coagulating cream congeals in his china cup
Coffee coloured rings form with every sip
If the cup was a tree I could tell its age
Written from observing a local man in our local coffee shop
He sits for hours reading the newspaper for free and makes his coffee last...
08-30-17
Dead
Dead person does not harm
Or love any one
Why people scare of them!
After death
Surgeon knows dead person
Does not oppose
While dissects corpse
Difference between the dead
And slept is
One can speak
Another cannot.
All know this irony fact
Even cannot trust in that
Like in cinema role remains apart
People in life perform vast
With a fact along belief of act
Thus the life rolls on rolls on
Until fate defaces task
So in time keep with tact of nature
And forget to fear with dying act
Surgeon knows dead person
Does not oppose
While he dissects corpse.
GOD: IS THE SOURCE OF THE PLANET AND THE COURSE
THE STRENGTH ABSORBED, CIRCULATED IS THE HARDEST FORCE
PROCEEDED THOUGHTS LIKE OCEAN AND RIVER FLOWS
TO REACH THE HEIGHT OF SUCCESS AND LIFE’S LOWS
KNOWLEDGE IS WISDOM SHEARED
AND WISDOM IS KNOWLEDGE UTILIZED
AS THE WISE SEE WITH ALL EYES
BUT VISUALIZE THE TRUTH
THAT THE BLIND CANNOT SEE
WHAT THE DEF CAN TELL
SO RING THE BELL OF TRUTH
THAT THE STRENGTH OF ONE MAN
NEEDED TO MOVE ANOTHER
IS GREATER IN A POET
BECAUSE HE CAN MOVE A CROWD
AND I’M BOUND TO READ
THE RELATIONS OF REVELATIONS
BE CAUSE THE CONNOTATIONS IN ME
SEES THESE PRACTICALLY
THE HOLY TRINITY DISSECTS THE EARTH EVENLY
THESE ARE THE HARDEST FORCES
OF THE BOOK OF KNOWLEDGE
SO ACKNOWLEDGE THE TRUTH AND WISDOM
THIS BOOK DOES ENCOURAGE
THE PACKAGE?
ARE PROCEEDED THOUGHTS OF THE BOOK OF AGES
WHERE DEATH’S RAGE IS PAID AS WAGES
TILL THE LAST STAGES:
WHERE THE HEIGHT OF SUCCESS AND LOWS
FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE LIKE YOUR WIFE
IS YOUR PARTNER IN THE WAY OF LIVING
THE B. I. B. L. E. IS THE BOOK YOU SHOULD BE
BREATHING!!
GOD: IS THE SOURCE OF THE PLANET AND THE COURSE
THE STRENGTH ABSORBED, CIRCULATED IS THE HARDEST FORCE
PROCEEDED THOUGHTS LIKE OCEAN AND RIVER FLOWS
TO REACH THE HEIGHT OF SUCCESS AND LIFE’S LOWS
Scattering spellbound in search of this utopia
Minds-eye in shortfall dissects one's monopoly
Through no choice of own approach it sloppily,
Exude to a position such promised, Ethiopia-
As the diminishing dream on landscapes ensemble
The probate illusion of Queen of Egypt's daughter
Who proceeds through this escapade of slaughter
And who am I forgiving one or either? I tremble.
Having reached two thousand years without absorb
Of having travelled miles, indeed was bronze;
Such ghastly size these statues, long lost sons
With indications seen through my crystal orb.
Precious filling educated, siphoning the syllable
Retracted.., words of larger scale were of faith
Those who muttered sounding, Queen Merneith,
-Alluring dynasties as Anedjib's was, as a fable-
Engulfed over as subsidiary benefactors cannibal
Over some archaeological find, for at the centre,
No godly size can interpret that this magenta,
Haze of gross sufficient was the alluring spectacle.
Expedient gauge eclipse this as the inferno;
And making this voyage with the help of a globule,
Whose crystal awareness has forgotten the rule,
That language hosts devise quoted, 'quid pro quo'.
I resume being paused as my mind dissects the vernacular,
Is continuing to think, a symptom of strength?
I chuckle as I sit befuddled,
With a constant struggle between this or that...
Yes or maybe,
As a baby, knowledge of strength was passively instilled in me,
Watching my mother produce more out of nothing than I could out of something...
But my eyes remain fixed on power lifting,
Awkward body shifting,
As he lifts a ton, perfectly balancing the mass,
Which pushes me to ask,
Are my mother and the lifter somehow in relation?
If so this equation, or rather expression's direction is pointed away from my mother,
For she is greater than he...
He lifts, then pushes, then rests, i guess...
Since the first push of birth not only has my mother lifted,
But for 18 years she carried and balanced a household and 3 lives,
So no matter how hard you strive to convince me,
It's simply impossible to drown in a glass of water,
When my mother treads water in the pacific,
And because of her treading, I now have a boat,
And hope does float...
I guess Webster was just trying to save time...
The instigator relates, we cheer.
Deflates nay Sayers
The instigator retraced all fears
Detest all stares
The instigator dissects dialect
The instigator obliges his faith
What phase? The instigator
Emblazed freeze gaze.
Counsels full LAWS.
Legal eagle at the cause.
The instigator has
FAME No game.
The instigator takes flight
Ignites surprise
Do fly red eye
Nice GUY GOOD GUY
GOOD BYE
The incisive probe of insight
dissects my life’s stratum of delusion,
the shards of shattered pretense
scatter as discarded debris,
the mind reminds itself to forget.
The blizzard of discontent blows,
my desolate heart turns
into a tree defoliated in wasteland,
far away from verdant thicket.
The sunburst day fades out fast,
dusk envelopes the twilight sky.
I don’t forget that the sun sinks
to rise again with resurrected radiance.
I wait for the heavenly hues of the new sun
to suffuse me with the gleam of sanguinity,
when from the dust of distress
I felt the Phoenix, concealed within so long,
rise in an instant for metamorphosis
in the divine dawn of regeneration.
Belaboring visions so mundane,
a neurotic mind desperately dissects their simplicities
to the verge of lunacy.
Searching for answers to endless queries,
every banal image becomes an elaborate quest
as this thirst absorbs all rationality.
Frame after frame stored in limbo
until each pixel is analyzed for its significance.
Serenity grates this phobia of delusion,
this obsession of one’s visions.
The restlessness of it all brings on insomnia,
which leads to further dementia.
A coup de grace is contemplated,
but its reality lacks fruition,
for it too necessitates reason.
The normality’s of our days
languish in those with a wondering eye.