Best Dusks Poems
I still remember
how you were
there in the dark,
holding my
bleeding heart.
Whilst I wandered,
sleepless under
soundless spheres.
Now I search
for your starlit
symphony
that echoes,
as idyllic octaves,
from the last song
you sang for
our lost youth;
demons we fought,
when colorless dusks
abandoned me,
between tuneless
sheets of emptiness,
where citrine gold
streaked wavelets of
strawberry scented
sunrise and
amethyst sunset
composed
hibiscus hymns.
But when ink
within my soul
hides behind
pomegranate lies,
that I truly despise,
amidst crimson-clawed
chaos of cluttered
calligraphy,
crawling in silence
along cursive linings
carved in
psychedelic perianths ~
can you hear
my pleas vibrating
through unwritten lyrics,
scrawled in
seaweed green?
Some melodies need
no words nor voice,
to narrate noiseless
refrains of
endless loss,
orchestrated
from seraphic
strings—
whistling
peacock promises,
that linger
within my
violet blue veins,
coated with
helium love.
And even in
death,
you and I
will forever,
remain as
immortal kins—
like the
evening moon
and the
midnight sun,
chasing
dewberry daydreams,
fructified from sage
mint roots,
waltzing to
your perfumed
presence in
the elysian castle.
I will never stop
singing our soft
cotton serenades,
even if the blackest
of stones from the
greyest hail quartz,
dimmed the
sangria seas
that ripples deep
into the shimmering
gates of your
home above
the seven skies.
The ignorant ones claim,
I'm full of petty problems,
a slave to the darkness,
but if only they had seen
how I've slaughtered
malicious demonic sea creatures
that slithered along my spine,
undisturbed nor provoked.
You are the singing sunrise
to my sultry sunset,
weaving silver sonnets
from beige ballads
seducing my spirit
into sweet slumber—
igniting nocturnal
Novembers with
crimson showers
upon sepia stems,
because It's no longer
the climatic chaos I fear,
it's the calm you've crafted,
continuing to be
my constant comfort.
Your devotion adds
color and clarity in my once
monochrome existence,
as you've polished
the dimmed stars in my eyes,
they now glitter like
shimmering fireflies,
a reincarnation
of the strength
from Freyja's tears,
after you kissed them
with your silken soft sagas.
When the days begin
to dawn upon dreary dusks
you've aromatized my
universe with summer scents.
Thor's thunder could
not demolish our
kind of spring as
our celestial spirits
float around the nine realms.
A part of you will
forever rhyme as
clusters of couplets
fated to be,
the rest of you flow
like simple stanzas
of empathic free verse.
As my story will make
Odin ashamed, and
Fenrir cry, so when all
the beauty of butterflies
congest my throat,
preventing me from
pouring dreams of
stardusts upon
your selfless quill…
always remember us
for the times we swayed
and enclasped into
our own silhouette,
running from the
stormy disarray of society’s
serpentines,
swimming in Satanic
sapphire seas.
Whilst the debt I owe
for your generosity will drown
me in endless poetry,
floating on metaphors
without blueprints,
keeping the vampires
from Beelzebub's door,
releasing me from the
chains of uncertainty …forevermore.
She's untouched fruit
from forbidden orchards
barren and wrinkled
with fragmented twigs,
whirling to the beat
of melancholic musings
of black-winged butterflies
that croon and reflect
the true tragedy of a queen
waiting for the
return of her king.
Beneath splitting dusks,
above wicked woodlands
of weathered grim dreams,
personified pomegranate seeds
drip in sangria sins
that feed her fears and lies
from familiar chalices,
but below the streams of
poetic gardens,
raspberry rivers taste
sweeter than honeydew melons.
Cosmos decipher
her destiny designed
for a silhouette emblazoned
in tarnished trinkets,
But there's nothing left
In her shining throne
that reflects in sorrow
like a tombstone
adorned with tilted
tulips and wilted roses
in a ruined wilderness.
All that remains is
a crown that lays
amongst ebony
and bones covered in
cobwebs coated in
memories and hurt.
Her tears swiftly freeze
into frost glazed lakes
holding the last breeze
of mourning dunes
searching for a valley
with his finest tune,
but empty chambers below
her feet echo with ghosts
of his rhymes,
as pantoums tangle in the
paralyzed streaks of
her golden hair.
She sits in silence listening to the wind
carrying wicked witches
and mythological stones,
Hearing the tale
of beloved cities separated
by unforgiving constellations.
If eternity can be illustrated
with calligraphic scriptures,
this poetic saga will reveal
immortal affections
through metaphors that
stretch beyond medieval
manuscripts of an
infinite infatuation.
“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.”
David Levithan
I will forever be as pure
as white virgin fibres,
in your onyx
field of ravens.
When the
star-crossed
silhouette of
bleeding ink,
ricochets like
vindictive arrows,
within your
hollow walls,
quenched with
muted echoes,
I am reminded of
your ebony eyes,
cradled under
black decomposing flesh.
I shove my
misunderstood identity
into a pocket journal,
embalmed with a
fragrance of peace lilies
and rhapsodical prose,
amidst doleful dusks
painted with
past mistakes
hidden beneath
narratives of sinful
tangerine nights.
But, remember
that your fallacious
name is an
erased footnote
in the history of
relentless runes.
My tormented tongue
has become
immune to
your false screams.
There is no need
for close-fisted
fingers to flip
through pages,
of the story
I left behind,
as visions of
venomous verses
cremate into
ashes in my mind-
as mere memories
of monologues from
ice cold monsoons,
which don’t define me.
I’ve sculpted fragile
paper boats and
watched them ferry my
demons,
floating on daisies
in a ravishing rivulet
of truth and tranquility,
whilst you chase
impassioned imprints
within chapters
written in patterns
of insincere phrases.
I am a survivor of
your storm,
drawing dreams in
drowsy darkness,
blooming my
amethyst artistry,
which vibrantly
beats to burgundy
evolutions of a
blossoming flower,
who's scent you
will never savor.
My petals
may be fragile,
but I refuse to remain
prisoned in toxic
traits of a
weathered wildflower -
I only attract
majestic butterflies.
When midnight flames flicker aesthetic reveries,
releasing ashes of rainbow petals,
upon the canvas of undressed seasons,
I delve into blue blurs of butterflies,
framed in floating colors of nostalgia,
aching for dried dyes to home this scraped heart~
hanging loose, within smoky imagery,
as if every pigment will sprout from lilies of longing.
But can memories thaw frozen zeal,
illustrating steamy sunsets with liquefied rubies,
to unveil a timeless era, retouched and restored,
from the dust of dusks composed in surrealism?
And I, the splattering of an ink-blot,
persist as a dramatized kiss of tongue-stroked silence,
like a portrait, isolated in artistic utopia,
as love is more than a metaphor that speaks to the moon;
a pastel palette textured with melted roses~
saturated stars can interpret…
In a hyacinth bed of seven stars,
winter fairies waltz in pearl elegance~
a token of faith engrossed amidst scars,
while skies drizzle rain in fruity essence.
Angel of sleep seeks through frost's icy thorn,
fallen feathers soar towards jasmine moon,
when lotus light within soul is reborn,
listen to the tree of life sigh and croon.
Somewhere between daisy dusks and rose dawns,
seeds of sun unfurl promises in gold,
sowing herbs of hope across sequined lawns.
In the realm of healing, love I behold.
"These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
~ Robert Frost
I'm an echo of the salient sea,
weeping in cascading embers
that cautiously creep through
vintage and vine shadows of
a velveteen spirit.
Swept by the corrupt assonance
of graphite seafoam, I float in
obsidian lullabies hummed by the
translucent tides, along darkling
dawns of crepuscular daydreams.
Beautifully blackened in
gold-ochre beams of the
paper sun, wishfully I wither
amidst pale thistles of
decaying dusks as mellow rays
melt in ice-blue vapours of
camphor oceans.
My heart is a severed garden,
strolling as an illusive memory
in perpetual plains of misted ache
and rotten apple-skinned reminiscences.
Laced as a serene embroidery
of turquoise chrysanthemum
weeds in chocolate veins of
marshmallow coffin, I rise akin
cinnabar smog upon cactus-valleys,
For, I'm as elegant as those shiny
fuchsia stars studded along
coral-peacock lawns,
yearning to kiss the ebony silhouette
of crystal-coal midnight.
Will His sapphire fortune
envelop this graceful ghost's
etheree-like shadows
in an emerald-maroon sheath
of pastel herbs and heal every
cell, tangled in cobwebs of confusion,
within shrieking seconds of flaked hours?
When streams of paper roses,
bleed bitter fragrances,
evil mists of leaves slowly fall,
drifting along autumnal
breeze of yesterdays.
And i question
unseen dirt trapped
between sharpened thorns:
what if the sun,
at the end of your horizon,
seems brighter
than the skies in my mind?
What if days are a little longer
than the spoonful of quiet nights
you’ve fought?
Would you still paint
hollow bones of every skeleton
in your glass closet,
with black and white traces
flickering through
sociopathic holes and into
the windows of your rusted soul?
But what if, all this time,
you’ve been seeing silver linings
through ruby tinted glasses,
whilst steadying
your befogged sight with the core
of the devil’s unspoken mantras?
Maybe, the fault is in what flows
beneath your thick flesh,
that refuses to let redolent air
to rush in,
unless wicked winds
orchestrate songs of your
delusional manifestation.
So unlock the rails of
your iron heart,
follow me to the fields
of fluorescent fuchsias;
for I’ve always dared
to speak invisible visions
of my scarlet desires,
as I run with teal green wildflowers,
where pleasure spells my name
across lawns
in soft lavender dusks.
I fear no mourning monsters
dressed in golden feathers;
virtual vultures
speaking in demonic dialects,
waltzing with energy vampires.
They pretend to be angels
of cyan eden, oblivious
to the burning hell they reek,
exhaling scripted sentiments
of sanctimonious metaphors.
Whilst rhyming with a
cruel conscience,
seeking for meaningless endings.
They craft empty
expressions in
ghostly recitations,
revised to ruin
every starry sphere,
where achromatic ink-sanity,
remains reluctant to
follow me and my moon.
O hearth of hypnotic language,
my moon in warm alphabets,
if to love you, I must drown,
and to move you, soul must listen,
let the heart trust the luminous
craft of compelling art,
where every stroke summons
liquid petals of ink to scribble
across cosmic walls
of constellations,
as this craving curates the essence
of timeless touch,
whilst jealousy becomes the flame,
burning ~ aching ~ wanting
to breathe poetic palpitations
in the fingertips of your addictive alchemy,
turning graphic graffiti
into a passionate storm
of alienated butterflies,
with abstractions of trembling textures
outlining the truth of temptation…
Yet I sleep with black dahlias
beneath my pillow, embroidered
with erased notes of metaphors,
dreaming of you and I,
catching polaroids of sunrise,
for every frozen blossom,
bathes in scarlet streaks
of awakening light,
as we remain more than just
a rhyme wrapped in dusks of darkness ~
we are the cascading colors
dancing as secrets I still bleed.
I am the crystal quartz,
chaotically calligraphing
charismatic thoughts
around the glass frames of your galaxies,
exhaling vivid visions,
inhaling what could be,
for I am a stargazer
romanticizing lilac thunder,
chasing cloudscapes of sparks,
lost in the afterglow of a dawn ~
draped in the gravity
of neon-silk verses…
Once we lived together in a surreal world
So full of beauty and fluorescent light
I remember those lovely blissful evenings
We rambled along country paths in great delight
I think of the beauty and charm of twilight dusks
When we listened to the enchanting choir
Of crickets and night birds singing for us
Counting glowworms with tiny lanterns of fire.
How those romantic nights swim into view
When we slept in each other’s warm embrace
Your tender touch and love’s soft murmurs
Contrasted with your snoring, my topic to tease
I still recall the vacations we enjoyed
In a thatched cottage by the riverside
Lulled by the quiet music of the river
Neither concerned nor conscious of time’s swift ride
How we sat together weaving magical dreams
Of building a posh house with modern facilities
In a far-off place beyond the village, we lived
And our occasional trip to enjoy the amenities
That was a time when existence was like a dream
When from joy to joy- uninterrupted we flew
Relishing every act of concern n' care we shared
And in mutual love and trust as we grew.
Now I stay, a phantom under this rotting roof
With awful memories barging in~
On windswept nights like marauding thieves,
When I sense a cauldron churning within.
All things you once used remind me of your absence
The armchair you lay sprawling, now lies empty and bereft
The books whose pages you often turned lie unopened
Bearing marks, your constantly moving fingers left.
What remains is the love you planted in my soul,
The deep scar caused by your absence, time can’t heal.
A handful of memories, passing years can never erase,
And traces of an eternal bond, no force can ever steal…
Graced by festive home-made trimmings
On an eve which hails life aglow--
Merry tears drift in wonderment
As spark of hope blazes, to flow :
That each dwelling exalts JOY JOY
Bright the praise through heaven above ,
For the magical glee this year—
A wintertime brimming with white of frost
Of beningn dusks. a swerve imperial
Kindling what nourishes all… LOVE!
12/4/2016
Shadow Hamilton's A Winter Poem
Lost in a wistful arbor, where malaise blooms,
Mists flower in hypnotic bleak violet dusks
Shades of brooding melancholy
Bruise my treasured bouquets of dreams
And plod through ponderous mists
In metamorphic doldrums
Cold inertia spirals into lamentations,
Midnights drugged with stupor
Lean heavy on my homeless hermit heart
In withering labyrinths of tangled voices,
Atonal buds of plaintive paeans,
When pensive lethargy pierces dawn.
My rose, in apathy, sees no reason to bloom
As shades of gloom birth shadow seasons
And pale fretting’s unbroken gaze dulls dawn’s hues
Clouds of sighs ravish new shoots
Born in sweet trances of possibility -
Each breath a tedious indecision wrapped in enigma.
Dullness shrouds each new growth in greyness
A slow march into inertia’s bower of cathexis.
The colors of the season
are flaming orange, russet, gold and red.
From what kindling was
this glorious, bright explosion fed?
Is there some tinderbox
in Mother Nature’s fall collection
from which she ignites the world
with such utter fiery perfection?
Where is the kindling kept?
Mother Nature keeps it close at hand
waiting until autumn
when she sparks beauty’s flames across my land.
It remains her secret,
for Mother Nature has her magic ways.
Enjoy it as she sets
the trees and autumn’s dusks all ablaze.
Oct. 28, 2022
for Edward Ibeh's This Or That, Vol 14 Poetry Contest
But wherever you are, I no longer want to be:
for you are thunderstruck moonlight,
and I am a scarred sunset ~ a secret in saffron,
melting into the myth that floats forever,
within silenced dunes of scorpion stones,
where the cryptic coldness of sand feels like~
Cupid’s daggers piercing through
my aching skin and bones.
Frost-kissed vines wrap around
my wintry heart,
screaming for a sacred release
from the tethered torment
of satanic sapphires,
breathing within the haunted caves
of unending nightmares ~
and the twilight that wanes
behind flatlined promises.
Tonight, I feel like arrows of angst,
ricocheting within these woeful walls
of my melancholic mausoleum,
mirroring the heat of a burning breeze ~
like an epitaph lost in the sweltering air.
The clover of golden green glimmers,
like fireflies around my wrists,
luring distant ravens,
croaking above paralyzed dreams,
to untangle the crooked lines of lies,
crawling within clouds of comfort,
oblivious to Lilith’s serpent slithering
around my fragile feet in slow cadence,
pushing me to the darker dusks
drawn above the prying
valley of putrid prunes,
where these wistful musings
will remain as mere voiceless ashes,
cremated in vain,
with flames of forgotten folktales
echoing as faded music within a glass urn.
So, if tomorrow I’m gone, remember me ~
I still breathe silver snippets of hope,
a frozen quiescence,
etched in seven arcs of stardust,
longing to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps as the last verse of your poem,
or could I be the lone rose,
forever thriving in the galactic gardens of love,
where hate and greed, tangled in
jinxed jewels,
dissolve into nothingness ~
like rusted ribbons of the crestfallen lunar.
I hope lilacs and lavenders will bloom
in hypnotic hues, to calm raging rivers flowing
within the arctic arteries of a dark poet,
longing for a home
away from hellish hands,
so I can serenade songs of survival
and rhapsodies of resilience,
while watching every tear I’ve shed
crystallize into pearls and diamonds,
like born-again stars in violet skies.
On a monotone Monday,
under grey skies with perpetual rain,
I became a devotee to your magnificence.
A poetic pilgrim wandering upon a path,
which would lead me to your embrace.
Intoxicated with your romantic reflection,
my ink is seduced in your rumination.
My passion is like the raging sea,
come feel my love, come satisfy me.
Oceans apart, I swim in sensual shores,
that would bring me to your door,
but alone, I drown in shallow streams.
I've become jealous of departing birds,
craving for the clouds to carry me
from lilac dusks to scarlet dawns,
so I can ascend like sunrise,
descend upon you like sunset.
You are the essence of nature,
I, a mighty tree bowing to it's mistress,
desiring your heart and soul,
not just your earthly existence,
Your love strengthens my roots,
as they spread rapidly to reach you.
My hands have become lonely,
without your fingers interlocked in-between.
Your aroma intoxicates my senses,
your persona like perfumed petals,
weaves poetry inside my mind,
which flows upon a seedless garden,
patiently waiting for soothing blossoms.
There is no remedy for my syndrome,
as each day without you,
I relapse,
without your rehabilitative scarlet lips.
Kiss me like poetry,
before I suffocate,
drain me into a steamy silence,
where there is no need for verses,
so we can merge in carnal mists.
Lust is an infatuated captive animal,
a starved beast frustratingly caged.
Set me free...
For you hold the key.
Time cries for you, reluctantly moving,
with each beat of our hearts.
In darkness I supplicate with the stars,
with your name on the tip of my tongue.
Devotion is a unity of parts,
only we can piece it together.
With you I want Sunday mornings,
where our eyes meet in rousing raptures
with your lips as my nourishing nutrient.
Love is not just an emotion,
it's a whimsical fluctuating journey -
and you are my final resting place.