Best Effaced Poems
In the midst of vacant hours, echoes of expressions on opposite ends
are something of the same. Ruminating on questions; questions about
thy and questions about thou intertwined
with the then and the now. Thoughts
prelude to other thoughts of
thoughts emerging to
many thoughts.
Consulting and
considering
the death
and birth
of us; is thy
disinclined
to shed the
events upon the
ground transformed
from a dream out of a
dream to this dream only of us?
A coherent argument it is, that the
memories back on yesterday brought us
here today...But, when thy and thou bodies
meet and descend upon each accreting to the singular; occupancy
quickly overcomes vacancy leading the thoughts of many thoughts effaced.
(Sigh)...Thy and Thou love bolsters all the more today than back on yesterday.
Pace, G
INK-U-SCRIPT
12-11-2012
I see the flakes come tumbling from pale sky.
Grey barren earth below has been effaced.
The loveliness nobody can deny.
With dazzling snow this wonderland is graced.
In morning’s sheen, the frosted limbs of trees
are glittering, and all the land’s pristine.
I run outside and feel chill winter’s breeze
and breathe in air that now is crisp and clean.
Deep snow lies glistening upon my lawn.
Long icicles are hanging down like spears.
Vanished are the streets in the still of dawn,
but not for long! A snowplow soon appears.
Jan. 15, 2023 for 12 Lines Of Rhyme
For Julia Ward's Favourite Poem From January 2023 Or February 2023 Poetry Contest
School is a place to learn and play
Make friends, have fun and memories to stay
With lessons of life which will never be effaced
Shaping character of students for the world to face
My school St. Paul is the best of all
An model of virtues standing high and tall
It stands for values, though strict I know
But school is the place to learn them so!
Hardworking teachers are the pillars of a school
And I am lucky to have them too
We are made Physically and Mentally tough
We know Helping others is never Enough
I am proud to be a Paulian and will be
My school my pride, I am grateful to thee.
We would sleep oft as light as a flagging breeze, eyes dry and smarting; with minds ill at ease..'
Our lives then the currency to pay your dues, who would return from our sorties? we had not a clue.'
We fought off the nausea, as well as the foe, we'd tied wires to ailerons if it meant we could go..'
Our aim was sure, our desire's to win.' Our hearts burned for freedom; midst the dogfighting & spin,
We honoured this country, child maid and man, from the bankers, to the bakers; lords or labouring men.
Our thoughts oft assailed, by the task on our hands; our limbs felt fatigue, yet we held to the plan..'
We came back from our 'bailouts', to a pittance of pay; then returned to the sky by the night & the day.
Our flights held this country, kept its hope; earned its trust, we hold no regrets for blood spilled in the dust
We know that our sacrifice, will be not effaced; keep the faith we've delivered, here in our covenant place.'
©Joe Maverick 7/2/2015
Sharp Suited Sharks
Feeding
Fervently Feasting, Foul Fiends
Covetous Cuthroats, Cultured Convicts Convincing
Innocents Inked In Immensely Incurred Interests,
Indebted
Enslaved, Effaced Emotions, Exasperated
Dedicated to my pastor, Dean Andrew Cheah
Come, hear me now as I tell you a tale
An inspiring tale of William Tyndale
A man who poured out his life to translate
God's Word from Greek, not the Latin Vulgate
He fled from country to country
Living like an unsettled refugee
He had to flee to continue God's work
From his arduous task, he did not shirk
God sent him helping hands along the way
Partners in the Gospel, to ease his day
Walsh, Monmouth, Frith, Poyntz and others
Who aided the great Bible translator
After much sweat and perspiration
He finished the English New Testament
He tried to print it, but was discovered
From Cologne, he had to flee for cover
He printed copies in Worms by God's grace
They were smuggled and spread at great pace
Those were dangerous times of persecution
Having God's Word in English was treason
Bibles were burnt, but copies increased
God's Word brought the common people release
Sweet release from the darkness of their age
God's Truth shone brightly on each precious page
In Antwerp, he was betrayed by a friend
Imprisoned for fifteen months before his end
Vilvoorde prison was a dark, cold place
In suffering, his faith was not effaced
With a noose around his neck, he still prayed
'Lord, open the king of England's eyes,' he said
Strangled to death, then burnt as a heretic
Executed in the eyes of the public
God answered Tyndale's dying prayer
The eyes of the king were opened a year later
He encouraged the distribution
Of the English Bible to the nation
Tyndale's blood was spilled upon the pages
Of God's Word that's lasted through the ages
Do we treasure the Bible we've bought with ease?
Do we value His Word in times of peace?
God's Word was brought to us with much bloodshed
How do we respond to the verses we've read?
Are our hearts burning with unyielding passion?
Passion for the message of salvation!
Barely enough time before I walk to my fate,
to confess all my wrongs before it is too late.
The hall is cold – narrow- to the end of the line,
short steps echo as my elapsed thoughts entwine.
I feel blank walls - constant tears forgotten,
sweat from fear - stained and forever rotten.
Smell of death cuts me in to - like my knife,
that stabbed a young man - took away his life.
Oh God forgive me for what I have done,
effaced without consent from wife or son.
didn’t know him in the dark, he was just there,
he fought bravely for his years but didn’t care.
I walk to my death – stare through its vile eye,
took a young life, now I must clearly die…
Copyright © 2015 by Caryl S Muzzey
I did see the buoyant bubbles of bliss
fizzing out of my charming muse's smile.
A bubbly butterfly that she is,
was fluttering and whirling around me with verve.
She was so excited to explore the beauty of nature
and capture some thrilling moments as remembrance
for me to string those rosy memories
into pretty festoons of verses and rhymes.
But alas, she went and came back with an ashen face
and harsh rock-hard facts; when hit by those...
causes insufferable pain.
With angst, I deliver this grievous message
about the horrors of extinction inflicted upon Mother Earth
by the very superlative breed of hers with ravenous greed
they feed on everything to suffice their need to succeed.
An empire of dreams they want to build
on grave of ailing nature.
Enchanting hues of dawn and dusk are overshadowed
by hazy clouds of smoke that smothers each breath.
Economic growth thriving on combustion of fossil fuels.
Always caring to reap more than they sow,
countless trees are brutally chopped and their trace effaced
in the name of luxurious development.
Where once they stood with their crowns held high in the sky
and welcoming arms extended for shelter and shade
to so many birds and animals, are now replaced by
concrete towers and skyscrapers.
Bravo, such a triumph for axes, chainsaws and bulldozers!
Succulent fruits and vegetables sweetened with saccharin
and their skin rubbed with wax for sheen.
Plumper they are because of hormone injections.
Soil fertilized by corporate compost
and irrigated with water that is not crystal anymore.
Every drop is infused with wasted toxic chemicals
and surges the stench of disposed garbage
that begets monstrous diseases.
Even the depths of the oceans are not safe
as marine creatures are dying and lying on the shoreline.
Cheers to the sewage that adds to the quality of water!
A paradise that provided us life is pleading for mercy,
to be saved from the hellfire that we are stoking.
Do we really wish to be the curse for such a blessing?
Date: 06/28/2017
A Chinese girl I took to a nunnery
I
I led her
Her silent leg-irons cutting into my shins
That day when the air stood still
Dry as the day perhaps on the hill
when he spoke standing still
Drier still my words today
of a redundant ransom of flesh:
I’ll take you to the stopping place
Where the quiet cowled nuns make lace
They run a school for well-bred girls
In a cloistered fenced-in arbour
There where you’d have no need for curls
She turned just then seven and ten
Me barely two more when
She said in a breathless moan:
Take me to the French Convent
Here my road has come to an end
I want to learn
I want to gain
As much knowledge as my brain
Will strive to contain
I had no choice
I had no voice
In a Chinese school which stopped midways
She was the best of forty times five
Where I was hoarse from English and Science
She sat so close in the front row
She must have felt my breath at home
Her cowlick hand stretched crooked
Brushed my thoughts down my mane
Something about her dragging gait
Spoke of late hours as a kitchen mate
Or as the matron of squabbling squawking siblings
When the mother scrubbed and ironed
the landlord’s lingerie and loins
A saddened face she kept awake
All through the hours at stake
II
It took me days and days of doubting pains
To ring at last the nunnery bell
And to stare aghast at a pallid face
Not quite white and not quite couched in cowl
To register my request
The novice drew and barred the door
As though I would break down the wall
And as the minutes raced in anguish by
And I heard the rusted pig-iron latch click open
Two forbidding eyes contemplated my plight
Under strictly starched and stretched folds a-sail:
“Is she Catho…” she made to ask
Then as urgently withdrew her demand.
“Bring her tomorrow at eight,” she let her words
escape.
“Ring the bell at the gate.”
I never saw the demure girl again.
Her schoolmates thought she worked for the nuns.
Others: “ She took some vows!”
A sibling: “ She took no clothes for a change!”
Just before her silhouette effaced itself
Under the porch of creepers dense
She turned to give me a look:
Was it a look of despair
Or a well-thought-out
farewell fair?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
some say life digs its own grave ~
from my pov i’m building mountains (By poet)
More aware than I’m feeling
less abstract than my dreams
Reality’s that one special place
somewhere in the between
Consciousness is about living
Oblivion for erasing all death
What gives us persisting life
brain activity, our next breath
Questioning everything I see
understanding very little at all
The nightmare of intelligence
begs more than it can solve
Writing to vent my frustration
sharing views of the unseen
No one knows beyond doubt
why life needed human beings
I know that God created us
so did the Big Bang as well
there is a place called heaven
alongside our man made hell
But all this explains nothing
other than, try a leap of faith
Just like my words here fail
to express meaning, but wait!
You live, you always have, your
own death’s impossible to taste
We watch others dying each day
in demise, all experience effaced
To be, is the only reality possible
consciousness, you get my drift
Our chance to feel and reason,
death is zilch, life’s the only gift
Writing Challenge - G Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
02/21/23
Gift prompt #6
Finger-tip power.
Galloping into a world of finger tip power were we no longer admire the beauty of flower,
We care more to acquire the excessive power— that same power that effaced those towers.
People falling too their deaths, others trapped and glowing red.
Hearing voices from within the furnace, a novel affording, my tears of disturbance, surface.
Never before in our progression, could the universe witness such tragedy, with such projection.
Let me ask you, who was to blame? Terrorists? Our government? …Their both the same.
Alas, we shall never know, case-close, frozen, in internet snow,
an avalanche of opposing views leaves very little to the truth.
This brings us to the point- information, rendered, void.
Just look at wikipedia if you want some proof of how accuracy has gone aloof.
It may seem human-kind is further afield, but our connection to nature, we no longer yield.
So how strong can one’s mind be? If the glare of our iPhone is all we see.
How can one really know if what he’s taught is to stop not go.
There breeds within a terminal illness, thats claiming the souls of all our realness.
George Bush can barely string a line yet we take his authority without a dash of lime.
As if we can trust a man of such stature, a puppet to the powers that inflict our fracture.
Allow me, to invite you all, open your minds to an empire, ready to fall.
How much more can we take before our laboured legs begin to break.
In a world of finger-tip power, we no longer care for the flower. We default to hide and cower because we are diddled and fleeced by that mythical power.
Don’t look forward or behind
Life can often be unkind
Remain attentive
Shun regret
It’s often wiser to forget
Stay in the present
Don’t be unsure
Sometimes the strongest, are insecure
Suspend all judgment
of others’ lives
They’re often shrouded in a disguise
Stay optimistic
Abide by faith
The “straight and narrow” can fall from grace
Renounce stagnation
Fulfill your goals
Your hopes and wishes
Play vital roles
Ignite with passion
Lead with your heart
Don’t let injustice
Tear you apart
So, keep on trying
Despite mistakes
And apprehension
Will be effaced
Inhaling quietude, I face
a welcome tranquil scene.
A beautiful secluded place
greets my eyes with iridescent sheen
beneath a wintry sky serene.
Here along this country lane,
diamond flecks have interlaced
and softly fallen on terrain.
The dull and barren land has been effaced;
by dazzling snow my world is graced.
The air is fresh and crisp and clean.
Enchantment rules the day!
Winter, when you are pristine
and when grey clouds have fled away. . .
I welcome you to stay.
For Carol Brown's "Welcoming Winter" Contest
I breathe in quietude and face a welcome tranquil scene.
A beautiful secluded place
greets my eyes with iridescent sheen
beneath a wintry sky serene.
Here along this country lane, diamond flecks have interlaced
and softly fallen on terrain.
The dull and barren land has been effaced;
by dazzling snow my world is graced.
The air is fresh and crisp and clean. Enchantment rules the day!
Winter, when you are pristine
and when grey clouds have fled away. . .
I welcome you to stay.
Jan. 14, 2022
For M. L. Kiser's Winter Wonders Within Nature Poetry Contest
For Brian Strand's Your Choice 2022 Poetry Contest
Opaque
Self-determination digs the fight,
Between lovers, crevacies and urns,
Sunken to the black scraping the rust,
The syntax to velocity 27 epic tech bust.
Velodrome phoneticised tightness of gyte,
Forced gynaecology for terse, gut and creation,
Random infinity espouses truth glued thereunder,
Catching it biopsies tumours in place of white blood.
The thicket secludes grass stoned with hydroxyl’s waste,
Ethanol spreads upon the phalanges dance severed/nullified,
Blame the THC for dividing dithered marriages gay and adjusted,
Turn tender to jail to lock astronauts for circumferences of the wheel.
Misjudged twist of lily and microchip to coin and defile unveiled strands,
Genome tightened motionless from above, within, gloving the asphyxiation,
Dynamo’s nuclear reads sex for perceptive muscular drive on cognitive motion,
Love instantly slides effaced towards the hidden silent convict skimming goons lit.
Only mutism can endanger an incognito identity ravished by blood pulsing to move,
Riled by race relations, sexism, LBGT, second kid jibed with vibes stretching at ozone,
Simple religion does not contradict form structures so abstract by set and void god retract,
Hell includes chemistry’s contingents upon matter bleak and lynched of a glance empathetic.
Rhoda Monihan