Best Elapsing Poems
Redemption
She slowly uncoiled her gray streaked hair that fell to her waist. She removed her
spectacles to see more clearly the windswept icy snow clinging to the branches. A
pause, settling something deep within; then her gaze shifted to me.
I reached out, but found my reach was frozen, too stiff to touch her. For if I touched
her, the burden we shared would lapse and slide away, slinking off to be buried,
uncoiled under the ground.
A pinched, dour expression settled her features into a mask that would never
betray the inner darkness which created a shadow of an existence. A mask that I
must wear as well, to ward off the hopeless life within me, growing every moment of
the day, days upon days retreating into the too long nights, hopeless to survive in
the world we have created, together as “want” and “ruthlessness”.
“I carry no idolatries, no false hope.” A breath are these words as I receive them,
knowing they are too bold to give forth a safe humility.
The nurse, starched clothing as stiff as her countenance, paused, a look of
condemnation briefly shadowing her face, the sun passing in and out of the clouds.
She could not help herself. No matter the role we are chosen to play in this world,
we are not free of a deeply flawed human nature, ice softening dangerously on a
winter’s pond. I turned away.
I came to hours later, the rejected life in me gone, a searing through flesh never
immune to a free will taunting, tearing the fabric of life so fragile. I would not cling. A
passing briefly witnessed, a single brown leaf blown by the window in the darkened
room where we sit for tea, hopes slowly elapsing like the sea waters
receding.
Tomorrow we can only envision; today we must let go of a part of us we will never
again possess. A coursing through the veins of life no more, we push, and push, an
existence wishing to sink into the yawning chasm of what is unknown and coming
for us.
Everything seems
So strange to me
This isn’t where I belong
I’m a stranger
On borrowed land
An outsider
In a silence that’s awkward
Heavy and bizarre
Unholy and surreal
An outcast
With empty birdfeeders
Swaying in the breeze
And flies circling
As if upon a cadaver
Time warped elapsing
In an ungodly fashion
I’m a foreigner
Unable to get away
Hardly far enough
My head swirling
From the stagnant air
I dream of closing my eyes
Letting images jumble my thoughts
Just as come over me
A medley of bloom perfumes
And a hummingbird fluttering
The size of a butterfly
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
A luminescent shimmer of stars,
bright as they were dancing
all aligned in perfect formation
With whispers in the air, romancing.
I thought I caught the subtle shift,
Time elapsing into space
As the moonlight drew its radiance
It was a delectable little taste.
How could I ever dare to dream,
When the universe is vast and unknown
I drown in anticipation
on what we can never own.
I possess a sense of fascination,
like a child struck with awe
To confiscate a moment of clarity
so natural and raw.
the arc of this air rising like smoke
amidst the nival flora of hills
trails against gun-powder skies
with barrels drawn my mind pivots
in the anguish of yesteryear's pain
i cower like this sun beneath clouds
unwilling to lift the veil of eyes
and see the crimson splatter awaken
in the momentary flashes elapsing
through triggered little thoughts
that hold you in the corners of my mind
somewhat confined by my pacific soul
but still able to break free of these chains
sometimes i see you there
pointing more than fingers
and i choke on the weight of hands
pressing against my throat
as i try to swallow down these tears
sometimes i hear your uttered rage
in the shots of darkness that echo
along the halls of lonely walls
where bullets once shattered my heart
i still see the fear in my eyes as reflections stare back
in momentary lapses of this wretched love
that left me live yet die in its hands
January 13, 2020
(aching)
Amount of neglect,
elapsing of quality
retrograde thereof...
~~~~~~~~
* ignore....neglect
* -ance.....suffix : amount or degree of
I wonder what he was thinking, the man
mounted on a stool, with his elbows resting on the bar,
eating a Big Mac and sipping coffee from a McCafe coffee cup.
The outside view he was watching through the glass wall
is the flickering lights over the parking lot and
the sounds of galloping horses on the road.
As usual, among those galloping horses,
some may be carrying today, which is heavier than the day,
on his aching back, while others run with full speed
looking forward to a better tomorrow;
yet, there is a horse, like one of the remnants of a defeated army
who fought the difficult battle where there is no today, no tomorrow,
but struggle after struggle of dogfight and defeat, dragging his feet
with a heavy burden.
Since there is no color or outline of an object in the dark
you are unable to distinguish one horse from the other,
such as the high-spirited grand Shire, the tiny amiable Falabella,
the gracefully elegant Akhal-Teke, or the Mule, born to carry heavy
load till dies.
That’s why the darkness is beautiful,
it doesn’t have a color like the death; yet,
it’s not comparable to the darkness of the grave
because it’s only the flip side of the day. It will drag
you into the light, compel you to see the sun in the morning.
As coffee gets colder, the smell of coffee goes away,
and further, the taste of coffee becomes bitter with elapsing time.
Then, from the empty feeling of missing something, he bites into
the hamburger held in his hand and hears the “moo…” the last cry
of a sorrowful cow dragged into a slaughter house.
Though death is, beautiful if it’s accompanied by a dirge,
the moment of death by force is, although the soul may be
lighter than a feather, a lot heavier than the weight of the world.
OLD UNCLE’S POCKET WATCH
It sticks in the memory now:
First the elapsing day,
Then weeks, months, years,
All shown in a second then.
It stared not into the future or past.
Its ticks measuring,
Collapsing the moment
Into a non-stop chain
Of silver links,
Its bright case
Stored timeless pictures.
In a house of butter, sleep, solaced by an arcane gold
Lined with velvet carpets coy in lavish modesty.
Dulcet tones elapsing past the sundry finished chambers
Forever home though you know not, in all its bogus truth.
Sine qua non until by storm one’s armor will be melted
A bullion sham of hope and loss that weeps through losing eyes.
Open doors and draining light—then death!—but life as well—
Rebuild with oozing bricks will you, or venture, start anew.
The sun will set, the moon will rise, by pale light you must march
Trekking through the vast unknown, too cold, lost, unaided
Stumbling over roots and stones, desperate, but for what? For what?
As endless space goes stretching on, and you, along with it.
By night rain falls and dark turns black and hunters feed on light
By day you skip and smile through a sea of watching eyes.
Drink your fill from dried up ponds that give you no reflection
Find your way by shards of stars that grant no light, you think.
Labored steps, a fall—no rise; on tip-toes you must bound
As string unravels endlessly and lives go flying by.
Groping through the boundless night for what you can’t obtain
Dragged across a rough terrain, keen prisoner of faith.
But the human eye will change, and adapt to the dark
So the rain need fall no more and rise the sun need not.
Yet you still fight, endure the pain for what you call your good
Filing through with head held high, gold glowing at your feet.
But after war the proudest soldiers turn to rubble dust
And under whited sheets you lie, bile victim of the grippe.
But by the sheets by death you live to see another light
And rest on haunches weary feet to look up at the skies:
I think I saw my revelation dancing in the stars.
At times I tell the most in mind
Thoughts escaping elapsing day to night
At times I close my eyes as blind
Absorbing sound vibrations passing by passing by
At times I spend inflicted intelligently gifted
Whirlwind words spin consciousness lifted collapse
At times I begin minds mend acknowledging indifference
Earthquake emotions humbly end recovered past
Left hearted half
Mind whole
Controller Spirit
Not my own
Life at times for me may be may be
Normal in a small scaled town world scheme
Life at times may be one day
Be a life worth leaving to travel far far away
The elapsing of the year gets almost everyone busy,
listing things to do and not to;
What to leave out or cross over with
Recreating the disfigured concepts of one's entity,
Refilling the unfilled rows and columns of a mystery,
It is like a bridge paradoxically unseen in the natural,
A bridge which, others cross over unconsciously, Like people in the North Sentinel Island, the Pintupi Aboriginals;
They're undisturbed with technical, social or economical changes.
The beginning of a year, is like taking a long-light trip
through a hall with appeasing leeways
Getting lost and refound in the process
Through this travel each one has precepts to follow
The exit way is either an achievement or a lesson
Each day is a cross over,
Each night is a ride which takes everyone to past,
present or future events
Each morning is a recreation
To reconstruct the fragmentary initiative.
A happy and reproductive 2018 to the poetry members.
:)
You are also a passerby
Even such is time that flies away with hopes of
Being mortal. Even to say you are a millionaire
The minute to call goodbye is indeed inevitably
Crafted and awaits for man is known to get weary
Having huge amounts in bank transcripts don’t
Assure mortality rather Earth was here when man
Descend and will remain for generations to come
But brethren bare it in mind that dust to dust is...
Sister call your self what you may and be content
Beauty to brag about but denote Britain once had
A queen and her legacy well known to date not that
She is no more, the elapsing day is motion towards
Brother get fat like the baobab, eat meals of the
Kings table but bare it in mind that even the baobab
Drops the earth to sneeze, She puff of the dust storm
Dust to dust too, termites awaits for your juicy flesh.
Be it your are the President today, the Queen mother
Landlady or a poor tom bare it in minds that eschatology
Knows not any discrimination boundaries, it claims all
Despite how famous your second name be, Deathbed
So fathers, mothers, grandma and grandpa let us seek
First his kingdom and pay tribute in respect of him
I mean no one else other than the Almighty for he came
That you and I be delivered off our sin and be purified
The day is never known. But it’s coming to claim a soul
Off the body and flesh to fulfil the means of eschatology
Fear not for he readily died a thousands death for your
Soul to find peace... Just make an initiative and seek him.
Robert Musiiwa Mharadze
All the neon lights at sight
Wont fill the void in your bed
Im the void
All your marxisms stand corrected
The anarchists rejected
Will your sullen doctrines console you at nignt?
Weather the storms , joan
Cannot withstand solitude?
But The buendías can
Recall your faze , your pop culture phase
Modern artists , french new wave
Our youth was a maze
Albeit as not as bleak as our present
The Scandinavian weathercasts that daily swallow us
You were never a Hamlet , Orpheus
I was never an Eurydice ,
but rather an Ophelia
Hey nonny , nonny
I spread the flowers on my grave
They way i always did since birth
The sun also rises but im eclipsing
Elapsing
Collapsing
Help me ,Hemingway
Where do our saviors vanish
When we dont ask to be left be ?
A racing heart out of my chest
Looking like I’m possessed
Hearing numbed down and blocking
Moving vision section after section
A pictured world laughing and mocking
Times elapsing
When wills this end
Will this stay for life or just pretend
No one can calm me
The fear, so scared
The closest to death I believe I could feel
So lost and unprepared
Tasked to continue smooth function of cult compound
Sixteen svelte helpers of mindless vibrant physiche
Hurl their determination found in daily frequency
Milking cows, picking fruit, darning gowns
Draped swathes of cotton smother love worthy curves
Bunches clutched in fervent fists denote proactive
Chores suppress boredom, hours fast elapsing
Hushed among bustle, humbly built church
Rhythmic teat pinching hands press in prayer's commit
Wrists sturdy obedient, cream transform churning
Hundred shelled peas, obligated with urgency
Bound by scripture, called upon to submit
Duty is God's Will, blessed purpose supports hordes
Beauty unrecognised hair spun buns traditional
Released flaxen waterfall for richeous ritual
Sacramental fodder, holiest of whores
Chosen childless worship circle of dedicated wombs
Esteem rodeo results in offspring from Minister
Fallen garland bruised petalled begins her
Observance unto sermons emtombed
31st December
Cursed Yearning
In Real Life
By Nathan Hannen
Cold and Wind, Ice and Snow, Freezing everything I know
Something and nothing, Everything to show, Wind taking everything to go
Contemplating guilt, Buried to the hilt, A thousand tears are spilt
Ticking and elapsing, Infrastructures collapsing, All the while a constant relapsing
People talking and laughing, Times walk by passing, Years amassing
Systems of hate and love, Ever flying above, The winding flight of a dove
What is real life?, A painful battle of and through strife, Or a story told in so many
ways, Its rife
The End.