Best Embalmed Poems
What if love is the religion,
and heaven a voice
with no ego;
synchronized in
harmonious hope,
speaking dialects
of kindness?
What if hell is a myth,
and evil lurks as shadows,
dressed in greed
and insincere speech?
What if there’s no fine line
between dusk and dawn?
no strained streak between
darkness and light,
blurring out visions
of wrong and right?
But If love is the religion,
would the Universe
tame the storms
raging above holy shrines?
If honesty can see through
the sunless eyes of
sinners crawling
as nocturnal creatures,
preying on gullible souls-
disguised as saints,
would they mend
sacred survivors?
for, they’ve conquered
colossal galaxies rising
from unbeatable infernos.
In a world that is oblivious
to the grieving clouds,
drizzling tears from the azure.
I wish, you and I, would read
the same book of intuitions;
scriptures that reveal
no name to the faith we behold.
Sometimes, I close
my confused heart,
allow third eye to
roam and reach,
to find heaven through
astral waltzing,
across spiritual realms,
where hymns of healing echo.
Perhaps, it’s been
etched in karmic kismet,
that amidst fleeting time
and passing seasons,
love shall rise like
a forgiving flower,
sprouting from emptiness.
Embalmed in jasmine rain water,
pouring upon the
emblem of empathy.
So, don’t speak, just listen,
close your eyes, awaken
your awareness to the air,
witness the unspoken truth,
swirling through weary winds,
caressing fragile skin,
like eagle feathers.
Seek beyond all that
which shimmers,
there flows dreams that glow,
woven with faith;
a combination of meraki,
and divine elements.
Monsoon mornings are like a seedless vase filled with paralyzed petals.
I sit reminiscing, the fleeting frequencies of his ancient clock,
now cloaked in coal cobwebs composing skeletal memories;
a timeless token of unblemished innocence,
when tiny fingers, tattooed with henna butterflies,
awaited the dawning strings of golden kites.
I ponder if shadows of the moving moon still caress chiffon curtains, forming a crescent spoon,
resembling five marbles of childhood that played hide and seek,
to his virtuous voice echoing down hollow hallways~
homing a trail of tender heartbeats from the swings he made for us…
For the empty room of a wise man is never soulless.
It shelters fearless footprints of futuristic art, painted with patience,
when fairies of twilight forget the lyrics of starry lullabies.
Tonight, I trace whispering wallpapers,
listening to the sound of my grandfather’s perennial promises~
that linger forever, embalmed in sandalwood serenity,
while nightingales croon eclectic elegies to the mourning sky.
As the glistening jewels
of snow cascade like
ballerinas pirouetting
to the crescendo of time,
choreographed from porcelain
keys of your h e a r t,
delicate fingers of the
winter moon stretch,
enveloping forlorn footprints
of poignant memories,
framed with petal-like poems
you've placed in the
gallery of my melancholic mind
where soulless shadows still~
haunt me in holographic
hues through somber nights, but
If I were to rewrite the anatomy
of this romance with~
juxtapositions, should I rescript
your promises in p s y c h e d e l i c ink?
knit silken sonnets from the
tapestry of scintillating
stars in our favour,
letting go of all the
seasonal silhouettes
that seized redolent rhymes,
maybe, it is from pain
we relearn to dream
in periwinkle pigments to
nurture and navigate through
decayed gardens embalmed in
opalescent tears and fluorescent fears
suppressed and
personified within gossamer
tales of sunflower s i l e n c e…
Quilted with questions that your
quintessential quill can~
reveal, in romanticised verses, to wade
through the abstracts of weary woes.
So, set your stones to
architect cobalt grey lanes,
to usher feathered thoughts into the
serenity of your scented sanctuary.
until I find the perfect gateway
adorned with crystals in the
verdant valleys, engrossed in vanilla flakes,
where cosmic yearnings are embroidered
between mauve instruments
harmonised from
xylophone whispers reverberating
in vermilion s t i l l n e s s…
You will always be the
clementine crown of my sun,
the scarlet scrapes in my ink,
zested in zealous dahlias
and no rain can drown
this celestial
c o l l a b o r a t i o n…..
“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.
Her persona is like
a portrait
of picturesque perfection,
embalmed in
bittersweet lavender,
unseen within depths
of tributaries of elixir.
If only they knew
the chaos that flows,
constrained in
a confined
gallery of grief.
Not everyone is
a master painter.
Some brush with brutal
bruised strokes,
provoking timeless
streams of
implicit secrets,
from crimson stains
on ivory satin,
where scents of juniper
evoke phases of
unpredicted phenomenons,
oblivious to chronicles
of forsaken tales,
which hide
beneath barriers,
many have struggled
to venture within.
But there is an artist
with a
pastel on his palette,
that can correct
her disfigured pigment.
He holds cryptic
calligraphic engravings,
veiled behind the inflamed
chamber of her heart.
He understands that her
spirit drowns when
winds are forceful.
How her
delicateness has
been sleeping
on withered roses,
wilted by
cruelest rays of a
summer
mourning
morning star,
Where bedtime stories
were puppeteered
by hurricanes
feeding on
fenceless vulnerabilities.
yet when
sleepless silence sings,
it can disturb
in reverberating
heavy metal screams.
So she echoes her trauma
through hurtful hisses,
poisoning with
vicious venom.
Her aura alters in
acrimonious attitudes
from serene sunshine
to furious gales.
She remains without
a grip on untamable
seasons of
unholy torture,
Only he knows the poem
in her eyes is the
last train home,
so he calms her
tempest temperament,
enabling hidden rainbows
in her mind to reappear.
He is a soothing
gemini night-flower,
even with outcries
of midnight thunder,
his patience resembles
raining jasmine water,
purifying
her murky waters,
into a crystallised milky-way
of kyanite desires,
guiding her
to swirl and swoon
into
whirlwinds of closure.
I remember Cleopatra's moon,
as triangles of time
unveiled pyramids embalmed in
juniper, incensing golden dreams.
While in desolate dunes
of the sunrise Sahara,
I've engraved your initials
with pearls and diamonds.
For in lunar silence
when cylinders of stars
embellish skies with hieroglyphics,
destined twin flames ascend.
You’ll remain a musical~
maestro, choreographing our pilgrimage
to attain heaven beneath
henna herbs of love.
Light blue tears on parchment, how softly my pen
weeps for you. Ribbons of verse bind, pull tightly
on oozing emotions. Devoted words lie embalmed
in true affection, line upon line of adoration. I am
besotted in ink, controlled by a heart that fills my
page. My pen lies aside my love, my dreams, my
day and night and what you are to me. Your kisses
are the words planted and my future granted.
It was a lovely little house.
Built of white painted timber,
with a gabled roof clad in green tin,
it had never been a rich person's house.
It was her house.
And driving up to park outside it,
each time I went there,
was like the beginning of a new adventure.
I would always enter by the rickety side gate
and walk through that small garden she tended to on weekends,
in the hope that one day it might become beautiful.
The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen where,
sometimes she would be,
baking scones or some other treat for her and me
to have later with some coffee or cheap red wine.
It wasn't a well designed house.
The bathroom and lavatory and laundry
weren't where you might expect.
And most rooms were very small.
But for the living cum dining room.
And her bedroom.
I never counted all the rooms in that house.
I'm not certain I even saw all of them.
But all of those I did see
were furnished and decorated with pieces that she
had shopped for at garage sales
and in second hand shops.
Except for those things that she had made herself.
There were pictures she painted,
and other hand crafted knick-knacks.
And some bottles filled
with interesting vegetable matter
embalmed in colourful oils and such.
It was a small house and a little quaint.
But beautiful.
And warm.
Her bedroom was of a good size
and her bed was large and sumptuous,
with a profusion of richly coloured cushions and pillows.
We'd discovered one another in that large bed,
in that good sized bedroom,
in that warm little house,
that still warms me with it's memories.
For there was nothing inside that house
that she had not chosen.
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Dear 2024,
I hope this poetic vow
wouldn’t be shunned,
as I block negativity
from my phone,
like my bitter exes.
And forgive my sense
of humor that
resembles sour grapes,
like a dash of salt
and pepper sprinkled
on top of old drapes.
Perhaps, as this
year bids adieu,
I’ll find the right
ingredient to concoct
sparkling wine infused
with giggles that
age like
chucklesome limericks,
as I fine-tune the
empty spaces
of my scribbled
pages with hilarity.
I’ll learn to laugh a
little louder and hope
the ebb of every
comical tale can flow.
Maybe a stricter
chocolate diet would
help me see the
sweeter side of
powdered comedians,
sharpening my wit
as endorphins enhance
my ability to spot
the depth of puns
punctuated
with bizarre tones.
And as December rain
drizzles in symphony
of the darkness
my quill flaunts,
pardon these
peculiar metaphors,
I’ll raise a glass
of crocodile tears,
a toast for
more concise poetry,
and faces I’ve phased,
that I’ll no longer
vent about in vain verses.
Cheers to the
festival lights
on wheel of laughter,
may the florescence
forever flicker as
souvenirs of amusement.
I’ll dance into the
rising sun of a new year,
in an odyssey adorned
with shimmering dreams
embalmed in
tickling mint leaves.
My spirit flew away to far off lands,
travelling over hills and vales,
o'er seas and deserts dry,
until it arrived high
on a cold chain of ridges,
where soft winds caressed my face,
freshness embalmed my inner self.
Perhaps that's why I saw her there, alone
lying on her back, gazing up at the sky
savouring the exquisite joy of silence.
For in that treasured tranquillity
dreams have room to spiral
from the depth of her eidetic memories
renewed and revived, never forgotten.
Out of that quietude she heard
the soft voice of her essence,
reflections of her life,
the joys of motherhood,
the fulfilment of love,
the pangs of parting,
the pain of illness,
the weakness of humanity,
the dreams and emotions
that ebbed, flowed and ebbed again.
I knew she left her home town
deserting her desolate living
renouncing all the humdrum of city lights.
No wonder she flew away
seeking refuge on a mountain side,
above a cascade of water,
lying on the sweet grass
that bordered the lonely stream.
For here she was at peace.
Relief tears trickled down her cheeks:
she could never really forget.
My spirit felt for her for I could feel
that deep inside her was beauty never bound.
I knew despite her tears,
she was happy there:
oh, that she could remain
on that pretty mountain nook
holding tight to hope:
happy amongst the heather
near the tumbling brook
for ever and evermore.
“When trust is a walking phantom,
draped in dying dandelions,
let the wind blast forth its shattered promises,
as rain rinses away piercing pain of memories lost” Quote by Poet
the sky is a catacomb
of faceless promises and ghosts
clothed in tangled treachery
as trust is a wilted tulip~
embalmed in golden tears…
O’ deceived heart of the eclipsed sun
you were once glazed in jewels…
now a mourning mausoleum~
chanting a moonless requiem
resting in ashes of skeletal lies….
I listen to the waves sighing,
like words seized from the weary,
an island that trembles
to the tune of every tide forged
with artificial aquamarines,
like accolades articulated
with aesthetic lies,
misleading the mindless,
ridiculing the rhythm,
as if we are all blindfolded ~
bleeding ballads of the broken,
borrowed from buried poets,
still breathing amidst their demise…
But if only they knew:
imageless imitation never
impressed the Imagists,
the ones who care
not for rhyme’s retardation ~
that sounds like absolute absurdity.
So tonight, as I write
with granite and garnet,
I long for perfumed light
to school the manipulated rules,
claiming to know it all,
sitting in their emptiness,
unaware of neither
what’s right nor wrong.
I am the unblemished;
I breathe not illusions
embalmed with poison.
I am original ~
a word that no longer is present
in the dictionary of the deceitful…
The life light shimmers in the air
Love and delights
Death and pain
Drowsy in numbness
The leaves have never known
Embalmed darkness with grief
Cold winter is coming soon
Silver bells and white snow
Stardust, northern lights and moonlight
While wonder and guesses
01.10.2016
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
(unrhymed couplets)
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Rose petals blossoming out from the heart softly silk
starbursts brightly sitting a regal flower kissed
By loving sunshine sweet glowing beauty dances
your delicate curling petals so beautiful
Like a butterfly's wings fluttering eyelids mist
engaged upon a glance sweet fragrance whispered dew
Embalmed by the perfume of such treasure found gift
it is here that an arrow of gold strikes home dear
sweet velvet corolla crumples fragile breathless