Best En Masse Poems
It starts with only one -
one like me
a melancholy migrant
from the immortal part of her
to the locus of her physical being --
the center of her emotional wisdom
I gain heartfelt strength as I gather my forces
rising up en masse
riding cresting waves of woe
to breach the ramparts -
the welling rims
of her loving eyes
it starts with only one -
one perfectly ripened drop of sorrow
this beautifully packaged pain
and a lustrous cascade of soulful pearls ensues
wept gems pouring forth from a pure heart..
I am the tears your mother cries.
Susan Ashley
May 5, 2018
~ Poem Of The Week ~
Week beginning Sunday, May 13, 2018
~ Seventh Place ~
Contest: Early May Premiere (2018)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Poet's note; For my beautiful daughter, Jocelyn, you inspire me with your light, joy, spirited determination and intellect. Though your academic pursuits take you many, many miles away from me and I grieve your absence, when you return home I shall celebrate with tears of joy!
For today, however, I'll let my grieving tears speak for themselves...
I love you and I miss you, my Jocee <3
I'm near cuckoo
This Monday blue
A day not eas'ly recommended
for making sense
I'm way too tense
And hung-over to comprehend it
My mind's on the bend
my imaginary friends
are threatening to abandon en masse
I was perfectly sane
till they pissed in my brain
negotiations are at an impasse
It pains me to mention
the bone of contention
menacing our peaceful existence
my voices of own creation
went above their station
with mutinous and unfair persistence
Old Mother Hubbard
had sneaked to the cupboard
to steal skeleton bones for her yapper
the skeletons in-wait
welcomed their bait
with little resistance managed to trap her
As to why she'd no clue
their demands were few
and until met they'd keep her as hostage
twixt two skeletons squeezed
the hag was well-pleased
only in dreams she was ever in bondage
The skeletons vacated
on their long-awaited
crusade for their rights to be equal
a sudden scurry in my head
when the voices I have bred
became hushed, which was rather unusual
The spokes-skeleton
passed a colorless wind
voiced their single demand: to remain
"We were made to vanish
to a dark cupboard banished
we demand henceforth to share your domain."
A resounding "No!
You'll stay down below
we're totaling 20, including the yapper
there's hardly space
the din to embrace
and an hour-long queue to the crapper."
"Then the beldam Hubbard
will remain in the cupboard
lore would have it, bare to the bone
the cupboard, that is
not the hag, whose Maltese
diced up raw will be fed to the crone.
We implore you most
kindly engage our host
in negotiations and if necessary plead
we want into his brain
and share your domain
or prepare for a skeleton stampede."
PART 2 TO FOLLOW. THIS MIGHT TAKE A WHILE, AS I'M LOCKED IN HOSTILE NEGOTIATIONS
Lower the flags to half mast,
America the Beautiful has been gutted,
Its word emptied of all meaning,
There is no jubilant throng singing,
“Glory, glory Hallelujah!”
Our nation’s heroes rise
From their earthen graves enraged
And cry out to the heavens,
“Have our cruel deaths been in vain?!”
Their ghosts march en masse
On the nation’s capital to haunt
Those who have betrayed our nation
In the Chamber of the Senate.
Abraham Lincoln holds his head in his hands,
And weeps bitterly for his nation.
All he endured to protect the Union from traitors
Has been destroyed in a single vote.
Our Founding Fathers who had sacrificed all
Watch in horror as the orange faced buffoon
Mounts the steps of the Capital with
The beloved Constitution of the United States
Attached to the bottom of his shoe
Like used toilet paper.
Tomorrow morning in newspapers
Throughout the nation the obituary is written,
“The United States of America,
Born on July 4, 1776, died on February 5, 2020
In the Senate, Washington D.C.
I watch a sunset
that I'd love to share
and nobody sees it but me
I'm scratching my head
in utter amazement
that nobody cares much to see
Things to accomplish
things to get done
a million things every day
And all of these things
have one thing in common
they manage to get in the way
"In the way of what?"
as you may well ask
"I'm doing my best to get by."
And oh, what a shame
so sad and so true
we squander our lives 'til we die
And doing their best
devoid of expression
their faces are empty and bleak
So busy, so dizzy
en masse, repetition
robotically, chronically weak
And what are they doing?
Yes, why such devotion
to this seemingly endless malaise?
They're taking a rain check
and storing up treasures
and longing for much brighter days
No time for a sunset
no walks in the park
no place for a soft ocean breeze
They march on in madness
a dutiful army
en route to their chosen disease
I look in the mirror that sees the rear view
Someone is there that looks a lot like you
A pair of sharp eyes of a person I knew
A phantom that can't come further than glass
Caught in between, stuck at an impass
Made up of memories swirling en masse
I find myself alone again when I turn
But behind my reflection a searing gaze burns
I still check each time never willing to learn
I spend all my nights waiting for you to arrive
For this uncanny copy of you to revive
I do nothing these days but drive and drive
Mirror image when gone, where do you go
I wish you were still someone that I know
Looking over my shoulder, still as my shadow
Six days of work for the Master Artist,
creating a universe, bestowing life.
After looking back on His outline,
God colored emotions for Adam and his wife.
Between His sketches of sea and sky,
Blue hues He chose, endowing serenity.
He awakened nature’s forests with strokes of green,
employing earth tones to convey humility.
Red and yellow flowers He painted to bring joy;
white clouds in the heavens added purity.
Rainbow tints filled God’s world with emotions,
leaving no colors in obscurity.
Before one final act, He debated “free will,”
so desirous that each human life form
be welcome in His eternal kingdom.
But no one, He decided, should be forced to conform.
Material things God created en masse
were mere outlines with possibilities.
To make life worth living, He continued day seven,
giving man love, joy and merciful abilities.
*October 24, 2018
For Curtis Moorman’s contest: “What Did God Do on the Seventh Day?”
"Nature is a joy in spring with fresh life and a wonder than at other seasons. The myriad animate and inanimate forms living in nature surprise and delight us. The sight of little creatures taking care of their offspring raises our curiosity and heightens our admiration to the point of emulating them"~ By Poet
The silent snowy winter days are gone.
Lively spring has come again.
The cool wind brushes past my face
Animals from their hide, come out in chain.
A mother hen with her happy brood
Of newly hatched chicks like balls of wool
Is out of her coop for an outdoor hunt,
To feed on termites under dry leaves, cool
The chicks in self-abandon run and play.
Some chase tiny bugs leaping from the grass.
Some climb on their mother’s sloppy back.
They enjoy the bright day’s cheer en masse.
On the other side, bunnies leap and hop,
In the hazy mist of the early morning light.
They nibble at fresh grass in the meadow.
Their sprightliness soaks my heart in delight.
.
My heartstrings are stretched out tight,
As pigeons coo and robins sing,
Adding a symphonic rhythm to the air,
By the avian ensemble of spring
I hear the whisper of fresh-grown leaves,
Interrupted by the sweet strains of a meadowlark.
On this lovely day, an urge to roam the countryside,
Is ignited deep in my heart as a blazing spark.
I pressed my face against the thick pane of glass
And stared out into the black of nearest space
Where my planet-home Earth hung suspended
Like a special well-worn ornament on a spruce tree
Decorated with multi-colored bulbs and angel hair
Earth swirling inside webs of gray cloud shrouding
So peacefully, it appeared, she drifted silent there
While I saw visions of peoples struggling to be free
Knowing on us so much of their future depended
Adventuring to the unknown, and finding a place
Where Earth’s inhabitants might egress en masse.
written October 23, 2021
[using a reverse rhyme I often
employ in more recent poems]
"Flowers, the emblems of beauty and fragrance proudly assert that loveliness can catch every eye and brighten even the gloomiest heart" ~ By Poet
look at these white blossoms,
attired in snow white velvety frocks,
unassuming and elegant
under the canopy of the starlit sky.
though tiny in size,
en masse they exude a hypnotic charm.
birthed in the stillness of night,
they proclaim their presence,
in dazzling white.
decked by dewy beads,
they dance freely unnoticed.
some perfume the air
with exotic scent,
permeating the nightly breeze.
during day, they wait to be garlanded,
by the amber beams of the sun,
longing to be hugged and kissed
by the amorous butterflies.
these simple beauties are the silent partakers,
of life’s most beautiful romance!
This is a long extended night,
The stars all hibernate,
The blustery gusts revolve around
The dreams which suffocate.
Now the torrents lash my door,
And now they slam the shade,
'Be couched right here, and do not move',
The whispers promptly bade.
Out there I glanced, the wild tree pranced,
She swayed her tipsy stem,
All drenched and dark, the leafy arc
Seems like her death-gown's hem.
Is that mere downpour, or a sign,
An omen of the time?
The thunders clash with louder splash,
Upon the lakebed slime.
My window pane is stabbed by rain,
One thousand spears en masse,
They prick the eaves, pummel the leaves
To the level of the grass.
The flickering lamp will die at once,
It does not cease to pour,
A marble sculpture drowns beneath
The water on the floor.
That which gives life can take it too,
Lo there it heaves its head,
The shrine's bemused, the priest presumed
A curse on holy bread.
It has to cease within no time,
The devil's thunder roars,
The gale allays his evil play
Withdraws his wondrous force.
28th September, 2021
Running in the grass,
The kitten ran with joyful sass,
Birds flew south, en masse!
8/27/2021
2
* Rhymed Haiku
LAME GOODBYE
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
like all the years that went before
the whole city seemed to throng en masse
in the sparkling Park street drawn by its lure.
In the translucent sky of the congealed night
the stars had all faded away in the glow galore
of the dazzling neons on the walkway bright.
Radiant faces glowed in joy of the night before.
Flowing out of endless stream of jostling crowd
in a bar my friend and I sought out a corner cozy.
Under the spell of flashing lights and music loud
counting the pegs shooting the head wasn’t easy.
Landing on wrong steps while going out elevated
I slipped, tinsel street turned dust, filled my eye.
With the bruised mind and a fractured leg on bed
I painfully bade that Christmas a lame goodbye.
November 27, 2018
The deep fault of the human race
is that there are no individuals any more.
~ Søren Kierkegaard
Pixels in the machine it seems
Articulating world schemes, twirled
Reality for those addicted to a screen,
Too timid into be seen in between ~
Inventions of mad men with intentions of perverting
Common sense, it’s so passé
Loving everything but Roget’s suggestions~
Even poems must have an ending!
Menageries of words saying nothing, galleries of pixel
Animations replacing animates en masse
Nothing leftover for the poor,
who don’t exist except
in old picture books.
"Glossolalia"
I closed the external noise out,
and upon entry to that strange place
the colour of Love,
silence broke the heart open
like trumpets penetrate the heavens
revelations were opening in my mind,
and the invisible surrounding me
emerged visible making their presence
fully and clearly known,
and their whispers became beautiful very loud songs,
and glossolalia tripped off those strange messengers’ tongues
like poets, to me, they spoke and sung
another language, entirely foreign
yet totally understood,
and It and They, lifted myself higher,
and all those strange spirits
surrounding me rose en masse
like an ocean wave overcomes
and carries unprepared swimmers
back into a distant shore, drenched,
and like a child frolics in the ocean,
I was not afraid to turn around,
and swim out deeper, wanting more;
like a magnet their tides danced around me
and pulled me in and along with them,
emerging from the mist of the colour of that place
bathed in synethesia from the auras, of all,
such astonishment, the heart was crying with joy,
the strange sensation of tasting the scent of feeling
in all the beautiful glaringly loud colours of that place,
like an infant born again, pushing its way out
into something odd, a new world, emerging novel,
unhackneyed original shining piercing light
from the body like an orb that cracked open
the old darkness and drew in the new creation,
the Light glowing like armour naked untouchable, merkabah,
yet touching and reaching, ascending higher plains
with divine Xenoglossy beings, We are, paranormal phenomena
now sometimes seen as pareidolia in the clouds
writing, singing, speaking supernature to the ordinary natural,
understanding all, not just one over the other, we understand All
The Xenolalia singing Glossolalia
enrapturing all, on their way home
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Since the bloody Battle of Hastings
When 'Arold got killed by French Bill
We've seen an endless invasion of French
And I've just about had my fill
Don't we have enough words of our own
In this wonderful language of ours?
- To seek and find le mot juste
Dunt take much linguistic power
It seems using French has been with us forever
Passed down as a fait accompli
Have we ever really tried to change that?
Or have we always said "C'est la vie"?
But, to think that some long-dead bon vivant
With a certain je ne sais quoi
Used his chic tour de force to put words in our mouths
To me, it's a shameful faux-pas
So, I think we need a tête-à-tête
To form a clique, to mount a coup
Working together, en masse, as a team
We'll swap "Bonsoir" for "How Do"
Then (haute couture) won't be setting the trend
We'll watch racing, not the Grand Prix
No more art nouveau, or cordon bleu
And say "Enjoy your meal", not "Bon appétit"
I never have the soup du jour
Prefer prawn cocktail to poncy pâté
And I'll sit in a coffee house or caff
But never go in a café
Some say I should let it go and relax
Say choice of words is all laissez-faire
But can I stay calm on this bête noire of mine?
No, mes amis ~ au-contraire!
At British Wimbledon let's use "40-all"
Instead of being at deuce
And what's wrong with nil instead of love
Or am I being obtuse?
I know that we'll get nowhere
I sense there's no going back
That it's like being stuck behind burning sheep
Trapped in a cul-de-sac
But I suppose that it is nice to share
Good ideas and a word or two
Like Liberté and Égalité
And that feeling of déjà vu
And with le weekend, le booking, le check-in, le spam
And countless more, I say with a grin
That when we look at our counter-invasion
Even the French agree that we win!