Best Entombs Poems
I wade the waterside enticing death.
The sea extols the brash to th’ outermost
Abyss. A ‘know it all’, I challenged this
Watery host.
I capsized in the tumultuous seas;
I’m in the heart of the abyssal deep.
The billowing waters; they crest and fall,
Enmesh and sweep.
Disjointed and astray from sight, I strive
Complacently for that redemptive shoal.
This mortuary that’s surrounding me
Entombs my soul.
I look toward the surface as I scan
The depth of darkness for some tethered hope.
I clutch my hands into the obvious
End of my rope.
The moorings are beyond my grasp. I gasp
And struggle for air as I hold my breath.
The hint is clear enough; I closed my eyes
And swallowed Death.
I am the tundra barren cold and numb
A frozen wasteland where no light can reach
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
In icy silence where no whimpers humb
My thoughts like glaciers grind, erode, and breach
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
The Amazon within once vital thrumb
Of life and hope now withers out of reach
Between these poles my insatiate self-succumbs.
Anxiety a howling blizzard's sumb
Entombs me deep a creature bleached of speech.
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
Depression creeps permafrost of my slumb
While echoes of lost joy my soul beseech
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
Yet in this waste, where all seems overcome
A seed of strength cracks ice defies the leech
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
I cling to the tangibility of paper
its connection to earth,
the feel of the grain
on the skin.
Words do not exist
thanks to the mashing
of keys and buttons, but by providence
of the paper.
The forgotten paper
is still alive. Soft
and crumpled
yellowed with age.
Though forgotten
never erased. Never
extinguished.
I do not bleed red
cells but globules
of words, coagulated
phrases and lines.
The pen is a prosthesis,
supplementing blood
where soft flesh leaves prints-
other swirled lines an whirls.
The pencil
whispers
words,
lightly brushes her lips
against slate,
ever the timid lover.
Even when erased
the word is
forever imprinted, its curvatures
embedded in the soft
fiber of the page.
The screen
is an evil thing; coveting
its symbols and codes.
It hides
away your words,
entombs them
behind an electric moon.
When the screen dies
so do your musings.
Love is always a majestic,
long-suffering
beauty of destiny.
The humble daisy breathes
in undying devotion.
The colorful chrysanthemum
endures tempting fate.
In the teary angle's
embrace nestles unswerving
rapture.
The sunny violet entombs
a merciless vanity.
The moonlight of a soulful heart
seeks shelter from ongoing
despair .
The dark side of sunlight gleams
in mountainous seas.
The agonized sky never
hides its eagerness to still
a flaming ire.
Its bloody tears always etched
on the unrelenting hyacinth,
its verdant smile always forgives the
, accidental failures of life.
Its fragrance frequently waters the
unfeigned red carnation.
Love's angelic song is worthy,
when it does not care about
delicate, temporary lily .
Black daybreak never touches it,
it is a past history..
Swarms of flies infest teary eyes,
the untouchables have no worth.
And live and die in the gutters,
shunned by society since birth.
The sick occupy the shadows,
where death entombs these castaways.
For faceless crowds take no notice,
how the lowest-caste end their days.
A woman with a giant heart
felt India's poor were in pain.
And brought them medicine and hope
to shelter them from heat and rain.
She found joy in loving the poor
and shared that joy with all she met.
And lectured that these souls of God,
more than prayers, need our time and sweat.
Mother Teresa begged the rich,
let God touch others through you.
And this angel became a Saint,
to those whose dreams she helped come true.
(Quatrain)
2/18/2017
Tumbling from sullied grey clouds
snowflakes confetti the air
like down feathers, swirling down.
Riding on a chilly breeze
trillions of intricate flakes
begin to carpet the ground.
For crowned Queen of ice and snow
in her alabaster gown,
Winter suddenly arrived.
Consumed by flames of scarlet
fueled by Jack Frost's first touch,
not a single leaf survived.
Winter temperatures drop,
until it is cold enough
for you to see your own breath.
And with a heart cold as ice,
Winter entombs fallen leaves,
while camouflaging their Death.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Nineteen
“Not that I had not spied your tulip-lipped doting jasmine airs
Nor the way your wraith-like form take me back to sumptuous fairs
Of Samarkand yore whence I dallied with dulcet-toned damsels
Just that my incognito pursuit here had little need for flares.”
“The sombre air you cloak yourself in to much deceit succumbs,
I pain to endorse the waste your ivory casing entombs.
Come! Let’s conjure the day ere the lurid night-half lengthens,
I would you were mine to confide ere summer solstice enthrones!”
“Now I’ll this reconnaissance to Our Lady Lake entrust
Know thou well my light-foot Maiden being of like-nature must.
Time is but a secret door like-minds might easily unlock:
Be it days or years or eons two hearts in one bind robust !”
Alas! Alas! The Ol’ Bard’s message bobbed up and about
Lady Lake’s unctuous raiments buffeted by squalls in bout;
The tulip-lipped Lass unawares thought no more of her act
Till the Mairie’s men-at-work fished the bobbing bottle out !
The Men of Paperasse studied the Bard’s note in all duty haste
And drew the conclusion: ‘Secret messages across time’s waste
Confirm the guilt of one and the other from distant powers!’
The arraignment was drawn up, signed and sealed with wax paste.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored,
as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head
- providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed
by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack
in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack
for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack
upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack
that has been the villages claim to justify its existence.
The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance
and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance
and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants
as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf
and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief.
In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief
from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?,
in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before
you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door
with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more
before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar
beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before.
In here – these lines – I feel the loss.
Upon this stone – know – I see no moss,
for on here, I offer no direction,
just many hours of histories reflection.
Empty- I feel in this alone place.
Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face.
Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?,
to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know
of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind.
It seems to me, little hope to find
- among humanity – the true essence of woman kind
as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind.
Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate
could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate
that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine
upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine
that would share on a world , not to compare
with anything like my world of despair.
The hour has passed, the rest are in decline.
The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine.
There is little I see, that will make life fine,
for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine
through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead
that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead
I wonder...
Wherever this nebulous varmint is
Here, there, everywhere
Does he ever look to himself in shame
He who leaves his iniquitous stains
For all the hatred he lays claim?
He gives tongue to the anemic, weakened mettle
Wheezing his nidorous, putrid breath into its chambers,
Leaving behind his dark black, deadly whispers
Of desolated emptiness- this demonic mister
He entombs them alive, those he perversely abducts
In his Cimmerian, shadowy hell
Slither back to your bottomless pit
You tenebrous angel from purgatory
You don't deserve a capital 'A'
In your God forsaken name
Demon of greed and endless shame
Conjuring up ways to wickedly ensnare
Those who've weakly stumbled to their knees
You were cast down from the Great One's Home
You don't deserve this world to roam
This is 'Lights Out'...
The demise of you and me
And everything I used to be!
Don't hurl me your meager crumbs of wretched love
As you wickedly tally my teardrops in The Mighty's rain
You menacing angel- I'm aware of your despicable fame
I'm through dancing to your stygian, sooty song
Go back to Hades where you chose to belong
You cheat, you lie with your unlit callous facade
You cerberus hound from hell- you are not from my loving God
I see behind your lurid, false masquerade
You, malevolent angel cast from Heaven above
I pray...
You incubus, you succubus
Recoil back to your wicked, burning inferno
Go crawling back to your lake of fire
Ye who chose crepuscular, selfish desire
And... Pathetically became you
October now is on its way;
November mists are here to stay.
With mornings dark and damp and drear
The wintry blast is ever near.
Welcome to November.
A mournful mist entombs the trees.
All is still – no hint of breeze.
Like soup the mist lies in the vale;
All colours bleached, pastel and pale.
Mysterious November.
A melancholy haunts the wood
As desperate thrushes hunt for food.
Sadness drips from skeletal twigs
And blackbird in the dead leaves, digs.
Deep and dark November.
But sunbeams slanting through the mist
Bring joy and hope of Spring, I wist.
Three months to bear the Winter's worst
Before the first Spring blossoms burst.
Hopeful in November.
The “dainty lady's” lost her gown,
For every leaf there's only down.
The beech mast on the forest floor
And hedgerow bright with hip and haw.
Time of change, November.
Such stunning colours, rich and mellow :
Deep red and orange, brown and yellow.
With “mellow fruitfulness” aglow –
Sweet chestnut, hawthorn, spindle, sloe.
Colourful November.
Desire is held in noble dream, inspired by the silence of night,
Willed to the merciless cold of senility, in a chill of evening darkness...
Our hands reach out to the perilous sky to catch a moon so still,
In the breadth of stars no dawn entombs us, as we cry for tomorrow rise
For the moon instills no shadow, nor rays that grace the dawn,
Nor buds of grass that silent grow where sincerity is born;
Like the simple sign of our quick decent into thoughts beyond the night
Or things obscured by spoken words, when a cooler breeze arrives
Come oh sun in solitude, rise children from their sleep,
Allow that that gives a faithful clue, to bid the night farewell,
Listen the call of a mockingbird, note lines on sincerity,
And caresses the daybreak with its early beams of light
By M.Norton
This sudden urge I've come to feel is
rapture at my gate
Not more on sudden than is subtle but
weary of this spate
Thoughts of dreams, realities obscene
and too depraved
Quite more on nightmares than dwelt
dreams yet dark and highly craved
Consumes my mind on vulture plains
devouring to ensnare
Despising law and hearts thereof
perpetuating air
Loosed in my twisted reasoning twisted
as in psycho strange
To understand this feeling you need feel
as do the crazed.
Constituting heart is a melody of nature
but as I hear it playing is my symphony in
gesture
As the organ sounds flows the flood of
tainted scarlet.
Leaving all but dense perfume and a taste
of cupcake velvet.
This wretched place I know is my bound
while I am bleeding
Not much bleeding as in breathing but
nonetheless demeaning
This occupation begs by night, entombs
me and enslaves
Preoccupying binding shadows, darkness
is my subtle crave
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
THE DESTINY.
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.