Best Faltering Poems
The bars of my cell are fastened together with the loud barks of combatant's screaming dimwitted noise.
Discouraging whips scar my will, leaving seared brands of indignation, attempting to disrupt my poise.
Plagued by thoughts of being 'freed', becoming a slave to the wallowing whines of emotional boys.
But escape from this prison of censoring will be the only way my words I can fully and freely employ.
This is what it has become, the majority rules even if they are fools in search of something to alleviate their pain
The primitive verbiage selected has infected the beautiful dialect poets once protected even in mitts of being slain.
The dumb lead the blind, the blind lead the deaf and the deaf mute the truth-Sayers; calling them insane.
Talents and time is wasted for the hopes of being accepted by the mob with it's self imposed mask of compromise and shame.
Resented for the refusal of the acceptance of the blatant deception that has construed the greatest minds of our day.
Minds are swayed not by logic but the acceptance of fallacies brilliantly constructed for the weak to silently slay.
Leagues of terrified voices leave the obvious, humble truth inaudible; vocally gagged, tied up and hidden away.
But rue will blanket the day when truth is released for it's wrath will be justified; leaving their debt fully paid.
But till then let this lyric be the breath that fills your exhausted lungs; inhaling the courage to carry on.
Lighting the glorious flame damped by the deceitful words that doubt and fear harmoniously sung.
May these word spark, and electrify your creative minds; resurrecting the beat of your poetic heart.
Jolting life to your unique, unadulterated poem worthy of nothing less than a glorious depart.
Faltering Freedoms
Today our freedoms fall one by one,
disappearing but not by an act of war,
if we don’t wake up there will be none,
while the politicians knock on the door.
Slowly adding more governmental rules,
with idles promises to delight our minds,
sadly designed to control our very tools,
chronicles continue to repeat over time.
Such mirrored images of a forgotten past,
covers the handwriting there on the wall,
there was a time when freedom could last,
engulfed in indifference may enslave us all.
Harmony’s false images invite silk flowers
destroying the defenses of freedom’s needs.
while individual rights are slowly devoured,
we never listen to sounds of history’s pleads.
Americans used to fight to preserve our way,
with God, freedom, and honor held on high,
sadly the media and politicians lead us astray,
tyranny transforms boldly and never is shy.
Samuel E. Stone, Copyright© 2008, All Audiences
When
azaleas spread
their deep pink cups
I hold my breath
and hope for form
to hold an hour
before
they begin their
twisting dance
to dust.
O beauties,
did my touch
bruise the space
about your faltering
grace?
He did not want anything
after the sex and death of a protagonist.
Rebuffed and sliced through the body,
the onus was left on toxic mix.
He died in deprivation, in intensity
of hunger and fluidity of thirst.
The quartet of grenades stretched too far
the indemnity of shell shocked apostles.
A clan lost the sense of hearing.
A mystic odyssey of massacre, raising
the doubt of gifts in heaven. The starchy
statements and commands scattering.
SATISH VERMA
I have faltered in this place called life so many times.
Reality has become a slandering word to everyone.
Visions of happiness have portrayed itself in crimes.
Visions of sadness delivered upon the break of sun.
Each new day separated from the other but the same.
Creeping endlessly, I continue upon each day’s eve.
I have to realize that life is only a fantasy and game.
Though to reach the ultimate goal, a mind must reprieve.
I will carry on upon each new dilemma going forward.
I will empty my minds distaste and my souls stain.
My body will elevate upon a breeze to go onward.
My face shall show content and cover the pain.
These words are feathered from many I come across.
I am intertwined with their stories of widowed love.
The faces I see covered and are shadowed in loss.
These days are not different from the past above.
Though now I have filtered the reed of distastefulness.
I now grow and shall not weep unto ungratefulness.
Fridged, bleached tiles underfoot,
icicles wicking warmth.
A shiver quivers,
spine stiffens--
Bellows bound,
cracked mirror,
s a e
h k s
Yellowed walls listen,
boards beneath
breathe cre--ek...
Thunderous footsteps
fall, echoed hallways
r v r e a e-
e e b r t
doorframe quakes,
breaks underweight.