Best Fruitlessly Poems
Ears pricked at car door closing in the street,
and focussed on the footsteps through the gate
she stepped into the hall, unsteady feet
they bounded forward, welcome couldn't wait.
Two forty pounds of fur, and sixteen legs,
four eager snouts and tongues shot through the air
her hands held up fruitlessly as she begged,
they brought her down, smothered her face and hair.
A canine/human ball rolled on the floor
propelled by laughter, barks and sudden shrieks
of love and longing, bottled up before
the time has come to leave, and no-one speaks.
Chorus of barking, followed by the whines
the front door closing for the final time.
R.i.P Angela Miles, passed away today but was allowed home
to see her Huskies last week for a couple of hours.
Existence
World is a drama stage,
which has a dwimmer screen,
that can trap you with a
net of desires.
Several stories, diverse roles,
pretending folks, everything is fake!
So why do you shed tears
for these ungrateful peeps?
Love is a phantasm,
which starts with a thirst
and ends up in a despair!
Life turns out a desert,
if you are not alert.
Do you want to put an effort,
or slog fruitlessly and revert?
In the church at Semilong
no more was heard the priest we had.
He had departed long ago
to a place some way from here.
His voice had timbre like a drum
and echoed, certainly,
and when he read hymn numbers out,
they had air of mystery.
"Two six four seven", he would sound,
and the "en" echoed all around.
The organ started its deep chords
and thrilled me with expectancy.
In the church at Semilong
no more is heard a priest's deep voice...
The worshippers were few who came.
To close church soon was soon the choice.
So now the church is dimly seen,
and echoes fruitlessly are sought.
In Semilong are other themes,
and hidden echoes never caught.
-----------------------------------------------
12/10/2015
Contest - Where Echoes Hide
Sponsor - John Lawless
1st place win
Dangerous Mind
The mind is a most dangerous thing,
Forcing memories into replay,
Endless relived moments drowning bring
Snippets in time more real than today.
Paralyzing sadness is trouble
Which the mind needs to be addressing.
Before I died inside, I really tried.
The sleepless mind toys with our heartstrings,
Always knowing our loved one can’t come back.
‘Sorry for your loss’ causes cringing,
Tearful anger and urge to attack.
Remembering makes sadness double,
Sharp edged memories, full of longings.
Why drive to survive, living isn’t alive.
The mind is also a tricky thing,
Lulling into complacency when
Life together starts out with a ring.
Daily work and play begin to blend
Into a wonderful, safe bubble
That protects against everything.
Love is giving a life worth living.
The unhappy mind prevents planning
For a future without one to love,
Alone, unsafe, fruitlessly scanning
Every crowd for my dearest dove.
Real life bursts that beautiful bubble,
And now frightened by everything.
Looked everywhere on Earth for her.
The mind needs a sense of belonging,
Not at all happy being alone. Minds together sing dreams that take wing,
Unsatisfied by just talk on phone.
The mind stings by the urge to cuddle
That knick-knacks and holidays still bring.
Be kind to the mind by living to love.
July 27, 2019
*** Words Vanish ***
Words vanish!
Disperse — as prayer begun
Moves to clear the mind
And bare the heart,
Swelling the soul to meet Thee
With love…
Sending on high gratitude’s praises,
Pulsing on into silence —
Worshipping in awe of Thee!
By Thy grace
Blessing along Faith’s way
With heavens’ lights leading
Searching souls
Close, ever closer to Thy presence —
Drawn to that touch —
Of communion with Thee!
Yet, prayer in a moment might flee
Back to thought to fruitlessly plea
For the ineffable to reveal
Some phrases of devotion and humility…
From the human to the Holy
…Entering Radiance
Words fail the feelings
Of the soul’s prayerful flight in adoring love
For Thee God…
God alone
————————————
** The words “God Alone” are etched in the stone
above the arched entrance to the Trappist Gethsemani
Monastery in Bardstown, KY, USA (home of Fr. Thomas Merton, teacher, peacemaker, author
of The Seven Storey Mountain, New Seeds of Contemplation, No Man Is an Island, & more.
He also had a great fondness for James Joyce and taught often about poetry. Lectures of his
classes at Gethsemani are widely available on-line.)
————————————————————————
(c) sallyyoung eslinger 9/15/2023
Thanks be to God—-
Wrested from my writing by a drone
which signified that I was not alone
in its black and yellow jumper it had come
fat and furry, bigger than my thumb
it cruised around the room in lazy eights
before it worked itself into a state
against the window wings fizzed on the glass
as fruitlessly it struggled to get past
annoyed at every corner on inspection
too close to even see it's own reflection
the outside world all plainly in it's sight
but out of reach, no this cannot be right
it thought “the flowers in the garden I can see
but cannot fly to them- how can this bee?”
I pitied this paradox of aviation
for being in a desperate situation
it's compound eyes with panoramic view
blind to the neighbouring window it flew through.
“ I feel your pane” I told the frame inspector
too knackered now to gather any nectar
and went and fetched a beaker and some card
then scooped it up, released it in the yard.
We, too, in life in lazy circles go
until whatever circumstances throw
leaves us adrift, no chance of some release
we thrash round for solutions, have no peace
take on our problems close up, face to face
instead of stepping back and giving space
so we may then take in the wider view
the answer is nearby what we should do
so stop banging your head and then you'll see
you won't need glass and card.
Unlike the bee.
Either your hints were not that elaborate
Or I failed to decipher
The hidden connotation
In either case
We both are looser
I have lost my sleep
And you, your glaze
When you are in the motherly
Lap of dark night
I measure distances among the stars
Nevertheless it is doubtful
Whether you too are sleeping
Or waking the night like me
Only difference is in the degree
Of restive state of inner mind
That must not be the case with you
Yesterday I could not wake up
Today you didn’t allow me to sleep
I am missing the warmth
Of tender touch
And you, the virile grip of ecstasy
How long would it prolong
Remains to be seen
One day, I am sure,
You will tire up of waiting fruitlessly
You are doing so curiously by now
For me waiting is other name of love
Which I shall have to do
Till I live up
What a painful thing is to love
You are bound to fall short
Enjoying the fleeting bliss
Amidst the long waiting
Unfortunately associated with it
Among its existing old leaves of the mango tree
Arrived fresh flowers in early February
At dawn everyday
Bare gay soles at walk felt tiny granules
A pleasurable scent greeted them on their way
Soon little mangoes came out
Tiny green shapes stout
Adorning the same old and pale green leaves
Dust laden shabby grief
Nature doesn’t like the mismatch
Even the hatching birds hated
The striking disparity and protested
In their confused call
The ball moved on to rise and fall
One fine morning comes out
Sprouting in a soft green rhythm
In the spirit of communism
A small bouquet of velvet like leaves
Then another bunch and then another
Slow but steady goes on the development
Beautiful symmetry in the canopy
The mangoes are now
In their way from green to greenish yellow
From hard toward mellow
As we all yellow
The leaves are now combination of old and new
Nature dislikes the imbalance and disproportion
Brings up green leaves very fast
Worthy of gazing and learning
Soon the whole tree
Will be evenly green in spree
Of equity
Had our rulers and policy makers
seen and learnt also
The intrinsic principle of aesthetics
To each according to his need
For a balanced growth
Instead of the incurable wounds of poverty
We are loath to accept
And fruitlessly regret
We are mere spectators in the hall
The ball moves on to rise and fall
____________________________________
April 12, 2016
For the Poetry Contest : If You Could Change The World
Sponsored by : Dan Kearley
Apocryphal embellishments of
a non-canonical secret society,
teeming amidst a dubious
enterprising authenticity,
exposure's excessed stormy decay of
tormented poet's crushing blows,
ego's wild oats fruitlessly sown
rampaged rush to save their own flesh,
poesy's wildflower blooms wilted
under acid rein's torridity of seduction,
hence poetry's infertile demise unto
dusty shelves' apathetic surrender
From hunting comes
From hunting drums
From hunting hums
All bright stars
Near and far
In New York or Trafalgar
Those stars in skyscrapers
Those dazzling gold vapours
The government shapers
The controller of all papers
All go on hunting
And keep counting
And measuring sometimes too
In the treasury
Keep your eyes open
The lids may shut up
Keep the cup wide
You will see everywhere
Ensnaring unaware
The tiger killing the helpless deer
Deer who love destiny
Who worship deities
Members of the laity
Dependent on goddesses and gods
In their odds
Fall very easy prey
To the hunters obsessional play
Their God has no say
In the decay
By hunters in dust they lay
Shrunk tottering mewing aching
Finally breaking down
Into the absolute immobility
Thanks to the myriad kinds
Of the guns of the hunters behind
I perk up my ear
In the civilized forest
And hear the guns
Nuns and monks are in readiness for nursing
Churches mosques temples towering for services
What a grace
My every molecule encapsulated in attention
Hears the sound of the gun
And feels the consequent death
The blue sky we love so much laughs nonetheless
The ground underneath
Is moistened in crimson red
Black velvet
First hunt the doe, a decoy
Leopards and tigers follow in joy
We are all pretty toy
In the hands of the hunters
We look on in wonder
Of grandeur of the capital
Take or surrender
You may grunt
Fruitlessly
Willy Nilly
You have to join the hunt
____________________________________________________________
30/10/2016
Not for contest since the lines have exceeded the stipulated limit which I failed to notice when I first read the contest details.
An ocean swept attitude
with dream like visions
of bliss…but where is
the real happiness that
Is lost when reality…appears
As forsaken and neglected
hearts lie broken, as easy
as thin branches during
Winter’s cold, In the raging
battlefields of love.
Shaped and reshaped negatively,
mind-thoughts become ignorant
to a new found bliss not wanting
to believe that the love a heart
has been looking and longing
for, is knocking …fruitlessly
at its door…
And because of the wounds
suffered on loves battlefield,
The warm embrace of real
happiness is never given a
Chance…as into yesterdays
dreams it just slips away.
Wendell A. Brown,
February 11, 2013
Hermia and Helena are ready to fight each other.
The same can be said for Demetrius and Lysander.
To keep this party of four from throwing a fist,
I will cover them all with a thick morning mist.
They will fruitlessly chase each other without a doubt.
Each one will fall asleep when they are all tired out.
Based on the play "A Midsummer Night's Dream" by William Shakespeare
© Ben Burton Feb 5, 2014
I view beauty with desire
But am seen through abstract eyes
Which begats a mystery
For I don't try to be that kind
The shattered pieces in my wake
As tea leaves wither in the brine
Leave only scarves to pacify
The punctured seal can't be revised
No posturing through symphonies
With trebled horns, but for the one
That is and was and shall remain
While hearts still beat and rivers run
Should I not come before I go
Indulgence can't be quantified
For every itch that is not scratched
Becomes a casualty to time
Yet, with decorum I imbibe
Without deception at the core
Or abrogation of the vow
Unto myself, no spawn of spore
And without mirror to reflect
The bounder from a boundless shore
Inspectors at the terminals
Will fruitlessly try to record
But DNA will not impeach
The gene which flawlessly imparts
Abilities to cherry-pick
The naivete of hopeful marks
So, to ourselves we need be true
From courtesan to bon vivant
And though restraint may be pursued
It will not kill the will to want
I cut a bouquet of fresh lilies,
and placed them in a sparkling crystal vase,
then sat idly by, admiring
the stillness of their beauty.
With no wind to tickle nor stir the petals
into delicious fragrant laughter,
nor gentle breezes to wisp pearls of pollen
through silky afternoon skies.
Leaving bees to grieve endlessly,
with buzzing moans of confused loss
and my nostrils flaring with drowning scents,
disappearing beneath the tepid waters held in artfully cut glass.
Through the faceted glistening colors,
stems reached thirstily for renewal of earth,
finding naught but the coldness of human conception,
as they forlornly communed with finality.
Water turning murky with tiny bits of green
and prematurely graying stalk,
as stamens pirouetted in concave shadows
and fairy bells fruitlessly spoke with nature’s pleading braille…
Desperately trying to discard all of who I was but,
I have no clue who I am, my thoughts are clashing,
memories replay but I cant tell how to perceive them,
what am I supposed to do, did I do what was best- no.
I don't know. If I did what was right, why am I here crying,
questioning fruitlessly, the plant seems to be poisoned,
each branch withers away but forever remains till taken.
Tears drop as thoughts morph into code- what do I do?