Best Gnarls Poems
In My Garden of Freedom
To no human, do I belong!
I am the afterglow of freedom’s song.
My friends bring me water and light.
The hour matters not, even at midnight!
It is no secret, one need not kneel on floors.
Begging for others to open their heart’s doors.
My friends are humble yet accomplished in life skills.
They are not dancing pridefully, to some selfish quadrille.
They rarely, suddenly, disappear nor fall silent in my life.
And those who do…I know their hearts are experiencing strife!
My Lord, has provided more than plentifully for all my needs.
And, I look to that final day, when he brings me home,with Godspeed!
Through many centuries, I am fortunate to have flourished and lived.
I hope that in my final hours, I realize I have taken less than I indeed, gived.
A miraculous life, blessed thrice and spared the gnarls of death!
Let my final words, be in praise of God, in a humble breath.
9/20/2022
"Transport Terminals"
When ghosts find ghosts
they walk through the
core of each other
expecting knowledge
of the other’s being
it’s surprising mirrors
are considered
transport terminals
eerily reflective
otherworldly portals
between there
and here
past, present, future
managing the transfer
easily
but it's never
that easy
when you’re a ghost
blueprints are beggars
to transparency
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
the remand centre
for processing
other channels are used
necromantic psychography
quills for keys
moonlit silver water
in a pen, shaken
sharp fountains for ink
cutting calligraphy for
phantom tears
inside the turmoil
of a storm-filled ocean
stirred surface searched
for eidolon's face
reflecting the other
rising to eat
each other's worlds
becoming words
the hungry need to be fed
ghost writers scrying
lives away, not near at all
but in front of each other
turning empty cups
upside down reading
spectral tea leaves
messages invisible
but it's never
that easy
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
the bare bones
of it all
materialise
skeleton keys
for dancing
those inside
the mirror out
locked in the dream
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
messages
ghost written
on mirrors
quills for keys
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“The Special Ones”, Katie Noonan – George
https://youtu.be/LupbCITf4tw
Necromantic = Necromancy
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necromancy
Psychography
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Automatic_writing
Scrying
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrying
Duality
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dualism_in_cosmology
LYRICS/ "The Special Ones", Katie Noonan - George
https://www.lyricslrc.com/song890471/katie-noonan-special-ones
"Crazy", Katie Noonan (Gnarls Barkley cover)
https://youtu.be/NZkE9GB7JuU
LYRICS /"Crazy"
https://genius.com/Gnarls-barkley-crazy-lyrics
behold now everything on this earth;
the fields with abundance of grain,
palm-grove harvests rich and fruitful,
the forests that separate kingdoms and the fires that scorch them;
the brickwork of ancestries and the towers that reach our gods.
behold these crop-fields that we call life and death,
grown on the back of a sludge-like entity
sowed, and heaped, in granaries of self-doubt;
collected by children's dirty hands;
bronze-sickles, charcoal-eyes;
while the storms unwrap in the south...
gales have swept these homes and huts of clay,
the dog-faced pazuzu gnarls at the moon, as inimical as it is revered;
a mother's love for the murderous son is as complex
as the children's dependence on these fearsome steppes.
behold now everything on this earth;
the countenance of the origin-beast-mother carved in the mountains of the north
and the efflux of her genitals streaming to the south of the marshes,
into that great ocean whose shores we know only by myth
and whose waters is the abode of the primordial one,
whom hurls the long-spear of flood and storm
deep into the sides of these lands - for these lands are hers:
when all comes about, has not the lands risen strongly
from her bottomless and abysmal womb?
was not the pleasure that shook the members of the old, old gods
into ejaculation, indeed, the motion of her scaled loins?
is she not the temple to which all sacrifices are offered, all libations put forth:
is she not the shrine; the death-black ziqqurat; the lighthouse emitting darkness?
is she not the stele inscribed with all words of grace,
and the eloquence of our beautiful poets?
over the lapse of a thousand millenia,
she has been constricting the gods of the heavens
in a strong leather noose,
f o r i s n o t v o i d o r i g i n a l t o a l l ;
c h a o s , d i s c o r d , o r i g i n a l t o o r d e r ?
Life is entanglement plus time,
A Gordian knot of opportunities,
Each ravel a riddle to solve
or a battle to be won.
We grab and pull at the gnarls,
Greedy fingers seeking solutions alone.
Though the more we worry them,
the tighter the fibers cling together,
defeating our efforts with every turn.
The working ends unhitched and hidden,
Knots impossible to untie without another;
Desperate, we seek the means to unset
the tightened rounds of coil.
We need only look up from our lonely struggle,
Unhand the ties and trice up munitions,
In favor of a more effective weapon,
for a prize worth more than any puzzle.
Love is the sword that cuts,
The foil to Gordius' grateful gift,
The force that frees us from the knots
that bind us alone in despair.
Love is the lens that exposes the path,
To unraveling the tangled mess,
To bearing witness to the holism of loops
and eyes along the same length of rope.
Love alone is the key that unlocks
The secrets of the tightly-wound tangle,
Revealing the pattern of the overlaps
and the beauty of the intermingled angles.
With love as our scope, we can maneuver
Through the maze of twists and turns,
Unleashing joys and embracing the weight
of the lessons we learn as the bind slowly burns.
Through patience and kindness, we can loosen
The strands that have wound us so tightly,
Embracing the challenge and refusing to choose
the path of ire or slacking down without a fight.
So let us unravel the knot with hearts ablaze
And together minds set on finding the way,
With love as our sword and our site and our hope,
we can unravel the rigging and seize hold of the day.
As fingers thaw, they can now bend
to your sweet will, my dear old friend
around that pen, or to those keys
to dabble in sweet memories
adding your own spice to the blend
Winter gnarls bones and can suspend
desire to write, she won’t pretend
that she is kind; she feels unease
as fingers thaw
So hasten then to put an end
to Winter’s ill, go heal and mend
those poems hurt by her painful freeze
Let them go free, cajole and tease
it’s their time now to set the trend
as fingers thaw
The sable noon’s hues part the glow
When your form coils into a shadow
Impaired by whiffs in a forest
As twisted leaf gnarls on its breasts
Layered, bleak gaze avoid our plight
Beneath old trees, I find no delight
From summer’s heat reeking of woes;
Lamenting vows that decompose.
Branches thirst for a glistened sun
Mirroring frail ardor, undone
While the ravage of time’s dismay
Ensnares lost destiny, to slay!
Dr. Ram Mehta's Darknes At Noon
by nette onclaud
… scattered jazz,
haunted gnarls of
octupi-night staggering
between semen-splinters of stars
pain-fornicating in
my collective gutter, my disheveled
cells oozing your
black and
softer gold
burning silence
in a heathen writhe between my ears
dancing on the cusp: my dead-zone ecstasy
defiling
corrupting and
seduction-raping the
industry of numbness,
toilet-scream from
between legs: slave of avoidance
whore of denial
death in a vacuum
naught ever happening
until it’s time to drain
blood from the radiator
in the cross-hairs of crucifiction,
copulation of seven-inched nails
click of steel, snap of heels,
tails,
tongues flickering to embrace
the gutters of my cells
reaching for unopened chapters
strewn through sanctified pain,
and I waiting
for your drive through
the brothel of my mind,
forsaken
lashed to the altar,
my anguish screeching
our prayers,
your black, softer
gold annihilated to smoke
ravishing the reek spiraling up
from my nostrils,
your unspeaking
crawl through catacombs
whispering mouldering truths
under my fingernails scraping remembrances
from your hair
caressing cathredrals rent into
matchsticks to prop heaven
apart,
shriven thighs
toxic-anointed sighs,
poison of my ache for
the healing venom
of your eyes,
soothing darts of darkness bathing dead-zone paramids
with the musky
perfume of sorrow and
floundering celebration
dug from primordial pits
by scrabbling fingertips
clutching for a remnant of your heart
wrapped in wonder
around my pulse staggering, ragged edge of jazz
scraping across windowpanes
in a shriek freezing the soul of god
and dried ice
begging to plunge into embers of your blood
lost in my veins
running from room to room
in my house, our house,
teddy bear, knothole yawns and
oven with gaping jaws,
medicine cabinet of numbness,
sobbing pills
ceiling lowered to a stoop,
tatters
patterns
snow-crystals following a trail
through our window into traffic jams of children
cascading out of the chapel – my gutter-cell
longing to be unlocked
by the sound of your voice…
… ressurection in the
octupi-night…
Swirls of ragged trees
In wisp white softness of skies—
Curls of dark fingertips
Like gold glints of eyes.
Swirls in broiling smoke
And heat’s wild surmise.
Gnarls in sticks of grass
And brown leaves as winter dies.
Burls amid dark blue skies—
Swirls of alpha, omega
And all of life’s prize.
A mermaid whisper
She said, " be mine"
From today moving forward
Let me see you everyday at dawn
May your face be a fresh imprint at dusk
Whisper words that revive me
Messages that hold the beating of my heart
Let me know you will be there always
In the yonder, in the years to come
"I am yours," kneeling he said
It's a promise I give
Old as time and ageless as life
I want you here in my life
In the daily chores of my existence
When I am hopeless and despaired
When I am restless, be my anchor
And I will be all the music your heart desires
I will be a slave to your love
I will secure you from raging storms
Keep you in my love always
And in return...be mine
Be mine now
When all I have to offer is my heart
When with its every beat
Memories of the future flood my mind
When with its every beat
Our lives are forever intertwined
In a strong timeless embrace
I am yours now
When all I can give is my love
When my life becomes a rythmn with yours
When I feel lost and distraught,
enveloped by strong emotions of dread
When anxiety gnarls at my being
The minute you are not near
Be the beat that keeps my tempo
Be the rhythm to which my heart dances
Be mine now till forever
Let me be yours always
Now, when all we have is each other
When i hold you close
And you keep me in rhythm
With the beat of your heart
Now when forever is waiting
To the endless abyss of time
© Moliehi Koeshe 2018
Shared from Google Keep
Babies and young saplings are silky smooth,
adorned by curls and twirls, unfurled.
But age assails and weather beats brows
to dry, and wrinkles the smooth with furrows and lines.
Twists and contortions compels, yields, and compliances
reshapes the surface to bumpy, with knots and gnarls,
knurling a rough grip, to deny the slip
that smooth young skin and wills
are prone to show when asked to follow a lead.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls,
can be gripped and convinced to comply and yield.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip.
Gnirps, Syrups and Turnips
Guess what Gnirps are or is?
Two gnus had meet two gnirps
Had burps and tried many syrups
By time problem was final solved;
Eat no more gnirps they resolved;
Found success after eating turnips.
Jim Horn
Gnarrs and gnarls came up
for gnirps. Have you figured
out gnirps are yet?
Who says a tree is bent, not straight, kinked?
For there are no straight lines in nature.
A line is a human abstraction, a connection between points.
Look around, all of nature is curves, coils, gnarls and bumps.
It's true that some spikes and spines are almost straight,
and beams of light are true,
but light has waves within
and the profiles of spines are wavy too.
All the lines you see in the view about you
are human-made structures,
with dead straight lines.
Most walls, roofs, bridges, buildings
are made plumb level and aligned upright,
by wayward designers, hell-bent on lines.
Why to you have sides, front, back,
left and right besides, betides?
I'm offside, on no one's side.
Why regret and hide the gnarls,
scars and wrinkles on your hides?
Why be ashamed of the 'love-me-dos',
cut into your trunks,
by strangers with sharpened blades?
Why do you hide and cower in my shade
and not reach up with your leaves skyward,
into the warm sun's arms?
Instead you rake up my dead leaves? Why?
Where are your roots, in which my true strength lies?
Leaving your strength to arms and legs, denies you, your roots?
Be like me, rooted in the earth, reaching for the sky!
Why do you hate the passing of season so much?
For shedding and renewal,
allows green shoots and buds to grow.
Your quest for permanence and stability
begs your leaves to free-fall, unexpectedly,
leaving you stripped bare and unprepared.
Each winter I stand proud and tall
with limbs bare, resilient against the cold.
I well know that such absence, lack and emptiness
can never make me feel old.
For trees we never strive,
but lean to and in, compliant,
and stretch and bend gracefully.
Trees stay still and never leave, yet they claim their place.
They never seek tomorrow, satisfied with what is here and now.
Happy to shed what they no longer need, for renewal sake.
Growing slowly old, with dignity and grace.
They're mostly *'Ents', rooted in the earth,
with trunk and branches, twigs and leaves,
content with their lot.
Grace can't grind away the wrinkled gnarls time obeyed,
Nor hide the snarls, ploughed as furrows in the brow.
It carves the knurls for grip that age has disobeyed,
To a shape what decrepit, flailing lovers can still avow.
Grace respects the knurled design that time has hewn,
That's not a flaw, nor fault, but a form that time engraves.
With old branches twisted, scarred, gone too far to prune,
Grace hugs the bumps and twists that life well-spent saves.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to rage
Against the blight of the coming of the night,
Despite the cranky snarls that ring on anvil swage,
As loved ones bare the brunt of frail days plight.
So let the gnarls knurl the grooves to grip tight.
To fight and rage against the fading of the light.
Little ant, you are invited to rest here
on the back of my hand.
You’re invited to think about time with me.
I am always thinking about time,
all those thoughts pollinate my very skin.
Time little ant is not on your side.
Feel the coarseness of my skin
the ridges and gnarls
time was my master, yet a bad teacher.
I must confess that I paid too much attention
to the movement of the sky
and missed the movement of my mind,
and you little ant
waving your myopic antennas, no doubt pondering
the pheochrome taste of my words,
no doubt sensing something so large
that you can see it not.
Not even if my eye comes close to you
can you perceive me.
This is what time looks like little ant,
it’s too discrete to be trapped,
too considerable to be conceivable.
We are both just ants filtered through
its porous skins.
Now you wander onto a fingernail.
What now little ant?
Do you glimpse times cliff edge
as I you shake you off,
do you grasp that which is unimaginable to you,
yet which will surely kill you?
Do I?