Best Heavier Poems
Tonight my ink is mute
and this quill rests in silence.
I’m searching for the perfumed poem
you’ve placed in my aching soul,
when I found a home
within your aesthetic embrace,
whilst, the honeyed tip of your silvery voice
sketched a sea of flower-patterned stars,
across somber skies, whispering sweet carols
to the evening sun that wanes and slumbers
within crestfallen dahlias.
Was I ever a poet before I saw initials
of your celestial name scribbled in violet vines
across the pearl face of the blue moon?
I never knew words could weigh heavier
than dancing diamonds
glazed in gold,
Until I heard your riveting rhymes
echo rose tinted tunes of lilac feathered longing.
I love you for the way you thaw
frost kissed petals into streaks of
pomegranate prose-
flowing in crystalline compassion.
I love you for the way you’ve painted faceless ghosts
of my bitter cold past with acrylic glitter,
showing me that every thunder-struck meadow
can grow greener blades of faith.
I love you for soothing lucid nightmares crawling within darkness to suffocate my bleeding ink.
How you’ve held my onyx heart
while I struggled to weave silken threads
from emerald tears of angst.
But how can I harmonize the gravity of your spoken serenades
that linger across this cosmic canvas?
Must I steal every jewel from its rightful sphere,
just so that you can see vibrant colors of vehement verses,
reflecting through all that which flickers?
Would you feel me if these metaphors no longer flow in coherence?
Would you be the Emperor
to my throne of darkness
even if I am just an Empress without a crown?
What if I were nothing but a blurred black dot across a constellation of chaos?
Would you still love me If I wasn’t a poet?
Maybe these questions will forever
remain as endless equations
within fractions of no closure.
So tomorrow, if there’s no wind
that can carry these unsent letters to you,
remember my heart is yours till we meet
our unwritten tales,
before the last twinkling twilight fades into sheer nothingness.
And I will still love you even if
butterflies would betray the fragrance
of our undying romance.
Is the ship
still in its bottle..
Have your lips
become dry,
tired from yearning.
Do you still wear
my sage shirt.
Are you still crying,
are all those tears for me..
Are you still reading the silent one?
Did you write me one last poem
or is your poetic garden full of decay?
Do you ever hear my voice
echo in the silence.
Turn around when
you feel my presence?
Do you call my name,
forgetting I'm no longer there..
Have you lost hope,
wondering where I am,
if I'm watching from up above?
Are you still hiding,
tired from smiling,
still pretending.
Has life lost substance?
Those shattered pieces of glass
do they still reflect regret,
is your heart heavier than a cliché
resembling fragments of stone,
do you look back at the footsteps in the sand?
Do you listen to our songs,
the ones we forgot to sing,
where I was the chorus
to the rhythm of your heartbeats.
Am I still your journal?
Does sunset still have meaning,
do you sit there cursing the Gemini moon,
does June still have a purpose?
In episodes of rage
are you angry that
I could not fulfil my promise,
do you hate me for being gone
blame me for destroying our dreams,
am I the reason you feel trapped?
Did you cry upon my grave,
place a carnation upon
the soil which has buried me
or do you never visit?
.... Do you still love me?
Two scruffy pirates picked me up.
Intending to toss me overboard.
I weighed too much; they were struggling.
True.
They needed to lighten their load.
But I was not going easy.
I purposefully got heavier.
"She is flotsom," the tall fat one said.
"Jetsam," the dumb ugly one argued.
"Let's get a dictionary," I said. "Let's do this right."
This gave me a few more days,
as there were no books on this ship.
maybe someday this heart will no longer hurt for the innocent souls
as every child's turquoise dream turns into a sea of bleeding bullets
every mother's fruitful orchard wilts into a field of broken bones
but are we too blind - reluctant to see the truth beyond skin and name
walking through a fog of ignorance - dressed as egoistic preachers
bringing shame to the oath of a warrior - weaving poetic lies
what has become of life - does peace come with an unattainable price
maybe someday the weight of these words will weigh heavier than hatred
and the moon shall rise and sprinkle glistening pearls upon eclipsed spheres….
for now, a world without war, I shall weave in seraphic syllables
I carry my mother
like a rock in my pocket
that I just can’t seem to throw away
It serves me
no purpose,
it just weighs me down
~~~
When I first found it,
when I first picked it up
and started carrying it with me,
I thought it so beautiful –
I could look at it for hours
But, like my mother,
it never looked back at me,
never grew warm under my loving gaze
For the longest, I was blind to that,
Blind to anything but the beauty,
blind to the cold, hard,
beyond-remote nature of the rock,
of my mother,
my stone
~~~
I carry my mother,
a thought without weight
And she’s heavier
and she’s colder
than all the stones
there are
~~~
By the time I recognized her
immutable, emotional unavailability,
I had run out of joy,
felt depleted of hope –
But I could not,
for the life of me,
stop seeking a beauty, a warmth,
inside her heart
Could not stop
wishing
that one day this stone,
my mother,
deep inside my pocket,
Might just become
its own opposite –
Change from hard to fluid,
from cold to warm
But my rock, my hard burden,
will only turn to water
When my mother
stops being
a stone
The night lingers, yawning,
Stretching its limbs across the sky;
It lies there so silently, so languidly
As if awaiting the early rays of morning
To come by- I wake-
I wake to the sounds of silence and
Like the night, I linger in my bed.
Nothing appears to me but darkness-
Darkness that twirls a million times
‘round my head.
Upon these cold, air-conditioned tiles
I find myself walking so slowly, almost
Crawling into the darkness.
I hear my head talking- talking so loudly
Even amidst all this silence.
How am I to know- how am I to know
Whether or not this whole night is but a dream?
A mere dream so trivial that it almost wakes me
And makes me part of its darkness.
From my window I see the night-
I see it lying there, painting all other
Windows with dark threads of sleep.
I even feel my eyes getting heavier,
Yet something-
Something endeavors to keep
Me awake through this night.
I continue to stare outside my window
Still listening to the haze of my thoughts.
How come all that is should be? And
Why are you, you and simply not me?
It seems that this darkness is not willing
To part away from me.
( Pause)
A voice- a voice recites its calmness through
This night and slowly approaches my
Window. I see it- I see it coming
My way, touching
My window, stroking the
Darkness away.
My thoughts once again begin to bellow
And say:
How come all that is should be?
And why are you, you and simply not me?
I succumb to the voice, regardless-
And deem my thoughts forgone.
On my window it slides- the voice-
Almost so artistically drawn. I stand upright,
Facing away from the night which has now
Become withdrawn-
I slowly kneel down, whispering prayers to
The cold-tiled ground
And finally it comes- Dawn.
Inspired by a Al Fajr Prayer which is the Arabic for Dawn.
It won’t stop raining
dismal, forlorn murky skies above
similar to a depressed painter’s palette
bring torrent outbursts
becoming heavier and heavier
descending louder and louder
drowning me in a deluge of emotions
soaking the sanity from my drenched soul
Sombre November rain is always different
colder and sinister like a virus rapidly spreading
poisoning my body with intense anxiety
battering me like a hail of bullets in the line of fire
Twilight is swallowed by blackness briskly
stars illuminate, as the moon glows
but nature continues to immerse me
bathing like a forced baptism
How I long for a glimpse of the sun to shelter
but there is no sign of a rainbow any time soon
The Silent One
Originally written 17 November 2015
I am removing the chains that have held me,
Held me prisoner and in fear of change;
Over the years getting just heavier,
It is time to set myself free.
I want freedom and to feel my power burn,
A fire has been lit inside of my soul;
Watch out because here I come,
Free at last of stupid bonds.
I will leave all, the do this people, far behind,
No longer will they control my thoughts;
I will do exactly what I want to do,
Even the mistakes will be mine.
I know what I seek- blessed beauty and tranquility,
And I found it, see, it is was always so near;
It was not that far, it was inside of me,
Now the fire burns and I am soaring.
It is time to be me.
______________________
March 22, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Breaking the Chains
Copyright Protected, ID 16-770-986-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under
Entered in the contest, Screwed XIII
sponsor, Rob Carmack
Ninth Place
_______________________
Entered in the contest, Where Freedom Finds The Fire
sponsor, Justin Bordner
Honorable Mention
~*~
Still and motionless, aye!
We prisoners in endless lockdowns lie.
Dreams of life, as it once used to be.
Days, sparkled with magnanimity.
When mouths were not gagged and children ran and played.
Those days, ah, never coming back, we live in media haze.
Now the chains grow yet heavier, yet tighter.
It's even hard to be a verbal fighter.
Punishment in wait for all who question.
How dare we disregard divine government direction?
People like me who speak and think for themselves,
In any form, our poems are read, but comments...shelved!
Truth telling is so very despised!
Punishment for anyone such as I, is always nigh!
Evil walks the earth disguised as good.
In all countries, all neighborhoods.
You cannot laugh true evil away.
For your tears, swell, in your eyes and your unique,
Godspeed Soul Bay.
We weep for the dead, but are we truly alive?
Life, still and motionless, in penumbrad, masked,
poioned lockdown disguise.
1-16-2021
~ 2~
Dedicated to all poets here, willing to take a stand for truth at the cost of being disliked. You write about it...You really impress me! Merci, blessings.
For turning you invisible,
I'll always be regretful,
when things got critical
was easy to be forgetful.
I left you in a state of shock ,
in tears heavier than a rock. ,
I heard you, but left you on mute,
now you know I'm forbidden fruit.
Just another day without me,
can't you see I set you free.
I know I killed your dreams,
but now you flow like streams.
The bed we laid in got colder,
things changed as we grew older.
Waves of thoughts lost their way,
as silence ruined every day ,
But, I still hate how you hold her,
because sometimes I miss how we were.
These feelings I just let them slide,
although I fight against those tides,
I loved how we used to glide,
Oh! at times it was a good ride,
Just another day without me,
can't you see I set you free.
I know I killed your dreams,
but now you flow like streams.
Flashbacks can be an intrusion,
so I throw stones at your illusion.
I gave our love a conclusion,
as life was full of confusion,
My mind was fighting delusion,
so I gave my soul seclusion.
Just another day without me,
can't you see I set you free.
I know I killed your dreams,
but now you flow like streams.
Positive words float
They lift the fog on a quiet morning
Soft and bright
Warmth with goodness
Easy as sunlight slipping through a window
Without seeking permission
They take no effort to lift
A single syllable…sometimes two
Suddenly the room feels wider
The air feels kinder
The day feels possible
Negative words arrive heavy
They clatter in the mouth
Thick with extra syllables
Dragging shadows with them
Like overpacked suitcases
Say gloomy
It lands with a thud
Say bitter…somber…dreary
Each one pulls at the tongue
An unnecessary labor
An unsuspecting weight to carry
It’s strange isn’t it
How lighter words lift us
Heavier words ask us to lift them
Maybe this is why choosing kind words
Feels like choosing ease
Choosing breath
Choosing ourselves
The part of ourselves wishing to rise
speak not to me
in artificial alphabets ~
acrobatically alliterated adjectives
to please these moonrise eyes,
I understand the need
for words
when the weight of woes
weighs heavier,
I crave not superficial synonyms
amidst your artless soul,
reaching, seeking,
a sanctuary within my poetic heart ~
O delightful deceiver,
unintentionally inking
intriguing illustrations,
I feel you today,
a little more than yesterday,
the suppressed insecurities
disguised as indifference ~
ask not for forgiveness;
keep adorning the skies
to stitch sinless sonnets
and design them with digital sparks.
I will pretend to be blind,
trust my silence:
I read between bedazzled,
brokenness of blue-deep ballads.
Truth no longer
a talentless tongue-twister,
but a tercet, fine-tuned
to the ears that heed
only the robotic rhythm.
I pity the pulse that has no passion ~
what is a ripple without its rhythm
a shore without a heartbeat
a pen without its pigment
a life too afraid to ache
a runner without a reason...
listen, O muse-less muteness,
to the language of bards
and blackbirds crooning,
you are the sand that deserts
the hourglass, terrified of time...
I am one amongst the bleeding quills,
burning to be anything
but a breathing fool,
unaware of the pencilled possession
of prose and peridots ….
First, understand that sorrow is a room
with no furniture, only echoes.
Every word you speak will return to you
slightly changed,
like a photograph left in sunlight.
Learn to sit still in emptiness.
Your body will protest,
it was built for movement,
for purpose,
for the illusion
of progress.
Ignore it. Stay.
Notice how grief has weight but no shape,
how it fills the spaces between your ribs
like water,
how it makes you both
heavier and more likely to float away.
Do not rush to redecorate the room.
People will offer you curtains, rugs,
paintings to cover the walls.
They mean well.
Refuse them gently.
The emptiness is not a problem to solve
but a truth to inhabit.
Sit with it.
Let it teach you the grammar of loss,
the syntax of what remains.
Eventually, and I cannot tell you when
you will notice a door you hadn't seen,
not an exit but an entrance,
leading somewhere you've never been.
You will hesitate at the threshold,
understanding that moving forward
means leaving something precious behind.
This is correct.
Step through anyway.
The room will always be there,
that echo chamber of what was.
You can visit whenever you need to,
but you no longer have to live there.
She carried a bag full of dreams
Too afraid to lay it down
Too afraid to open and see
What lies hidden inside
She had lost it once before
Along with the rest of her nation
They had lived a nightmare
Of someone else’s stolen bag
In the eyes of this child refugee
Her purpose unfulfilled and unknown
Her bag torn open and emptied,
But still on her back...
So she protects her dreams
Patches up her bag...
Stitches up any tear
In case the bag ever gets stolen
She develops each one diligently
And the bag is getting heavier
And heavier by the day
Yes, she's still a dreamer
More than wife, sister, daughter, grandma – I wear many hats!
Close friends have I; on the phone or online we have chats..
Not wealthy, but rich in love and joy am I, and that’s
how I feel today!
I remember in my youth, life was a juicy plum
ready for the taking! I dreamed for my prince to come.
Breathless, I found him. Forsaken, I moved on; life was different from
how I feel today!
Heavier emotions in my later life began.
Not easy– testing positive on a cancer scan.
However, I now can say, I’ve felt so much worse than
how I feel today!
My childhood was lovely though I’ve bid my youth adieu.
What destiny will bring me, I’ll have to see it through,
for I realize all the good and bad has led me to
how I feel today!
May 13, 2018 for the "Rhyme And Refrain" Poetry Contest of Broken Wings