Best Hisses Poems
Her persona is like
a portrait
of picturesque perfection,
embalmed in
bittersweet lavender,
unseen within depths
of tributaries of elixir.
If only they knew
the chaos that flows,
constrained in
a confined
gallery of grief.
Not everyone is
a master painter.
Some brush with brutal
bruised strokes,
provoking timeless
streams of
implicit secrets,
from crimson stains
on ivory satin,
where scents of juniper
evoke phases of
unpredicted phenomenons,
oblivious to chronicles
of forsaken tales,
which hide
beneath barriers,
many have struggled
to venture within.
But there is an artist
with a
pastel on his palette,
that can correct
her disfigured pigment.
He holds cryptic
calligraphic engravings,
veiled behind the inflamed
chamber of her heart.
He understands that her
spirit drowns when
winds are forceful.
How her
delicateness has
been sleeping
on withered roses,
wilted by
cruelest rays of a
summer
mourning
morning star,
Where bedtime stories
were puppeteered
by hurricanes
feeding on
fenceless vulnerabilities.
yet when
sleepless silence sings,
it can disturb
in reverberating
heavy metal screams.
So she echoes her trauma
through hurtful hisses,
poisoning with
vicious venom.
Her aura alters in
acrimonious attitudes
from serene sunshine
to furious gales.
She remains without
a grip on untamable
seasons of
unholy torture,
Only he knows the poem
in her eyes is the
last train home,
so he calms her
tempest temperament,
enabling hidden rainbows
in her mind to reappear.
He is a soothing
gemini night-flower,
even with outcries
of midnight thunder,
his patience resembles
raining jasmine water,
purifying
her murky waters,
into a crystallised milky-way
of kyanite desires,
guiding her
to swirl and swoon
into
whirlwinds of closure.
Furious wind from the north hisses louder,
banging against the gaped mouth of a sky, drenched…
Haggard, the night wheezes with quack
of birds waylaid; a time of unruly rainfall
crashing once more: and the moon grows bald,
groaning a jumble of cracked acoustics:
On and on, the roar of sleet
pierces through lush trees
in a noise that grates far into the dark horizon,
an energy fierce like a woman scorned.
How she blares a war amidst a company of men,
flowers, and all in one driven ride
that her wild thrill rasps zooms ---
until on ninth hour
a slow-motion of rhythm flows,
while she pauses to croon a mellow tune
as if... in final taps of a wail,
nothing ever happened.
For Shadow Hamilton:The Noise Contest
Written 3/9/2017
ASP OF GRIEF
She buries her head upon this asp of grief —
soft with reptilian fangs, hard with poison.
Her covetous husband lies upon the Nile’s reef.
She holds her abdomen in her arms - his son.
with lunar belly...
the shape of her husband’s seed
...a fateful eclipse
The pit with its bone-chilling cold, hisses with hatchlings,
dreaming of spoiled seeds and seas with a vortex,
coiling around ships. A queen’s lips burn red, yearning for her king.
An abandoned wreck will not lay eyes upon his baby’s sex.
insanity’s kiss...
eyes burn with crimson lipstick
...unrepentant flames
She plays with sticks and desire, enticing asps of despair —
gorges with vampiric teeth. She embraces their mock
and likewise teases, beckons and pleads for death so fair.
Like a breeze about her ankles snakes snip her royal purple frock.
entanglement frays...
dyed purple threads unravel
...rigor mortis strikes
His candle ensign in the dark, a resurrected hero of vanity.
The light flickers with feet in the sand, footprints at lover’s leap.
His profile in death’s shadow, his purple passion of insanity —
laughter litters this carnivorous cave where ashes of dust heap.
alluring ashes...
Salome’s serpentine dance
...Cleopatra’s veils
The sound of a knife being sharpened, his sword with venom drawn,
leaps upon his self-righteous chest, a single blade’s deep penetration.
No handsomer lover, thighs of steel, tanned and craven brawn.
He lost his rapturous beauty bright and fleeting, weeds of veneration.
bilious-amber
mixes with his crimson blade
— a suicide pact
4/28/2018
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.
Fountain of sea, rapt in darkness.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
Fountain of sea, deep in darkness.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing,
and refusing to budge - lines spurn.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
And refusing to budge, lines spurn.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.
I've somehow pondered about the
rush of air
of how I could be lulled on billows, and
yet,
its notes upon my flesh eludes me--
as if in midnight trailing, weeping in refrains
this cadence glides beyond
streetlamps
on to my litanies, my expectations, my
tears
until I'm drenched by a melody ambient
as the sound of breeze.
Like a rain-child born in January
with taps in my veins, I become
a listener of seasons' tingling tunes
which inhabit my thoughts : and to
know my heart's kept secrets are
cuddled through this rhythmic hisses,
arias of both my dark and lustrous hours.
Now I trace the reel of fleeting memories dating from youth to mid- adult...this old wind chime wrapped in chrome
and antique stones fondle
timeless music whipped by storms,
rhapsodies, deaths of my
life...a hanging rune delivering me
from all I must bear--
though owned by Mom's as a hoard or collection, it was my precious harbinger:
but it echoes no more
in spaces where I loved, and still
need to love back...
Gazing at this chime of four decades drifting gently on the room knob, it has
become mute, aged... but cared for like a most treasured keepsake.
I invite you to go wild,
laugh till your sides nearly burst.
And act as you did a child,
letting raindrops quench your thirst.
Start a fire with scraps of wood,
or sculpt castles made of sand.
And pick berries that taste good,
or stroll through a meadowland.
Go splash in the creek barefoot
or chase frogs that swim away.
And track monsters like Bigfoot,
while you enjoy this play day.
Giggle at the dog's kisses,
or run, like, you'll never stop.
Poke a snake till it hisses,
or climb a tree to its top.
Gaze at the clouds sailing by,
as they slowly drift away.
And treat yourself to a pie,
while having a fun-filled day.
I'm so tired to speak,
so words remain asleep
it's a suicide of speech.
There is so much to say.
I fight silent soldiers of suppression -
terrorising like hisses from snakes.
Fragile expressions become
a potpourri of poisoned petals -
melting like snow hit by sunshine
it's a suicide of speech.
Another battle lost to your
wicked war of words.
Or is it the mind overthinking?
No immunisation for ignorance,
when you only see a machine without heart.
I'm mute like dripping blood
it's a suicide of speech.
Concealing truth under sorrow's veil,
so they only see my misleading smile -
they can never kill that.
After all I'm too tired to speak,
so let my words sleep
it's a suicide of speech.
Simple Musing
Silent One
29 February 2020
The Bewitching Call of the Siren
She ululates a forlorn desire for a human love;
She’s pure evil, not from God’s Heaven above.
This siren’s seductive melody is heard on all seas,
And even on the largest lakes and flowing rivers;
Bringing even seafarers near Die Lorelei to shivers!
Beguiling young sailors to such a ghastly death;
This vile creature’s venom is felt with each breath!
Her visage is one of true love and blessed pulchritude,
Yet Lucifer’s mask is dark with great evil certitude!
Her perfumed scent enlivens her victims’ senses,
Whilst her dark green eyes and deep wet kisses;
Mesmerize her prey, oblivious now to all consequences;
Now feeling her fatal bites and hearing her hideous hisses!
She taketh all pleasure in her world of this evil measure,
Enthralling all her sad victims to a most horrible death;
Now Lucifer counts with joy the lost souls’ treasure!
Always sans merci this siren be to those in her grot,
As her victims find their souls lost to Hell’s dark rot!
Beware say I to all good seafarers, do heed this tale well;
Be deaf to this siren’s call or your life shall end in Hell!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
July 4, 2016 (Canzone)
Aspiration
Antoine had crashed once again when tempting the desert
Freedom fighter laureate poet daredevil testing the call of
~ Poisonous Times ~
A mysterious man and rebellious philosopher with script on his
tongue ink on soft paper Rose in his heart and yearning for
~ Cleopatra’s Eyes ~
A snake of fertile creation and healing never far from his pen
Aesculapius in coil had mutated to SS wound around torches’
~ Venomous Bite ~
Aspides’s toxic fangs a spitting image of denial with thick scales
covering eyes of horned vipers hiding or shielding from attack
~ Dependent on Choice ~
The piloting scribe aspired towards kind compassionate words
As the elephant was swallowed by a boa constrictor clothed in a sad
~ Hatter’s Distortion ~
Antoine got killed on reconnaissance’s flight over France shot down or
by just letting go of throttle and misery but the Little Prince and his
~ Wisdom Remains ~
Avoiding slithering hisses in what remains of paradise an auspice
of sloughing what needs to be shed emerged from warrior’s asps in
~ Blossoming Hope ~
When threatened by serpent’s pitiless pits with no parachute attached
Peace can be found and acrimonious asperity relieved one small step in
~ Narration and Truth ~
29th April 2018
O' possum O' possum
Sleep the day away
Await the setting of the sun
before you go and play
As the dusk arrives at last
Awake and stretch your paws
Don't clamber from your tree too fast
Hang tightly with your claws
The brown team 'v' the greys
Its football night you see
they'll use a melon for a ball
with a ring tailed referee
The match is quite a tussle
both teams are very strong
The crowd sit up in the trees
And Hisses them along
A possum breaks loose from the pack
Towards the goal he's bound
The goalie take a single look
Then plays dead upon the ground
The melon bounces of the post
A dustbin crashes to the ground
The crowd invades with fever pitch
To look in and see what's found
Two decades old,
Soft skin light toned,
Bushy brown hair,
skinny slim built,
Eyes blue as the sky,
Emotions and mind,
All so very shy.
Born a Capricorn,
Raised in a working class,
Ball full of energy,
shattering plates and glass,
Father held the iron fist,
Mothers mind in a mist,
Smacking, screaming, shouting,
Reminders of him as a kid,
While she was there to kiss.
Talented athlete at school,
Hung out with kids to cool,
Social pint was empty,
Only half filled with Pepsi,
Peers drank beer,
while I stayed in the clear,
Teachers had crumpet faces,
telling me to tie up my laces,
I wish id listen,
But crunched an apple,
kneeling down in the chapel,
ignoring those prayers,
fed up with restricted care.
Flickering strobes,
Shiny lazer beam lights,
Bikie gangs making me feel so bright,
Strange faces everywhere,
in a cosmos they share,
lit up like christmas,
While satan grants their wish list,
Drenched in sweat,
I realised I was running,
from throbbing headaches and pains,
Cloudy Sunday mornings,
driving me insane.
Spaceship landed,
Half matured man,
half wondering wolf,
Paws deep in mud,
preventing my quest,
for a partner in love,
Mary howls her hisses,
in strong gale winds,
Sunrise to sunset,
Fed up waiting for him,
To taste a teaspoon of courage,
To pop a balloon full of wisdom,
Sitting too comfortably,
In his own prison.
Poetess she is, whose magic is cast with great ease
Opulent in words, charming to the utmost degrees,
Engraving hisses, silhouettes, images of natures surreal
Trespassing horizons never stretched out to an ideal
Destroyer as known for, although she's here to compose
Enchating poems and songs her beautiful soul bestows
Such a fusion encourages poets to hold their inks and quills
To write 'bout nymphs in seas or orchards filled with daffodils
Rampantly defeated by her as what often happens, except
Of all practiced skilled writers she's definitely the most adept
Yielded in a words-battle having a single acknowledged end
Efficacious "She" is by far a star who can simply transcend,
Reproductions of literary stylistic forms in her magnificent way
A lady I know as Linda with a pseudonym Poet Destroyer A!
© Guru Jad 2013
Dedicated with Admiration! :)
There exists no more certain
assassin of joy than that of
anger turned within.
Guilt’s grim scepter,
harrowed mind thus firmly wields,
and this with deft uncommon,
to bring renewed complaint
at slightest urge.
Senseless ruin whose
vapid tongue hisses
only self-derision’s name,
nobility to confound.
Slacken then this twisted cord
and in its place benign regret,
for guilt condemns the soul.
I saw my mortality shaking in the wind.....
I heard my soul walking softly with the Lord,
no violent word could be heard between us;
As lambs we walked 'neath the gentle arbors,
through fields of grasses green
by streams dreaming starry cheers;
What could bring grim hope lives no more this eve,
though the rain pours against the levy....
and the wind hisses as ghosts steady....
As a lamb I walked with the Lord,
with starry-cheers,
and dreaming stream,
'neath gentle arbors,
and grasses green,
I heard my soul walking....
It is for sure, not springtime here
Shorter days now how bare His trees.
And looking back draws eyes to tear
For waste and loss of all my greed.
To sail the seas and not return
My ship sinks in the straight of dire.
Its keel has split, its hull to burn,
A spark to start my driftwood fire.
My greed will feed this driftwood fire.
Heap high this waif to be no loss.
No wisdom from my follies liar
Burn high! Oh! Burn you holocaust.
My ship of dreams I build no more
Fragments be hacked my vain desire
To toss like trash and be ignored
Upon my filthy, driftwood fire.
Self-indulgence fed driftwood fire
Now as to turn from what it seems
Left to me a works of priers
Never to sail my ship of dreams.
I pondered from my window long
Fanning my passion ever higher.
I cursed His name to sing my song,
A blast to stoke this driftwood fire.
Arrogance torched this driftwood fire.
Let my sins perish with my ships.
To right my wrongs I now aspire.
So let them burn without my kiss.
Resurrecting souls dreams have killed
To pull myself from deep quagmire.
And warm my heart which time has chilled.
Remorse now fuels my driftwood fire.
Self-pride will feed my driftwood fire.
These cords of which I gladly burn
Dreams or follies of mud are mire
No loss to me and no concern.
I've heard the sirens song too long
Uncharted seas with sails which tire.
With all my dreams and fancies gone
Let crackling rings my driftwood fire.
Steam hisses from this driftwood fire.
Stream's me toward sweet isles of peace
Bright flash and gleam of my attire
Shall fall in lour of my decease.
For fortuned Isles my eyes have cryed.
My dreams I leave to whom I sire
I'm cremated before I die
Consumed within this driftwood fire.
Upon my filthy, driftwood fire
When in my grave I take my task
Point for my Lord my vain desires
As chilled ember and cooling ash.