Best Homed Poems
R a i n ~ a misted mirror
coated in petrichor pain ~
fused with memories
pirouetting through the
veiled salt of the earth,
caressing the Pina Colada dreams
adrift in the icy-blue air,
amidst clouds soaked
in prismatic hues ~
arching like opalescent canopies,
to hide the despair I’ve draped
in dragonfly hues that no one knows
but the moon and his
merciful silver, forever stroking
the silken surface of s i l e n c e ~
homed within my
heart that aches…
And along with the thunder ~
came confetti of scars,
a piercing flash of metallic truth
revealing midnight rays
of how I’ve long been the storm ~
a murky sky of cracked constellations,
a rush of roaring torrents,
driving my thoughts to the honed
borderline of tremors and torture ~
teetering on forsaken fragility.
O dahlia dawn ~
I am the splitting tempest,
the spectral outline of
electrified lightning.
I taste the bittersweet flavors
of opaline stars ~
trembling in angst,
as fleeting sparks of the buried past,
too, feel the hurt beneath
the pansies of paradise,
where angels unfurl their
wings, sprinkling tears of hope
upon the battlefield of
shattered dreams,
lamenting the endless war
that burns in the olive-green
orchard of the grief-struck mind,
where fairy-lights
flicker neon hints of
prejudice through broken twigs ~
a pitiful perception,
amplifying the echoing embers
floating above puddles
of weathered lilies,
stained with dust and powder,
weaving a requiem for the
f a l l e n jewels,
walking through the trails
of bruises and tilted tulips,
bleeding poetry ~
beautified with
polychromatic phrases
and falcon ink that cuts
through paper promises,
leaving nothing but a restless reverie,
breathing in the quivering
warmth of quietude…
What happens to this poetry embroidered within the walls of my heart,
When the joy of my words are shattered underneath your feet,
Can the torture of your empty moon paint a slithering promise,
Far across into my deep colorless dreamscape of dahlias,
Your dry eyed apologies took me to a mortal with no reflection,
As you hide behind your short lived excuses and homed cruel intentions,
Like a fool I was to believe that a rose could bloom in the peeks of winter,
While broken instruments illustrated a weak illusion,
Shame, These knees you held with such tender affection,
Poured our tales into my abstract dreams,
How you wandered into my eyes casting a waning crescent,
Hoping the fragrant of a swine won’t clear my sight,
I’ve stood by the hills, where it steeps down your hell,
Perhaps the burdens you trust and love are the saint in your spells,
Claiming clarity for a chaos that have you deeply compelled.
The clinical sentence was pronounced,
perfumed with the devil’s royal scent ~
a relapse that smells
like an ethereal remedy
as every restless leaf abandons
its luscious green to the grave,
where her heartbeat
still sighs amidst the sleepless sunrise
beneath the loam,
where gloaming once, upon a blood moon,
homed the valiant vibratos
of her laughter,
yet if the only way to remember
is to remain unhealed,
as russet strings
of a violin ring through,
carrying sweet nightmares ~
held within the dusk
like beloved nightingales,
letting my inner calendar
return to circling the date
when she last breathed my name ~
O divine darkness,
let me fade until the face
of September’s stars wane
and phase the sorrow
into soundless torrents of
rehearsed requiems
until hurt sounds like a hypnotic hymn.
I swallowed, O Griefversary,
my penance through turning time,
the italicised letters
chronicling the chronic memoirs
while the tongue of trauma
prescribes crippling anxiety
into my thoughts,
I have long bottled
blurred hope
and summer sonatas,
with every memory crushed
like an autopsy listed as an accessory,
weaving words
borrowed from archived affections
as I leave line after line,
no longer aching
for the dark to understand that
my faith developed a stutter,
my pulse filed pleas for Prozac,
my ink confessed unseen panic,
my skin carried fingerprints
of midnight fears ~
and I still walk through
the black rose maze of memories,
around the season of
her irrevocable demise ~
September, the soulful wraith
of ghosts I love beyond death…
Let me be the first
to have the audacity to translate,
This piece of mystery molded
in a magical meadow of mistakes,
The reckless subject, there,
just standing still like a landscape of order,
Disfiguring a flow of ridged ribbons
in shapes of unheard names,
Carelessly manipulating my optical
constructors to articulate promises
from paper wings,
Bewitched by the light warm
slash of sun laid upon the raging tides
within trembling silence,
How far charms can go to seduce their
way into a destructive satisfaction,
Might it'd been too kind to dry brush
around the edges of your shadows,
When the basement of your
intentions homed disturbing dreams,
Hunting for the tremors from
freezing nightmares that pray to
bury my ocean and all it's devotion,
Where do the ones who
seek the sins of lost words hide?
While half of the living cling
onto the drifting light,
This shrewd figure that clasps on
the thousand synonyms of shallow tears,
Whisking a bath of blades for
my pane of glass that hold scads of scars,
The pace of time, travels differently
when I try to captivate you through my sketches,
I am told by the tones of my pencil,
that your armor shields a menacing maniac,
Too cowardly to battle for your own persistence,
So hold on to what's left of your timid thoughts,
Sadly strength has long evaded you.
When the dusk bleeds
epitaph roses,
and the blackbird sings
wilted elegies,
I search for a glimpse of gold
beneath tender ingrains of
soundless tears and sightless fears.
But to feel the broken wings of life,
must I breathe coffin-laced vows
amidst the haunting air
that tastes like stone-sleet sorrow?
For I’ve long been a phantom bride
to the deadliest fangs of the devil,
veiled in vicious violets,
throned in the tempest of torment,
plagued by a curse
spelled as lethal love,
concealing threefold threats
between vampire verses,
with moonlit musings
stuck in the ice-cold
embrace of death…
O raven heart, what am I to trust
when bluest bruises are believed
in the figment of fog’s fine art,
cornered in the catacomb cacophony,
choking the chorus of mourning?
I walk on sharpened eggshells,
afraid of the unwelcome fist of abuse,
with ashes of promises~
fed from the claws of
the beloved Satan,
cloaked in Romeo’s ruby ruins,
reciting sepulcher chants,
confusing the sun in my soul,
constricting the tunnel of trauma,
exhaling the naive
rhythm of my name.
As I am the essence
of collapsed crystals,
a whimsical wreckage,
ostracized and strangled,
while silence knows
the seething symphony of shame.
As tomorrow is a sickening cyclone
awaiting to condone patience,
humming heinous hymns
to soothe the scarred cracks
that grew within the hellish haven
of wicked wilderness,
that homed corpse flowers of fragility,
oblivious to the pain
hanging on hollow walls,
highlighted with
gruesome glows of glistening grief,
when truth is
obscured in strained stains
of clandestine chaos...
In the blink of an eye the earth reversed
the sun rising in the west setting in the east
gravity's pull suddenly lessened it's hold
heavy things grow much lighter and floated
Look up to the sky and see what I mean
houses, cars animals and people flying
water running uphill instead of down
mighty oceans now the sky adorn
All still just kept within earth's strati-fear
beneath shines a land so strange
empty lakes and ponds now up in the sky
bewildered animals flying by, oh so high
As the day grew slowly to its close
gravity started to righten herself
and things began to resettle themselves
yet landing in totally different places
The poles became hot lands of sunshine
while the tropics were buried deep in snow
oh what a pickle it all was the army striving
to return things to normal but all in vain
Mammoth rescues of creatures to their normal climes
speed was all important before they perished
to our credit most were rescued and re-homed
our earth always mysterious is now reversed
How will we cope in this new places
well come back in a thousand years
I suspect human nature will be unchanged
still the same old BS run by the same morons
Introduction.. An excerpt from a speech by Mr Keith Campbell 1969, On the need of a referendum on joining the 'common market' the people are discussing it up and down
the land every day, they want the opportunity to express their views. If they are deprived of that opportunity they will resent the fact. For Parliament to tell those people that while they may have their views, they will not have any chance of expressing them and that this momentous decision will be taken by members of Parliament alone, regardless of the opinions of the people, would be a piece of unforgivable arrogance.
Britain 1965, Leyland's factory doing fine,
40 percent of cars, go onto U K road
Bought from British steel, goods in trains of loads
Defunct in 1985, a proof of industrial decline?
Once upon a time the Rolls Royce brand
Was made and homed within, Brit-ain..
Now owned, and sold by another land
Here is well shown again, the markets gain.'
Swan Hunter that towered the mighty Tyne
Gave work to generations, of thousands ten
The pound was 'pegged' interest rates to climb
Bank of England was to be broken then.'
Of course this all could be dis-truths
A load of baloney, where is the proof?
That's what others no doubt will bray
Statistics.. Statistics, but come the day..'
Founded 1967
birth, creation, dark, death, earth, history, metaphor
OUTSIDE-IN---INSIDE OUT! © TANKA
Very green flushed carpets
Sky blue azure topped ceilings
Tree branched sofa chairs
Mirror sea rippling four walls
Windows and doors shut!
REBIRTH! © TANKA
Infant birthing new
Into mankind-likened modes
Start fresh from homed sights
Cultured to suckle blind
On natures ‘tested’ recollected notes
Left ‘one on one’ in thought sense!
Earth’s Time Shares © TANKA
Earth imploding ‘noted’
Fished from science scales to date
Attention everyone
Demise for man’s brutal act
Shrinks to pin-head size!
MARKED SPACES! © TANKA
Caterwauling winds
Float the once settled landfills
Forming 'blocks' of sand
Balanced on set place-mats
Dwindle down to nothings.
A LITTLE SALT PLEASE! © TANKA
Salt beds remain ‘still’
Air-dried salt mines reap
Sea tides, air-dried onto land
Leave the needed salt shares
Flavour 'salted' dressings over time
Enhance life’s food plate!
FORMIDABLE THOUGHT! © TANKA
Too many thoughts stockpile
Hanging words staged 'left'
Rehashed until spent
Sending 'mood-eating’ topics
To announce ‘inner’ moon ‘tides’!
work
SHARED AIMS! © TANKA
Unity bids man
Into work managed mindsets
Oiling the forces ‘toil’
Producing metal and brawn
Empires bleed open!
SET STRIDES © TANKA
Brain building 'strides' learnt
Leg and body builds in time
All in a heady breath count
Balanced events mate
Affecting lifespan!
Once upon a time, I used to be you.
In my misdemeanor I fell out of your love.
Now you are quick to judge, but you don't know me.
In your silence, you wish me away.
Invoking ancient curses, praying I stray.
Tiny streams of tears roll down my prematurely withered cheeks.
Tattered clothes I salvage from dumpsters
Days gone by since I had a meal
Even longer since I saw the inside of a bathroom
Am I a son of the Land?
Will you show me any kind?
My grief resounds no mercy
I am, but one, in a land of many
O! lethal fate, pangs of anguish and strife
Here, I lay holding on to dear life
Once I had it all, I was homed
Nature's calamity left me doomed
A past so rosy, full of kind
Trapped in the deep embers of my mind
I walk the streets without a clue
This place of love; never true
Ah! what crime!
Wicked, is the wheel of time.
I have embraced misfortune
And felt the smile of pain
Your pity, I seek not,
Nor your assets.
Rather A consummation fervently wished
That you see me not with those Eyes of Repugnance.
For Once upon a time, I used to be you.
In the moment
This very moment, I sit and wait
For the sound of a car engine
For two people to get out
I will smile and rush to unlock the door
To say welcome home
Welcome dearly felt for my sister and her husband
Why am I so welcoming
Have been dog sitting, their 3 dogs and my own
Just for a few hours, but am soooo stressed
Firstly there is Casper a lovely deaf boxer
No trouble
Then there is Star, my 6 year old Boxer
No trouble
Then there is Boris, a westie cross
Oh my! barking Boris I call him
Finally Harvey a 6 month old King Charles
Has a few water work problems, just been re-homed and nervous
Am I stressed
Am I thinking of a large glass of wine
No I am thinking of Two
This is my moment
Dated 26/12/2014 by Seren Roberts
Postmodernism’s the fashion ne’er manque.
We must study Foucault and his scribes.
Get reason trapped and do not court delay.
You need to find your intellectual tribe.
Where is the goose which laid the golden egg..
Invented meta-talk and fairy tales?
Which narrative is balanced on a peg?
Which philosopher gets re-homed by a whale?
Where is the whole truth and the nothing but?
Whose ‘ the eye which sees reality?
Who ‘s the judge who makes the final cut?
Where is the God to whom we owed fealty?
Now nothing is what anyone can say.
I understand it’s meaningless to pray
Obama the president he's The bomb,
not the cool type or is he in w/ Sadaam?
kept him homed as a guest yet we know,
Burrock or under the rock should we say for Sadaam is not far 4m home?
or was it a hill we found supposed alone,
Burrock Obama Hussain we are,
I mean insane or Hussaine its all the same,
selected a president when Bush has on the D L Saddaam is White House resident,
Or is he dead?I still question that cause that was not his head,
who's serving the white house bread?
The splendid patency of the ocean so vast
Becalmed my eyes when the sunset orangish
Rimmed the depth of the blues far…
The beacon beams glinted by the ebbtide
The waves bravoed to the het up coast
By the breaking of the eventide.
Aweary the trawler homed with a news
The ocean rage is being followed by the force of the veil
Masses at mass bespoke towards their deity
By the voice so augured he willed their existence
A numb so spread met with the aura of peace.
Lasted by the night awaited for the day break
The sun adorned with its rays from the east aglow sky
Forenoon prayers prolonged by the sunrise
Joggers by the coast breathed by the sand
The artisan appealed the passerby by his sand built avatar.
The daylight brightened the coast to colours
A joyous time for the mankind to savor
Maidens in maillot and men in slacks
Plunged themselves into the ocean so vast
Far there the dolphin dance
The waited lensman captured the ken thence.
"Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life." ~ Pablo Neruda
I sail through citrine waves of the moon’s pulse,
weaving my spark from sea-stars
numb to the blaze of a dream-lashed gaze ~
mute to the masked mist of ghosts,
as somehow between the seraphic sighs
of rising Luna and the aching sun,
there I found my muse crawling and cradling~
clouds of love bathed in luminous lavender…
So tonight, must I heed black-magic mantras,
spelled in neon gold by lips that lie,
or shall I wade through caramelized clarity,
for I’ve long homed hues of blooming twilight,
brushing the wistful heart of waning dusk,
drowning fiery flares within vain veins,
while the wind assumes I’ll touch no sand,
anchored by timeless traces of poetry...
Hannah Crockroft has cerebral palsy from her birth,
And having CP myself, she’s kind of special to me,
Because CP is not derided anymore, much, as alien,
But is called brain damage, not your own currency.
She was born on the 30th July 1992, West Yorkshire,
In Halifax, and fought two cardiac arrests after birth,
The doctors said she’d never walk, talk, and function,
Or outlive her teens: but you just determine yourself.
She did lots of school sports and made the talent day,
By the BPA at that good old sports and tech university,
Loughborough, where she met Tanni Grey’s husband,
Dr Ian Thomson, who made her into racing authority.
She’s a wheelchair racer in the T34 class of sprints.
Her father, who she’s very close to and is a welder,
Built her first racing chair which was fast and neat:
He takes her out every morn on the Yorkshire felder.
At the Worlds 2011, in Christchurch in New Zealand,
Hannah won gold in both the 100 and the 200 metres,
And then, the Hurricane spry in 2012 London scored,
When she took gold in these two events again - litres!
She took gold at Lyon at the IPC Worlds, two, 2013,
Then in Swansea at the Euros she again took two,
And then 2015 at the Worlds in Doha she won three,
And now at Rio in the Paras she’s homed three due.
She breaks all the records with WRs, ERs and PRs,
Demolishing her personal best most times to achieve,
Ahead by 10 metres, 6, or even 4, she’s my stat hero,
And studies sports and media at university, to sleeve.
Rhoda Monihan
_________
I am extremely sad about the tragic accident which happened today in the cycling road race at Rio on a downhill stretch of the course. Iranian cyclist Bahman Golbarnezhad, aged 48, died of a cardiac arrest which he suffered in the ambulance after sustaining a brain injury when he crashed. My thoughts and love are with his family and friends. He leaves behind a wife and a son.