Best Inauspicious Poems
Written: October 1st 2023
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In the ocean of silence, I’m stunned
Astonish by its grandeur as I descend.
A comely curtain of conciliatory calm
Elapse the chaos, surreptitious and warm.
In the hushed embrace of the twilight sky,
A silence plummets, ambrosial all nearby.
Astonied hearts stand in solicitous awe.
A comely night implies her ethereal flaw.
Emollient whispers waft into the air.
Surreptitious secrets are shared with care.
Incipient stars start their gentle wafture,
Surreal leaves create a ripple in nature.
Mellifluous melodies mend meteoric might,
Fugacious flimsies that fizzle out of a fight
Gossamer moonbeams cast their diaphanous glow,
Creating an aura of silence, tranquility, and bestow.
Ineffable fairness, fiercely feisty, not frigid,
The break of dawn silenced, as if timid.
Saturnine secrets shrank in secrecy.
Stupendous silence slides, sinewy spree.
Lull launders, looping the limp land,
As warblers start with a duteous band,
Sullen clouds gather, ominous and dark.
Yet awestruck hearts find solace in calm remarks.
Reassuringly, the heavy silence lingers.
Dour faces are glum, yet prudent fingers
Guide the oxymoron of emotions that flow,
Glowering and divine in their quiet glow
In the gloomy hush, discretion gleans hold,
As discerning minds decry peace in the fold,
The prudent ones, with a discreet glance,
Understand the power of silence dance.
Glum faces settle in quiet repose.
Views deepen, and worries dispose
Astounded by stillness, they are in awe.
Of absolute peace that stillness can draw.
Awestricken by the amorphous depth it brings,
They decry solace in the lull that silence sings.
A curtain of calm tumbles, amazed and serene.
As the amorphous depth of quiet is felt and seen.
Inauspicious cruxes balmily soothe fears.
As diaphanous whispers softly, quell tears.
Hinky hearts hearkens a hypothesis behind,
A voice uttered, "Love silence will never hide".
No query or qualm can squeal this bond.
Silence is where my peace is dulcet fond.
In the hushed embrace of the twilight sky,
Silence reigns, and my love will never die.
The old saw "Go West, Young Man" is attributed to Horace Greeley,
But it was coined by a writer from a Terre Haute paper, really!
Horace was agin' westward expansion and was filled with doubt,
So in 1839 he decided to travel west to see what it was all about!
He traveled by Concord stage which was then in its Golden Age,
Crossin' desert, plain and Rockies, bravin' robbers and Osage.
On the trek esthetic Horace rubbed shoulders with pious preachers,
Gamblers, sozzled drunks, "soiled doves" and decorous teachers!
He arrived in Carson City, Nevady needin' a speedy coach to reach
Placerville, Californy where he was scheduled to give a speech.
Now drivin' the swayin' stage to Californy who would a-thunk,
That hapless Horace would be ridin' with celebrated Henry Monk!
"Hang on, Mister Greeley. I'll git you thar with time to spare!"
With that he cracked his whip - the horses took off in a tear!
Passengers were bounced about as Hank avoided stumps and boulders,
Hurtlin' thro' mountain passes rife with precipitous shoulders!
Horace protested loudly to Hank to express his trepidation,
Sayin' he warn't in that much of a hurry to reach his destination!
Upon arrival, somewhat shaken, from the stage he reeled down.
An inauspicious appearance for a gentleman of such renown!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Jesse Forbes
1893 – 1911
Black Canyon.
Now, there was a place to be!
It is true I was born a brute in a Quaker Town.
Born a bad-tempered brute of a boy
In the two-room digs on Bailey Street and Comstock..
My father fathered two other families,
Unbeknownst to his wife..
And I was the first one disowned.
But my father was a great believer,
And I loved the man like a fool.
I took up the milkin’ business at fourteen,
And made my morning way from Orange Drive down to Penn Street.
Delivering the dozens of clinking milk bottles.
Delivering the dozens of morning salutations,
To neighbors and friends in the glad and dismal days.
I had but one romantic interlude in my short stay,
Just one futile attempt at Carpe Diem.
But was left slapped and standing by a disheveled Ethel Hurst
There in the dark shade of Black Canyon
That inauspicious August day in 1910.
Ethel Hurst did not accept the entreaties of a 17 year old brute.
Did not accept my wild stares
Or my insanely puckered lips.
It was to my surprise that I died.
Died so young and so unready.
Still desiring the perfumed kisses of Ethel Hurst,
Still desiring her heart-quenching embraces,
There, in the dark shade of Black Canyon.
Languor of the mind
I. My, my, My how times flies.
Another year has transpired.
Yet, a City has not been revitalized to the image once defined.
The crime rate has escalated since 1999.
Plus, the minds of the people negate refinement.
Do you hear what I hear?
A City is dying in iniquity.
Do you see what I see?
A City in shackles as mentally incarcerated human beings.
An Inauspicious approach
II. I went to sleep on the couch.
When I woke up, I ask what time is it now.
It is the sleep I was in that contradicted the housework.
Where did all this paper come from on my bedroom floor?
Do you know the score?
Is this done by someone I know?
III. A penitent to view
They stood behind bars looking out.
They house was situated at the end of the block.
The sirens were blasting as loud as blow horns.
They laugh to themselves for this was a warning of life forthcoming.
Do you see what I see?
A City in shackles as mentally incarcerated human beings.
Do you hear what I hear?
A City is dying in iniquity.
Ensued precedent
IV. When I came in 1997, the City was in a hidden culture of turmoil.
Unpromising and ill-starred was the faces I saw in the crowd.
The laughter was twigged to their high-quality of life.
But oh, the City needed revitalizing.
The unemployment rate was at a national high.
The dilapidated housing condition was a true ghetto now.
Black bottom shined in that we had left that period of time.
Do you see what I see?
Destiny undefined.
Do you hear what I hear?
Humanity laughter lachrymose without a focal point for future growth.
Do you know the score?
Iniquity and transgression are entrenched.
Is this done by someone I know?
The miens are seen as a desolated City in a manifold.
________________________________________________________________|
Written on December 27, 2015!
If you like adventure you will like Match.com,
But many of them you won’t want to take home to meet your Mom.
Each guy you see is a brand new slate.
It's like an interview, looking for a potential soulmate.
Some dates have a good sense of humor and seem great,
Then some on the first date have been real cheapskates!
I’ve had some dates that I could not wait to leave,
As they whined about their ex, wearing their heart on their sleeve.
One professor met me on the first date with roses, and was so sweet.
But I discovered he had a love for his drink, and I couldn’t compete.
There have been school administrators, men in business, and sales,
Some that seem very easy-going, and some as tough as nails.
One of the most interesting by far was a farmer…
Living a country life with his animals, he was a real charmer.
There are many shysters on match too, pretending to be single,
But married… and just looking to intermingle.
There are those that are looking for money that are crooks,
That will wine you and dine you with their good looks.
To protect yourself, get a background report before you date,
Then you don’t have to wonder if you will meet an inauspicious fate.
The man of eloquence
With all the aptness of words
And craft of speech
Silently sits on the fence
Holding his tongue tight
And see the fun when tasteless
Jokes being cracked upon
The poor, weak and downtrodden.
But the dumb knows
Neither rest nor respite
Until he shoots his shouts
Throws his disgust and anger
Through the language of his body
With the help of gesture
Against the filth, lies
Deception and injustice of an oppressor
The man of rhetoric
As if he knows neither the value
Or the power of his logic
His being mute is conspicuously inauspicious
As if he never joined to earn
The right of freedom of speech
Whereas, the dumb man
Knows the meaning of sound
The value of the words
So he tries to articulate them
With utmost care and sincerity
Whenever he sees a slightest opportunity
Against an unjust or a wrong
As he knows speech is a special gift
Either from nature or from god .
But the man with gift of the gab
Wastes it when he holds his piece
Or misuses it when he spreads
Hatred and blatant lies in fear, in greed.
So
it was
that I recalled my physiological reaction
to the attending physician
who along with a group
of medical students accompanying
him on his daily rounds had
gathered around the foot
of my bed and he seemed to be asking
a lot of questions
to the students while
at the same time he was
physically examining me.
He asked me how I was doing so I told him,
" I'm doing okay".
Then I show him the toe. He looks at it and then asks the students to examine what appears to be some abnormality apparently.
This digit
at the end of my foot
was covered by a group
of students and some uninvited spore producing organisms
which apparently feed
on organic matter like the tip
of a toe nail.
Together the group looked at the nail one by one then stepped away until
the next student and then the next
managed to see for themselves.
Then the physician inquired to the interns "Is it the type found on the skin or the type found on the nail? He told the students it's medical name, "onychomycosis".
He looked at the toe once again before he moved on his brief inauspicious statement summarized the big picture.
"Interesting".
My brother reprobator and oedipus.
Nimble selictor, nisus impersonale muss.
Improvidence, goggle eyed or irrational,
Instigate inane dowdy, kinsfolk isolate fuss.
Paramour or inamorato objurgate carlish,
Impune contrivance, obfuscate gobble tush.
A partner inauspicious or inartificial indigent,
Not same as before lumber or lurcher hiss.
Irremissible offence fidget formidable lead,
My parents exaggerate emotions I ever miss.
The year was sixteen-sixty-four
A comet crossed the sky,
And Londoners looked on in fear
Convinced the end was nigh.
The streets which once were paved with gold
Were now awash with waste.
A swarm of flies and scourge of rats
Foretold the death they faced.
And so it was that London town
Was struck down by the plague,
And corpse on corpse, wife, husband,child,
Were taken to their grave.
Deep in the dales of Derbyshire
A peaceful village lay,
Until a bale of cloth arrived
That inauspicious day.
A bale of flea-infested cloth
Hung by the hearth to dry,
Which stirred the soporific fleas
And roused the plague thereby.
The tailor's poor assistant died
A death of searing pain,
And pestilence intensified
Its unrelenting reign.
As many planned to leave their homes
The vicar intervened
Declaring that instead of flight
They should be quarantined.
'Dear flock of Eyam, sacrifice
Not self must be our plan,
For once enclosed we'll suffer but
Set free our fellow man.'
Within the space of just one month
So many perished there.
The smell of sadness and of death
Ingrained the putrid air.
The years have passed,the plague long gone
But graves still tell the tale
Of how their sacrifice and strength
Meant others could prevail.
13.02.20
Let The Pens Flow - Narrative Poetry Contest : sponsored by Jenish Somadas
N/A
A Historic Event Poetry Contest - William Kekaula
NOTE:
On 1 November 1666 farm worker Abraham Morten gasped his final breath - the last of 260 people to die from bubonic plague in the remote Derbyshire village of Eyam. Their fate had been sealed four months earlier when, after the onset of the plague from flea-infested cloth from London, the entire village made the remarkable decision to quarantine itself in an heroic attempt to halt the spread of the Great Plague.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot your fame.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot your name.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot about the inauspicious and piteous moths that were attracted to your irresistible flame.
In a small stretch of tempo, I forgot to abrogate your lovers game.
In a small stretch of tempo, in the delay of my deliberated falseness, in my delay of barefacedness, infused by fierce streams of atrocious schemes, and baleful dreams.
In a small stretch of tempo, I was captured by you.
In a small stretch of tempo, the old had no power to cut into the new, from a small sum of time you sieged my body, permeating it, filling up spaces, touching barren places, erupting bridled desires, causing seismic waves of pleasure with; intense and faultless measure. In your arms and while my head rested against the swell of your chest, I inhale voraciously the sweet smell of your beautiful sculpted body.
At rest in an intoxicated mindset, I felt abundantly content; a perfect segment from my antecedent shameless intent.
In a small stretch of tempo, like the break of day and a timely resurgence of a nimble mind I realized that through the dull substance of flesh and encephalon, I did not adequately measure the art of your scope. With newfound hope, and like the hands of a clock swiftly pasting the minutes across its face, I put my plans back into place
Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake, copyrighted 2017
No! I Am Not Lying To You
No! I am not lying to you.
It seems Life’s turnings here and now contain
Inauspicious shapes of endless goings and comings;
It seems Life’s headwaters of the deep waxed well,
the great steward river, of cold sinew and intractability is
rushing backward through bloody tubes and rusty spires.
It seems Life’s dead people have arisen, unbeknownst
to the living, from astonished graves in gaping graveyards.
No! I am not lying to you.
There was a time indeed when a human person like me,
could calmly sit across from a human person like you,
and the both of us could pleasurably redeem the consuming time with
eyeful silences and poised stares containing muted determinations;
something like destiny showing up and knocking on the door,
saying: “your pizza is here,” and you open the door wearing only
stupid shades while reading with an ivory looking glass.
No! I am not lying to you.
There was a time when life was peacefully secure and placid,
back when the pleased and complacent skies seemed bluer,
safer than today’s chemical shroud impregnated by ejaculating jets,
35 thousand feet above the mad wasteland of spiritual coma;
The pulling dying aimless road to wherever your body is traveling to,
Is now a long coursing road paved with the fallow stones of fear.
These bloody sunsets have a raspy roar heard only in the death pits,
The final hors d'oeuvres served with croutons and screaming dramas;
There is now no turning down the forgotten deserted side streets,
hidden by shady oleander trees wearing bonnets of poisonous fire.
No! I am not lying to you.
Barely six and the bustle winds
through depths of lost descent
where reality hunts the night
dreaming of incoherent content
here dusk drifts off ever deep
butterfly float on off to sleep
in wings of the dormant pine
almost silently still, she weeps
but all I hear are angelic voices
begging on moonbeams to fly
breathless meaningful moments
singing in every teardrop cried
vous avez pris mon souffle
as I placed my hands upon her heart
a path opened to intimate ardor
and a pleasingly inauspicious start
To reach out and touch
Always seemed so much
For this weary soul to achieve.
A scarred, battered heart
Inauspicious start
Ever disinclined to receive.
Mind riddled with doubt
Puzzling it out
P’raps soul, not mind must discern
Heart imperfect too
Good enough for you?
History fills me with concern.
Safety does not sate,
In truth, suffocates.
No longer comfort in reserve.
Contemplate the reach
Guardedly beseech
All that which I doubt I deserve.
Struggle with the fate
Set down the old weight
Challenge that which seems must be true.
Not better off ‘lone,
Old joints creak and groan
Callused hands reaching out to you.
2/28/16
Blazing eyes and frozen heart,
He just came and teared her apart.
Showed him nothing but genuine smile,
His white lies were covered with sweet smiles.
'Twas twelve in the midnight,
Wondering to see some light.
Then gloomy morning came,
She felt dying and lame.
But then suddenly he came,
Pictured her out and gave her a frame.
She was happy and divined,
She was deeply refined.
Distance is their obstacle,
Never ever touch each others bottle.
He was impetuous for what he felt,
She was perplexed and knelt.
Another page had moved,
Another story to be proved.
She read and then realized,
All of those were also a pack of lies.
It was two in the early dawn,
The liquid ran out on her eyes and broke her down.
She felt a pandemonium life,
Escaping on that havoc and tasted some knife.
He was atrocious and fallacious.
He was deleterious and inauspicious.
She was fission,
But he was forgiven.
Dreams as high as the bar-headed goose flies,
She could marry him and will walk in the aisle.
Stare at her eyes just for a while,
She is worthy more than a golden fry.
The sun will smile and it will be realistic.
There she goes, always optimistic.
Forget her not, forget her never.
Forget this poem, but not the writer.
Forgive them Father for their souls unclean
Hardened hearts that demonically demean
Camouflaged cathedrals a silent smokescreen
The towers of Babylon crumble as foreseen
Inauspicious idols obelisks of the obscene
Magniloquent mirages of man's made machine
Feeding feculent fires with gorging gasoline
Pampered populous with a Vatican vaccine
Malodorous men with a nervous nicotine
Religion waging wars like a lost libertine
Marauding morality in the menus cuisine
In man's madness a grotesque guillotine.
July.10.2017
JULY PREMIERE CONTEST
Sponsored by: Brian Strand