Best Insubstantial Poems
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Sanguine blush, outreaching its origin,
Roses bloom across the painting.
The sky extends its insubstantial limb,
Spreading its fingers- in gesture towards you.
A great fan, coral but crimson,
Shifting, yet still- tumbling across eternity.
The horizon appears, in a flash of pink rainbow,
Love, of the universe, of humanity,
Of life, appears… and evaporates; a gradual decline,
of colour; but so sudden too,
And we are left once more,
In solitude.
I grope through forest misted by my pain
Unearthly feel of gloom enshrouding me
Like wispy ghosts the memories a bane
Their hazy fingers keep from breaking free
Beclouded are my thoughts with foggy stain
Obscured is reason; gone is sanity
Unclear my way, for mist is laden thick
Your insubstantial love has left me sick
Eileen Manassian
For Nette’s Through the Mist Contest
August 24, 2014
He smiles at me.
As though the weight
Of psychedelic visions
Were insubstantial
And inconsequential;
A trivial thing.
Broad-shouldered emotions
Mushroom through
Organic momentum
To greet my pain,
A throbbing haze
That is my post-script.
Narcotic serenity
Wraps around my brain,
Slurring everything
In my tilt-a-whirl scene,
Until the funhouse
Sweeps me away.
I feel myself shrinking
Like Alice In Wonderland,
But I am not afraid
Of the beautiful myriad,
Understanding how addictive
Compulsiveness can be.
Opulent pleasure
Invades my space,
Stinging reality
With a new perspective,
Numbing submission
In a morphine choke-hold.
Sound and color bend,
A sensational delight
Of exotic flairs
And pendulums humming;
It’s unlike anything I’ve known
Except for his smile.
Why does it
A N N O Y
me so
when i take the
T I M E
to read a poet’s words
C H E W
them up with delight
only to find
that they rudely (my opinion)
T U R N E D
off their comments
my brain shuts down
with no
I N T E R -
action
a subtraction
of friendliness
insubstantial
P R O P R I E T Y
S O U P
meaty
and filled with
carrots, celery and onions
S H A R E D
with salty broth and bones
L A D L E D
out into countless bowls
S I P P E D
and warmed by the heart
with light
C O N V E R S A T I O N
like two people
sitting across a table
the metaphoric table
states, oceans, countries
B L E SS E D
and bountiful
S U CC E S S
of twining hands
turn politics off, yes
or craziness, yes
that
A L P H A B E T
duress
we can give a rest
but when a poem
is a flower
its honey
its bumblebee
W H Y
hide from me
and others too
Don’t make me chew
and sup with you
when you’ve
left the the table
with S T E A M I N G
S O U P
3/14/2022
I cannot fathom eternity.
So I wash the dishes from dinner.
I cannot comprehend the vastness of the universe and galaxies.
So, I read another story to my child.
I catch glimpses of how insubstantial I am, like a mote of dust floating on a sunbeam.
So I pay my bills and go to work.
I love my family and pray to my God.
I listen to a friend crying over the phone.
I bring a hot meal to my elderly neighbor and maybe visit for a bit.
No, I cannot understand, much less control, the infinity of the stars and time and space.
But I can do my best to touch the lives of those around me in a meaningful way, with love, respect, and kindness.
I give the rest to God
Time Barriers
How can this be
Where did we begin
Not in any kiss
Has passed this secret
Onto the present
Did we miss
Separated in timelessness
Undefined memories
Shimmer in fields
Where your bare feet
Pressed to yellow flowers
I heard you laughing
Dancing will-o-the wisp
Leaned in a doorway
Between worlds
And windows
Of promises
The edge of salvation
Once rested in our arms
We had broken
A thousand nightmares
Hand in hand
Still we walked into
The vanquished dark
Silken threads of another life
Slumbering their stitches
Inside my soul
And life has drawn upon
Its golden needle
To draw me ever closer
To you
Some purpose to purpose
Meant to be
How did we agree
In the great divide
To continue in these separate
Lives
Did I know you would haunt
The remembrance of my blood
Did you know that your pulse
Would someday race
Behind the recognition
Of a strangers face
And love once known
Sings such a peculiar song
Of unknown echoes
Their familiarity
Bringing tears to my eyes
And pierces my heart
With such eternal longings
Far distant your day
Sips on the hours of my night
Alone in our rooms
Behind ocean deep windows
So insubstantial
To reaching thoughts
And the yearnings of love
As to break the walls
Time barriers
All the space between
Our separate lives
And my voice calls to you
Wind from these shores
My eyes will search for you
For ever more
And I will swear
To death and beyond
To find you
One day
Some day
Past time barriers
Never again to leave you
Alone
The autumn sky attunes itself to hearts,
a sour grey murky wash where lost eyes tire.
with insubstantial dust it affects so,
that vision blurs and minds retreat to when
those aged weary organs last supped hope;
and still they seek to quaff before it fades.
Mere dregs they hunger as the last joy fades
to quench beyond their volume broken hearts
and rehydrate that desiccated hope,
rejuvenate the goals before lives tire,
that minds may ponder not upon the “When?”
but concentrate on “What next?” and “How so?”
To take uncertain step, and take it so
as not to fear the fall if stair it fades,
would stir adrenalin so’s not to tire
the fragile confidence of tender hearts,
that they might respond quickly, those doves, when
presented opportunity to hope.
This then the grace of God, the wisp that’s hope,
which we in arrogance might dismiss so
upon our slightest whim and if and when:
an employee who on our command fades.
this grace exists beyond the grasp, the hearts:
phenomenon which will not doze nor tire.
See now how eyes do genuinely tire
as surcease emanates from new-found hope,
providing respite for those weary hearts:
hammock of restful sleep delivered so
the love embattled souls may rally when
their combined lumen some dark agent fades.
Thus through harsh winter flare as daylight fades
with fuel of ‘the multiverse’ entire,
the essence of which Lazarus lit when
his sisters had begged balm of Only Hope.
Such embers must be stoked to fierce blaze so
The Darkness may not touch creations’ hearts.
Faith should not tire when allocated hope.
Our God heeds not the ‘when’ of our say-so,
but stokes each heart with love that never fades.
1.
A red helium balloon
I float above myself,
Watch the ritual unfold:
Gather the sharps
Lay them out
Roll up the sleeves
Enfold the world in silence.
Then, with infinite concentration,
The Not-Me begins:
Draw the lines
Open the flesh
Let out the hot red
Pain and Poison;
Inscribe another testament
To survival.
Then the balloon drifts down
Sleeves roll down
The Not-Me steps into the balloon
And floats away,
And I become myself again,
Purged and Whole
Until the next time.
2.
A wraith,
I live on air
Insubstantial as the Winter's mists.
I am colorless
Blank as perfect ice, as cloudless sky
Yet I command all appetites,
Control my ghostly shape
Against all outside assault.
My Will is wind,
Invisible and Absolute.
A reed,
I bend but never break.
I may be fading, fading...
But the steel rod within the mist
Shines true and will not yield.
3.
Peel back the flesh
The flowing flesh,
And see the Void within.
I am large but I am empty,
Hollow as a gourd, a husk.
Tear me and the taut surface
Will collapse upon itself.
I hunger, ever hunger
For the things that fill others up
To keep them satisfied.
And so I eat.
I eat Love, Acceptance, Self-Confidence.
I eat Hate, Loneliness, Rejection.
Ultimately,
I consume myself.
After all,
Who else could stomach
The taste of me?
A life uninhabited by the suicide soul
life ground him down and took its toll
once a fruitful hardworking life endured
grandeur created from dreams obscured
Being an Entrepreneur creating millionaire lifestyle
every year that past money making was futile
The fairground life was all that he had known
a place for amusement a place where he'd grown
betrayed by his peers sold out now insubstantial
business driven only means to survive were financial
life meaningless with all accomplishment now worthless
a requirement to living had now become surplused
escalating worry of money, health decreasing
only one outcome, a need to end it increasing
showing a deceptive facade to all he was fine
April 5th was the date to end a 50 year lifetime
accompanied by whiskey, gun and a Dictaphone
he recorded drunken passages of time all alone
He had drove and drove to his final destination
a desolate place for the act and no hesitation
pulled out a double barreled shot gun, lay on the bank
with a one shot to the head where the bullet sank.
i am transformed. in what i see.
my eyes can not discern
as shapes melt and swirl
and break into dots --
merging with the Static.
i am transformed. in what i hear.
of overlapping rips of space itself
with the unyielding babel of humanity.
i hear everything and nothing
becoming one with the Hiss.
i am transformed. in what i touch.
my insubstantial hands stir turbulence
passing through scratchy mist.
the Dust drapes over me and through me.
i am infused with the smell of a million worlds.
i am transformed. in what i think.
of snippets of thought
impinging on me.
racing through my awareness
and memories of titillation.
i am arrested by efficiency and classification.
my mind gives over to the Context it can no longer fight.
i have been transformed.
in all my senses and in all my thoughts
i am conjoined with all Things.
i am Undifferentiated.
How they tremble in the wings of memory’s stage
Those nervous, fleeting images of yester age.
Afraid to make their entrance lest they reveal
Their insubstantial form and fading zeal.
Bad actors, these, they change with every show
Their shape, their voice, their lines – and yet I know
They will survive a thousand curtain calls.
The need for reminiscence never palls,
For life is not today, nor yet tomorrow,
But moments past of joy or grief or sorrow.
And though time fades each image by and by,
I know this show will run until I die.
I love your gentleness,
How your hands
Move like early Spring...
When you kiss me,
It is as if I am a dandelion;
All delicate spider-web
Gossamer threads and
Finespun silk fragility-
Your fingers on my cheek
Feel like the spring thaw,
As if I am ice only just
Learning how to move
Like water again...
When you kiss me,
It is with all the warmth,
The tender slowness,
Of early morning sunlight-
When you kiss me,
It is as if I am nearly
As insubstantial as sunlight...
But eventually even a dandelion
Wants to be blown away-
When a frozen waterfall meets
The Spring thaw, it does wake
Slowly, soft as Sunday morning-
It rises up like a roar, plunging
Down through space until
It is pounding like a heartbeat
That never stuttered for
Even a moment-
The seasons can teach you
That sunlight is anything but
Insubstantial;
It is heat and passion and
Faster than the sound
Of the shifting winds gasping
To keep up...
I love your gentleness,
How your hands
Move like early Spring...
But sometimes I wish
That you would kiss me
Like late Spring-
I want you to kiss me
Like a dandelion on the wind,
Like a waterfall waking up,
Like sunlight burning through
The dawn like passion;
I want you to surround me
And beat down hard like an
April rainstorm- to breathe
Me like petrichor and hold me
Like raindrops clinging to
Blades of grass, like raindrops
Soaking into the ground
Until there is no closer...
I want you to make me
Feel like I'm coming to life.
Alternate Reality (MJH 17 April ’18)
Maybe in an alternate universe,
Where good is bad and better’s worse,
I could be you, you could be me,
Together apart, sadly happy.
You’d pursue me, I’d flee from you.
Yes you’d pursue me and I’d flee from you,
‘cause I know that I’d be caught by you.
Perhaps in a wondrous macrocosm,
We’d share everything in common.
You’d finish things I’d start to say,
But we’d laugh about it anyway.
Time would not be our enemy.
No, time would never be our enemy-
I’d be part of you; you’d be part of me.
By chance there is another dimension
Beyond earthly comprehension
Where past, present and future blend;
Time has no beginning nor end.
I’d say “I love you” with laughter.
Yes I would say “I love you” with laughter—
Said so before, will say so after.
In some hypothetical reality,
Beyond conceptuality,
Where nothing is circumstantial--
Matter’s almost insubstantial.
Separate bodies, united minds-
Yes, separate bodies and united minds-
Our souls forever intertwined
No Recommendation
Unreadable ideograms
Beaten thin leaf to tenuous holds
Of failing parchments
Brittle in their folds of tears
Remember, they struggle for survival
In clasps ever present
Reverberate continual back down
The long lost corridors
Searching for the regurgitation of their meaning
Black and white memories
Of some sickness
Which threw off kilter
Every next days other day of life
The heat of its brand, a whimper
Kicked on late stirrings against a pillow sleeping
Fizzog fierce of demons forming
From an ugly defining rampage torturous
No recommendation
Other than a scar to pit against its will
Other than the pain burns continual
Of insubstantial rape
Its shame to twist and wring the neck
Till breathing burdened
Utters not
Its last and inconsequential gasp
Released
The lump constricted full of throat
Strives to cough up on agonies point
The vendetta it holds against the past
And its freedom overburdened by desire
Children, screaming into silence
With a wish of blooded nails
To scrub away the indelible marks
And eaten hours
Rips against the mirror inside a heart
Cold implacable bleeds
The warm vein of isolation
Designs its unreadable ideograms
There are no recommendations