Best Introversion Poems
Soft, subtle and sublime
Fragrance of mellowed bloom
Whisper of fallen leaves
Warmth of the subdued sun
Innocence all-around
Enthralling silence
Filling the heart
Not wild, not loud
Just cozy and quit
Nature’s symphony
With idyllic notes
Mild, magical and serene
Song of golden leaves
Enhancing the melody
Nature’s equipoise
Ardor and ambience
Restrain and moderation
Introversion and quietude
A candid self-reflection
Of dignity inspiring me
To merge with myself
"I always thought of my introversion as a flaw,
until the world was thrown into chaos and isolation;
and my flaw became my greatest asset."
_by Poet
_______________
In hard times I find joy,
my introversion positive;
happiness in all the things I love and enjoy,
endures like the seasons- like an ongoing narrative.
Creating art,
hope, faith, gentleness and love will never depart;
my joy is untroubled and quiet- will not fall apart.
My joy steadfast,
my writing is like music vast;
never thoughts of- outcast.
Though the world in chaos gratitude I employ,
the news is quite informative;
but- listen to my heart,
one day all this will be passed.
___________________________
February 8, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Like the Continuum of Seasons
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1327-043-08
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Joy Continuum
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 02/26/2021
Ninth Place
Anyone can write…
and drown in their self-delusions;
from persons into personifications
lists of passions, glorify self's illusions;
down those lists,
most veiled by incomprehension
one's passion is most often expressed
as the byproduct,
of misconstrued personal emotions;
therefore, in these briefs that follow
rest some seeds for those
whose mental fields lay perpetually fallow…
Xenocrates, his gods being unity and duality
i.e. episteme, aisthesis, and doxa
are lost to US,
by rue of epistemonike aisthesis;
Mersenne's numbers,
to Eratosthenes' sieve
Erd?os' factorization,
and Archimedes' constant conceived;
Holy vowels expressions!
Great Gobs of Goose shite, please!
release US from this context,
relieve this tumultuous tease;
probe Bertrand's Postulate,
exposing your thinking's
prime numbers seized;
however shallow, and wordless
your tongue tied thoughts do concede…
so many things are above me,
so many more lay beneath
my scratching, itching, and twitching
these are reminders of my simpleton's grief…
in this fiat before me
on these issues held, and in my beliefs
that my mind is much more
than the street corner tavern's
proverbial hat rack…
now that's a relief!
What is it within US?
that sullen darkness and introversion hides
those snide daily reminders
the eclipse of the sun
and or a debutante's swoon
a cheap parlour tricks wonder
or that pin-striped baboon's face
we each express as we howl at the moon…
Excuse me this meandering
but, it is my gut busting chortle
you now so surely conceive
that this little snippet from our dear William
does so help you believe
that we all live this one time
so as ourselves, do profoundly achieve
what your inquisitive conscience
exposes as your life's
most constant semibreve…
['Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be as live to be
In awe, of such a thing, as I myself.']
in conclusion of
this bit of confusion
do infuse this allusion
as your daily transfusion
of the smack of illusion
and the sole, blithe, transformational revolution
now necessary for your mindset's
ever changing and ongoing mental de-evolution.
Life means I can talk to my friends and others,
When the untravelled sea fills with brothers,
Pleasure rushes the uninhabited areas we just don't sail,
And when we semiotically emit our meaning, we will prevail;
Freedom rings with resonance resounding and pervasive,
No need for more traditional others to be abrasive,
No bears or wolves, no chides, jibes, and no probes obtrusive,
Your identity is your construct, your speech is conclusive.
And my books! Alas my books. They proffer so such contentment,
A breadth of knowledge with no suggestions delinquent,
Nor are there any accusers to accost,
My mind and spirit which upon some can be lost,
Possibilities endless, bringing depth of character,
They glint and glide, swimming in grammar;
Multiple amounts of information councel my hesitation,
Brimming particulars restrain inhibition.
But oh my computer: How elegant is she!
Believing in my easy registrations as well as my errors to be;
Such possibilities, moulded so neatly into my space,
Without the communal glare of uniformity’s trace;
Personalised desktop, memory and input method,
It accepts me unquestioned with no staff or flogging rod;
I program to set the user interface alight,
With the functionality and procedures of the user’s plight.
However, I can also give myself my own system,
Personal software from my own inclination;
Knowing some designers do not have in hand,
The shortcuts that only I seem to understand;
A software engineer’s god complex should not surface,
The digital space is a privilege to influence, place;
I love determining the screen and its sounds,
Where freedom of knowledge and data abound.
But the gift of poetry delights and ignites,
Hurtful regressions lull in its sight;
Its credibility only ever stoops to concede,
That only your introversion may expression impede;
Language caressed, dignity nursed,
You never need to be at all reimbursed;
Its haters are silent for fear of rebuke,
As truth, imagination and love are its hook.
Contemplating on my brevity,
I find sincerity in my integrity-
I’m a visionary with a muse so deep
I write with intensity.
Reflections and introspections
bring alleviation and deliberation-
My sedative is to be meditative,
as I get lost in thought and
concentration.
Introversion and deep illusion
bring me no concrete conclusion-
When I objectify and rectify
all I see is this delusion.
Inside I hide,
and outside I confide-
But when caught in
between realities,
I truly coincide.
Self-examination on my creation,
brings thoughts of intimidation-
But the bigger picture’s explanation,
gives light to this strange fascination.
I think I may try to live
another day of grace,
but you can tell I’m weak
from the lines upon my face.
I wonder if my depth is
deep enough to survive,
but I’m shallow and hallow,
for I cannot stay alive.
May 14, 2017
Sometimes folks will go and pity us,
“Come out of your shell!”they always cry,
forgetting that it you do that to a turtle
the poor beast is going to die.
But still some folks insist they try.
Introversion, they never truly understand,
better to sleep on nails then have a hundred friends!
But they never realize they need us,
that we see what slips their view.
Hell, if anything, we see too much,
it’s why we need time away from you!
To sort out perception into truth.
A loner’s mind finds this no travail,
as they always say: God is in the details.
You read, and enjoy the movie screens,
they bring escape from weary days,
but to create all that you need someone
not afraid to sit with just their brain,
and daydream the hours away.
When they strike upon an amazing thing,
it fascinates the millions, makes the heart sing.
You like your phones and gadgets,
they’re a centerpiece of your life,
but what went into making them work
were the inwardly-focused running rife,
given the space to push and strive.
Using the kind of math most never learn,
they connected billions, for better or worse.
The music that inspires millions
came from Beethoven’s maddened mind.
But in person he was a sonuvabitch,
not the type who’d show you a good time,
downright unpleasant, most would find.
But I think many more would be annoyed
to live a life without the Ode to Joy.
Some others would not understand
that the science we take for fact
came mostly from a half-mad loner,
utterly bereft of taste or tact.
All These things Isaac Newton lacked.
Yet when that crazy bastard focused within
the age of modern science did truly begin.
In some ways it makes no sense,
to try and explain the way we are.
The outgoing cannot understand it,
to them it’s a step too far
to slink away when you could be a star.
Just keep in mind the next time you mock,
without us you’d all still be banging rocks.
Balzac is beading,
Robespierre is reading,
Introversion I am needing,
Reflections I am heeding,
In old bat cave central,
Like an ancient Sybil, hypothetical,
Wisdom is supposed to come with age,
As Balzac turns his own page,
Why am I more religious than the Pope?
Can any faith give Earthlings hope?
Better than folk smoking dope!
If you have problems embarrassing,
Bring them here for my listening,
Sage advice I am providing,
Reflections I am heeding,
Yes, boys, beer understands,
How did dinosaurs make it in Pleistocene lands?
Answer: They didn't, for beer, no hands,
Yes, reflections I am heeding,
Humans are minute cosmic specks, spinning,
on a pebble in Outer Space, clinging,
If gravity didn't suck, we'd all be floating,
Reflections I am heeding,
As Robespierre shall keep reading,
Then Balzac shall be beading.......
The sun shines in a friendly glow while the birds sing mating songs, searching for
that lost bond of intimate natural longing. Greenery illuminates the path through the
garden, colorfully decorating the atmosphere with contentment. Leaves drift
beatifically to their resting place in the aura of serenity; wisdom in the blossoms
wherein dastardly royalty is usurped by inane benevolence. Such generosity cannot
freely bandy about when originated from petulant systems of feigned philanthropy.
Evidence mystifies the instituted kindness with otherworldly martyrdom prevailing
over dynamically advantageous disproportion. A youthful sprite exudes sage
harmony that listens intently to ruminated introversion and callously disregards
obnoxious outburst. A twig snaps into seventy equivalent sections; equilibrium
begets solitude among the predetermined assortment. Begin again and sweetly
profound anew. Did it start? Nevermore, with the exception of a shift in the concept
of causality's influence: kleptomania for knowledge and acceptance of besmirched
spirits. Souls pine for an existential seed to spurt roots and permeate the dirty
confinement. Cyclical imperfection trudges through sludge, almost cinematic in its
unveiling. It is astounding in each fresh, yet repitious succession. A song skips lyrical
lust and jumps to instumental amelioration: The symphonic glory of all
encompassing, magnificent, eternal, ascending powerfully and synthetically
descending, original, cooperative, and unorthodox love.
Majestic rugged, crude beauty without any questions,
Angling at the inside, asking for my equations,
Jesting with me almost, whispering that I emerge,
Endeared to quiteness, where introversion and shyness converge,
Sat solidly going nowhere, waiting for my feelings,
Teetering on being a person to me with sayings,
Into me, loving my epigraph, my statement and my picture,
Calling me even more so, to fidget with my conjecture.
I marvel at the hope found in evolution,
The message of newness everyday;
The ancestry, use of strength, genetics,
The honouring of sex and life’s sway.
The knowledge that behaviour matters,
What I do daily determines my genes,
That I pass on to my children, grandkids,
And influences my relationship scenes.
To take belief out with its fine context,
Is cruel, dangerous and unnecessary,
Makes the body clock jeer at the text,
Introduces a slippy catch, not arbitrary.
I can be made happy by visiting the zoo,
By interacting with monkeys which thrill,
Which save me from my introversion wazoo,
Apes, giraffes, camels with expression fill.
I don’t know if god exists, but am sure not,
So if I talk to him, it’s a different experience,
So I’d rather, if in doubt, when I’m fraught,
Speak to animals who have no diffidence.
An awkward chuckle
Escapes my lips
White knuckles
Teeth grit
I don’t poke fun
Or humiliate
I get your pun
It isn’t great
I bear the burden
Of your ego
My introversion
Takes the blow
The problem is
You’re not clever
As lame as it is
I must endeavor
Feeling abashed
And quite dumbfounded
I chose to stash
How bad you sounded
I lose the grace
I had before
To save your face
I shake my core
Asymmetrical
Gawky, inept
Your spectacle
My debt
A
mirror
reflects his
conceptual
blues.
Ekphrasis -Mirror 6 by Roy Lichtenstein
Debris
There was a time when I was a seaman travelled with
a cardboard suitcase and my best shoes wrapped in newspaper.
I always wore khaki mainly because people would think I was
an American, back then I thought it a great country; still great but
But her leaders look like nine to five clerks.
I have read many books but mostly cheep pot boilers.
Due to my shyness spent most time in my cabin and left my ship
when there was no more to read. I did developed a fondness for
Hemingway he never overwrote is books.
But for me reading had its hidden hazard as I tended to become
the person I read about.
I once read a report about me it said I was grumpy drank too much
- I must have been reading Hemingway at the time and had no social
skills and never mixed with others. I was a lousy seaman and only
enjoyed going ashore places I had read about and had an historical
meaning I could connect with. Well all this is in the past I was not to
know I was ill and introversion is a burden.
I
Moby Dick is a classic, so I've been told
tried to read when was younger, tried to read when more old
chastised my own self severely each time
for not having interest in words so sublime.
II
Billy Budd caught attention
and Kafka might mention
Ayn Rand, Solzhenitsyn
rebellist penchant.
III
Don't care much for jewelry or bright shiny things
phone's likely to voice-mail when it ever rings
keepin' up with the Joneses unappetizing
introversion my given from generating.
Norms cramp my style more often than not
I don't watch tv thus have no clue what's hot
making up words when I need them is fun
inside I try fiercely to douse smoking gun.
IV
A gift this life given
sheer mystery resplendent
with wisdom, compassion and love
From whence came the spark
that lent life to dark?
Within without all the same heartbeat.
purple, black and darker
than the night,
safe, within the walls
of introversion,
the soul of man sleeps
in fear of light,
as empty eyes keep vigil
over life
idly reflecting back
celestial light
as if the soul, might still
inspired...
arise,
to interchange with man's
insipid mind.
but, long mired deep
in langorous defeat
the old ambassador
who strove in vain
to teach
has ceased his thrashing
and remains asleep
Copyright ©2005 Christy S. Hyatt
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s insipid mind.
but, long mired deep, in langorous defeat,
the old ambassador, who strove in vain,
to teach,has ceased his thrashing and remains asleep
Christy S. Hyatt
Copyright ©2005 Christy S. Hyatt
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