Best Intuitions Poems
Dear anxiety
Nemesis to my reality,
mental manipulator of tentative trust,
massacring my once sagacious soul -
you cut me into a slice of loneliness.
The fault is in our thoughts,
so I am haunted by the things you never said.
You remain silent to society's subjective eyes,
but a glimpse of a poet's soul shivers,
to these vivid verses held by ghosts -
echoing a repetitive chorus in a cathedral of screams.
I'm an uninvited guest in an audience with you,
so I drink poison in every line I write about you.
These words burn my vocal chords,
but I swallow them anyway,
as my paper heart pumps onyx drops
crying through my veins to heartache's recital
of an infected celestial mind yearning for a remedy.
But life is a cupid cruelty in dulcet disguise,
when your heart is a sinister seashell,
oblivious to potions of omen brewed in pigments of pixie-dust.
You're an unwelcome melody to my mystic,
composing an internal deadly demeanour.
I am the ink stuck in your cage,
dissolving like acid in your controlled carnage,
confined to trembling bleeding intuitions,
lost in corridors of horrific obscure mirrors,
whilst paranoia palpitates in a whirling haze of
magnetic ice warmth, melting my sanity,
amidst crumbling stars that lure cavernous comets
of silver grief to pirouette above frozen seas draped with
a fluorescent creme of skies.
As oceanic tides of topaz rise and fall,
flatlined into pewter streams of emptiness.
The moon coruscates in coral blue lies,
passing through intractable phases of trepidation,
abandoning light in black tourmaline nights -
pivoting into a psychedelic trance.
Rainbows fade before we can embrace
their colorful showers drizzling jade jewels
that rhyme with kaleidoscopic kismet,
as life through rose coloured lenses turns
into a provisional poetic manifestation.
If only I could escape this self-inflicted dungeon,
but you pursue like a perpetual predator.
I'll forever expose your oppression through my poems,
confessing how I never asked for this enforced affair.
I know I'm my own storm, I'm my own calm -
I just hope this is the last time I write about you.
What if love is the religion,
and heaven a voice
with no ego;
synchronized in
harmonious hope,
speaking dialects
of kindness?
What if hell is a myth,
and evil lurks as shadows,
dressed in greed
and insincere speech?
What if there’s no fine line
between dusk and dawn?
no strained streak between
darkness and light,
blurring out visions
of wrong and right?
But If love is the religion,
would the Universe
tame the storms
raging above holy shrines?
If honesty can see through
the sunless eyes of
sinners crawling
as nocturnal creatures,
preying on gullible souls-
disguised as saints,
would they mend
sacred survivors?
for, they’ve conquered
colossal galaxies rising
from unbeatable infernos.
In a world that is oblivious
to the grieving clouds,
drizzling tears from the azure.
I wish, you and I, would read
the same book of intuitions;
scriptures that reveal
no name to the faith we behold.
Sometimes, I close
my confused heart,
allow third eye to
roam and reach,
to find heaven through
astral waltzing,
across spiritual realms,
where hymns of healing echo.
Perhaps, it’s been
etched in karmic kismet,
that amidst fleeting time
and passing seasons,
love shall rise like
a forgiving flower,
sprouting from emptiness.
Embalmed in jasmine rain water,
pouring upon the
emblem of empathy.
So, don’t speak, just listen,
close your eyes, awaken
your awareness to the air,
witness the unspoken truth,
swirling through weary winds,
caressing fragile skin,
like eagle feathers.
Seek beyond all that
which shimmers,
there flows dreams that glow,
woven with faith;
a combination of meraki,
and divine elements.
Corralled in Plato’s cave,
groupies of untenable shadows,
silenced their intuitions to the smoke and other sighs.
Jamaica’s capital hosted a convention
giving an ever-leaving coward’s play a stage,
now his work is done.
Senior partner and the oldest liar —
the younger roo’s handler —
watches from his own Whitman’s tower;
one man walking past the fire,
brave enough to look at the sun,
his integrity can see behind it.
Hate moved a biased hand against him,
but the truth is like The Cross,
and vanity will always seek a mirror.
Beyond any conviction,
immutable.
Forever keeping themselves,
beautiful.
----------------------------------------
Written: 05.01.20 – 05.03.20
Inspired by the bravery, intellectual honesty and integrity of my friend Mark Koplin.
There was a time, when the sun was our guiding light,
amidst clouds of twilight that paint our skylines bright.
There were no misleading traffic signals,
halting our ride into the mysterious nights.
A shimmering candle was the spark of truth within-
reflecting intuitions that guide through confusions.
Life was then a simple highway with fewer obstacles,
yet in our ignorance we refuse to see—
we've long followed flawed stars dressed in glowing moonrise.
I ponder, when will rain wash away hazy riddles?
as my heart is hollow and I feel empty,
like a lost gypsy on the sidewalk of a nameless street,
wrapped in a blanket of hope,
longing for empathy over a cup of poetry.
Maybe there's still a secure path for the ones that wander,
to steer without looking sideways for toxic trespassers,
lurking in curved corners behind unsupervised stop signs,
flickering amidst double lies of deceptive lines.
“Just because you are soft doesn't mean you are not a force. Honey and wildfire are both the colour gold.” ~Victoria Erickson
Tonight the moon sanctioned
her golden halo
to unfurl butterfly wings
rinsed with honey
and champagne ribbons,
as feathers of lunar crust rise,
to embellish the sky
with silver sequins,
drizzling second chances
upon fickle hearted dragonflies,
gifted as weapons of
deception to the sweltering breeze,
that wrapped my weakened knees.
I’ve always known trusting
is a losing game with no winners,
but why do I always feel
like an intruder sinking deep
into the depths of spiteful seas~
where planktons and stinging marine
nettles prick my untouched skin?
Yet I am still searching for
a singing star that wouldn’t
need written renderings of
how my black tinted glass
heart was left to drown.
Who would have thought,
there’d be more to the
onyx glittered
ripples that stream,
in teal blue waves?
If only they’d hear
every unspoken tale
of shipwrecked ruins
resting amongst graphite
motions of frozen intuitions,
forgotten through forsaken
lagoons amidst
fleeting monsoons,
left as memoirs along
soft coral mists swiftly
passing through patch
reefs in abandoned atolls.
So let me take my splintered
spheres to a realm of no return,
forgiving sinful anthems
that lured me to believe
that friends were more
than enemies in sweet disguise.
I am soft, not fragile,
neither am I a
shrunken blossom.
I am a tiger lily,
fragrant yet fierce,
ready to face whatever~
hypocritical fangs of fate
may serve in merlot wine chalices.
Loki:
Sigyn and Angrboda know their wyrd well
Even the far seeing eye of odin
Does even the all seeing eye have its faults?
The curse of knowledge or forgetfulness perhaps
Angrboda is born of the blood of the volva
She knows well the fates and
wyrd of men and immortals alike
The mother of wolves, my lovely consort
Sigyn my love,ever loyal and in morning
Has resigned herself to the fate of her wyrd
She too burns for revenge against the aesir
For you have transformed one son into a wolf
Only to have him kill his brother Nari
Then to transform poor vali back
Then to despair over his brother's entrails
And to commit an agonizing death
For what crime did my sons do,
Lord Odin as you proclaim yourself judge
Jury and executioner
And for what wrongs did my children
Jorgamundr, Hel, and Fenrir do
They were but kids when you had them
Imprisoned for Half Fashioned prophecies that
were made by three old wise women,
Have they not had their intuitions
misinterpreted before…..
So my children pay for my mistakes
You aesir who claim to be fair
Is this the famed fairness of the aesir
The destruction of my family
Driving us apart
I think that hardly righteous or fair
O souls of the Island,
I have silently
heard through
tropical torrents
and surpassed
a million miles
of the milky seas,
away from
mint-marine
silhouettes of my
utopian wonderland,
as strawberry
ripples and
coconut-scented
musings called
upon my
flamboyant spirit,
to explore those
ebony-emeralds
of universe and
envelop my hope in
creamy pink shells.
I have soaked in
sepia impressions,
ebbing as
crepe currents
on splitting shores
and windsurfed
through the
hibiscus rays
of life by forbidding
heartache hymns
of yesteryears,
from lurking in
jewelled hours
of today
and built a
kryptonite kayak
to sail in the
turquoise times
of tomorrow.
For, now I know
that the
opalescent ocean
has chosen me,
to return the
riveting spirit
of sage-rufescent
rivulets back to
the 'Heart of
Humanity's Cosmos',
shaped in
soft serenades
of seraphim.
When the
whispers of a
mauve french-rose,
blooming within,
will uncurl their
farthest wish
in silken twinkles,
my eyes will always
remember these
watercolor heights
splashing crayon dusks
and revealing
silver moon truths,
for there's more
beyond the
neon networks
of syzygy pearl skies
and chestnut reefs,
yearning to be
cherished by the
blonde alchemy of love.
So, I abandon
those sooty
regrets that snorkel
with their fragile fins in
kohl-lily gulfs
and observe these
constellations
of intuitions, formed
by the star-kissed
manta rays and
sketch sagacious
saudades laced
with hope, as a
halo around the
lilac Pole Star.
In this mortal
seascape of
the seventh heaven,
every orphan
of darkness
shimmers as
the beacon
of lustrous
sugar-scintilla that
shapes this world,
in ivory-smitten
spheres of
magically
diaphanous helix,
waltzing in whispers
of wind and water.
Every lava-skinned,
feminine flame
of doleful daffodils
was once a glittered
cherry-red gardenia,
laced with
cardinal buds,
who nurtured
velvet seeds
in the womb of
celeste compassion
and edenic empathy.
And like myself,
every sea-maiden of
sequined lush ruminations,
crowned with
purple plumerias,
is a whimsical wayfinder,
wishing for ~
white bells of serenity
and blue-star petals of peace.
Persuade by time
Intuitions run blind
Neon driven dreams
Dandelion sew seams
Recognize the breeze
Opal shaped moon
Pesuaded bloom
?
If rain poured
in susurrating sounds
of unshed tears,
will ungrateful dialects
change their insincere
expressions of speech,
or will this unheard
voice forever be
lost as echoes within
glass walls,
where lilac-feathered
letters of farewell
written in red diamonds,
illustrate illusive
narratives of an onyx heart
haunted by
holographic
harmonies,
in glitters of retro line art~
to graphically craft
cacophonous chronicles of
unexpressed trauma,
engrossed in cursive candor,
while this quivering quill remains
dipped in purple
pansies and primrose poetry,
glorifying indigo intuitions
that bleed in
blue-black and burgundy
But, I still keep
surfing in sizzling silence
towards saffron-streaked
sunsets resembling
the wisteria warmth
of your embellished embrace,
awakening from lucid
dreams of sparkling
silhouettes of us,
when I was uncontrollably
lost in your
pillow-shaped eyes,
counting silver stars hanging
on long lashes with lilac dust,
forgetting the times
I was caught in the
riveting rhythm of
lemonade lies.
For in your
amorous arms,
every qualitative question
within incomplete
puzzles of life and loss,
unravels appealing answers
with carnation compassion,
upon corners of
crumpled pages,
where initials of
your flowery
name is a
timeless token,
of love that still exists~
in this woeful world
of hate from heinous hyenas.
But these starry stones
of turquoise trust
shall be the
clandestine clemency
that holds this
unwritten tale of survival.
For, I am unapologetically poetic~
rewriting fuschia future
on pastel colored
paper parachutes,
letting go of twisted
tones cloaked with
jealous January winds at dawn,
as cinnamon gold sequined
skies reflect magic within
misty mirrors,
to begin again
as April crawls back,
knocking on the
laser-lavender portal
adorned with teal-cerulean
wings of our whimsical fairyland…
Stars of Clarity 11-22-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stars of Clarity
Lost in ebony
Void of bursting astral intuitions,
Alabaster amber stolen,
Abandoned in delirium’s decay
Of dying brown dwarfs
Hoarding lavender purple leftovers,
Hidden remnants of disguised advent,
Ashen sojourner wades through impotent stardust
Numb in faded platinum insight.
Out of grey vertigo
Carmine dwarfs arise to overshadow ebony
In a giddy sense of spangled glitter
When enigmas and puzzles
Step out of nebulas into mystic purity.
Pilgrim, found in neon,
Incandescent cavalcades of exploding chartreuse
Guide ephemeral crystalline visions,
Burnished auroras splash across epiphanies,
Rounded shards divulge silver nativity,
When salient flashes nurture constellations of certainty,
Astral sparks of cosmic scarlet explosions,
And shrouded a-ha’s emerge like incandescent sextons
Leading to stellar sequins - champagne diamonds of clarity.
I love my nation!
With all my heart I love this land
I’d die for all what it stands for
Hypocrisy and two-facedness
Inhumanity and corruption
What a sweet and wonderful song to sing?
I love my country
Kenya
I know all my fellow countrymen and countywomen
Will say the same
This nation is an oasis of damnation
Full of extortion and oppression
Ohhhh I love it with all my intuitions
What an imposition to shoulder
I love my country
Kenya
New storming and infiltration every moonlight
Deaths are common like cars
How I love my country
KENYA
As breaths sink into the pool of dim nights
The wicker of angst grates more than I can bear,
More a fading hope lost in pathways, cracked
By utter alienation from riddled thorns…
Yet, an inner candle banishes doubt,
A lucent halo gleaming ever so near
Though it knows not my name, it knows who I am,
It guides a taper of faith with lit intuitions made,
Until peace glows in my soul , telling me I am home.
----------------------
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
Quote Me Rumi Contest of Silent One
12/3/2015
Poem by: Mr. Ronald Watson
Sep. 13, 2012
My Poetry on PoetrySoup
Stinking Thinking
Stinking thinking/ it leads to drinking./
What moisten the soul without an inkling?/
Unto making a wild left turn /while the right signal light were blinking./
Within a mild mix of rice, hops, and barley,
Since/ it is too much laugher at a karaoke party./
How Elvis sounds like,/ a broken Bob Marley?/
Now it’s as if,/ inhibitions are lowed/
Frozen in time/ and slipping far out of control./
As intuitions of minds does loathe,/ as such weariness echoes for tomorrow./
Yet,/ a stinking breath that smells just as death/ and it's where all funky asses dwells./
Though/ all hung over /and unjustified to flinging heavy heads into that porcelain king,/
Even this is a sight for red sore eyed Kings!/
It is an aftermath of ravishing through them royal purple cloth bags./
So/ afraid to admit that shallowness slowly drags!/
When,a sense of clarity which will just admit it.
That stinking thinking is difficult to kick, but
One day at a time, it is the only way to shine, or get fixed.
Thank youMy Poetry on PoetrySoup
God Bless.
Adam, take the dust and
blow into tomorrow's winter world
the intruding consciousness
is evolving, embroiling a vainity of values,
who are we now, why this
language of redemption ?
the truth hurts once we
were exhiled from God's perfect garden,
the roads behind are
cold and alone, its you and me against the wind,
Adam, how will we survive
the hail, and 40 days of raging rain ?
In every emerging
evening I see a new face when I close my eyes
my intuitions are crystal
clear, Adam
I can feel the needing
agony of anticipation from my womb,
these shoes are worn out
from this journey, lets build
I will praise the
callouses of your hands once the walls reach heaven,
lets ride, make new
native noise, simply splashing love
lets harvest the future
drink from the wealth of cheap wine,
making choices knowing right - to wrong
Now that we are free, we
can enjoy the goodness before it fades,
the voices inside are
called, they can befit the beast
God intended us to be angels, alienating us away
lets grow upward,
testing the sound of silence, I want to eliminate the echoes,
with the sounds of laughter and tears,
I'm willing to take a greater
risk of falling,
hurry Adam, put a child
in my arms, and soothe the agony of absence,
its time to grow and generate
the human race,
this is my new chapter, unfolding
the Continuing Saga
By Poet - Eve
his eyelids conclude why bother
manacled they led him away
to the exact center of their city
they tried everything
cattle prod fire hose blow dryer
ineluctable forces of nature
now there are wires in his head
his neo-cubist portrait
ended up on bags of dog food
have you seen this child
we make too many monsters on this planet
a petting zoo of pretty spiders
eager to charm uneager to learn
ever-ready to change the subject
claiming that this is the normal milieu
leaping from euphemism to euphemism
preconceptions luridly arrayed
detour around the temple kids
there’s mobsters in heaven
they don't tell you that but it is true
they run the gambling arcade of faith
the will he or won’t he tables
it should be clear by now that
prayer does not ward off plague
even for the willfully superficial
should we all be capable of greatness
or blind credulity you decide
behold the universe in all its
partly comprehensible splendor
the design that stuns with perfection
and then kills you so slowly
that your DNA begins to tell you
how when and what to think
it couldn't be more or less blatant
drifting the eddies of a potential thing
in which the impossibility happened
at least we know how to know more
stray as you wish
into the arms of beauty
and rub against her silks and furs
make her moan the irony the irony
her paranoia may be an entrance
but live for today is a sham
and a shuck and a jive
because tomorrow always comes
this is a mathematical given
the human condition
used to be stated as lost
now at least it’s curious
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/