Best Knotting Poems
And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!
When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger
Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact
They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood
Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”
Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings
Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited
They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads
Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies
…
And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?
When will the flinty sheep
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began
Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands
©Drake J. Eszes
A din ensued
my imaginary brood
with a good dose of misapprehension
hauled out their toys
and with a deafening noise
held band practice to demand my attention
My head resounded
I was astounded
as my voices insisted space be freed
then took up position
for a spit competition
unless their demand I would heed
"Spit all you may
I refuse to be swayed
back to your cupboard, skeleton folk
all was well hitherto
with my self-made crew
till my head friends you chose to provoke."
"Dear host, you're unfeeling
to your good sense we're appealing
repeal the bones' non grata status
or your imaginary crew
will hold a coup
assisted by our posse comitatus."
"Skeletons and friends
your logic transcends
admittedly you've much courage and clout
I'll have to engage
with our very own sage
the inimitable Shadow of Doubt.
"After due consultation
and much deliberation
Shadow and I decision had reached
you may rant; you may rave
do the Mexican wave
yet still be punished for my rules you have breached.
"The imagineries and Hubbard
to inhabit the cupboard
access to my head is forever denied
you skeletons will hoard
keep my secrets well-stored
in my head where you henceforth will reside."
There's no happy ever after
my world is now dafter
cramped, the skeletons keep knotting their chains
with more space at hand
my imaginary band
multiplied. I'm now doubly insane
***************************************
the silver starlight embroidered the murmurs of that river
and he allowed himself to drown within the scent of ripe pears
flooding the air around him…
and while inhaling, he almost felt the threads of the past
knotting themselves in his chest,
memories hidden within the sweetness of the fragrance,
dizzying him like a strong wine…
he kept his breath for a moment…
‘you cannot hold time still…come on…exhale’,
he heard a voice inside him,
and he pushed the air out almost by force,
as if trying in the same time to exorcise his soul
of the remains of what-had-been-and-was-no-more…
‘too much dust in the air tonight’, he told himself,
and in the same moment he killed in the corner of his eye
the shadow of an almost born tear …
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered feathers of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w-i-n-d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
Written: March 31st, 2024 for Matt Caliri Coagulation Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, my blood began to coagulate;
I am initially concerned over poor fate,
Right away, I would lose a lot of blood.
Rich red hues wisely swing to warm tunes,
Every one of my atoms is as yours in pure gold,
When I xerox a warm lawn, I lie down and loiter.
Oh, what a tangled-up issue I had,
When I failed to tie a necessary knot,
But I need avail knotting a loop,
No one knew how to tie the exact knot I sought!
I hope my last breath is a grateful sigh
There's tightness in the core of my spine,
A knot bound with vibrant fuchsia rope,
That I've never managed to sort out.
A few nodded and hid my anxious gaze,
Some have enjoyed tightening it,
Skilled seafarers with stunning ties,
It allows a Full ship of pain and anguish.
Unrestful, between,
Dawn-to-dusk scars
Torn glimpses ooze riddles,
Flashes of a vacuum,
Thorny puzzle to soak,
To a soiled hook as hefty as my body,
Surrounded by bitter words and nails,
Untying harsh knots was never desired.
No one pulled an anger rope to set it free,
My sigh was not pulled out carelessly,
Longtime guarding in my throat,
Nobody has freed me.
How lovely, isn't
It, to have an 'off' switch, shotty wiring
And all,
And a presence lined up to ****?
They are always there
To cauterize the wounds of emotional castration
Without desire to examine
The blood pattern forensics,
Chalking the splatter up
To an affinity towards Jackson Polluck.
Tears are to the meek
As injury is to the bold,
Chastity is to pureness
As promiscuity is to curiosity.
And what
Supplemented activity relates to the character
Defect of an over-eager search for validation?
How surreal a menagerie constructed from
Syringes full of sunshine.
Currency crusted by blood in place of worth,
Hopeful scribbles of the pale and placid carrying
Small flecks of over packed bags under the eye
Can seem when sunlight filters through rose colored lenses;
How frighteningly apparent
Connect-the-dot freckles and
Spasms of the left cheek and
Teddy bear smiles and
Xylophone ribs and
Bits of skin ghosted from lips become
When refracted by a Narcissus pond—
How I m p o r t a n t,
How appropriate these sentiments:
Perfect companions for the rolled-up-carpet's journey
Of finding permanence along river bottom
Set into the silt and framed with waving algae:
A'voir, piggyback consistencies,
Meet oblivion in shreds
Blown out the back end of the skull
In the instant chapped lip worshiper meets collarbone shrine.
Such ready to leech services are no longer
A necessity
In the four hours of chemically enhanced rawness
Stuffed with bile and bruise and suck and lie
Hollowed of meaning,
Save for the proverbial cholesterol of hope clogged in pores.
But I awake in numbness,
Cold and invalid,
With my head pressed on Doubt's chest
And my fingers knotting in its own
Begging to be warm again.
forgiveness, may, me, spoken word, word play, writing, game
OH FOLDERAL AND FIDDLE-DE-DEEDS! ©
Polite use in ‘words’ does astonish----
Creating a good reference when stated…..
But ‘red tape’ always ensues.
Going about ‘knotting’ a halt to its very ‘charm’----
Waylays ‘to question’ on just how ‘sincere’ is it given?
Unmemorable accounts of ‘dueling’ rallies could go on----
Jostling clashes to and fro if politeness was amiss…..
Just to come to an arranged ‘agreement’ of sorts----
Which is all that is questioned at the beginnings.
Excuse me, allow me; pardon me, if I might and forgive me---
Oh, how should I word this to ‘stream’ in a correct polite manner?
It becomes all, but a game of charades ‘with words’!
While with our ‘tongues in cheeks ’and as ‘puppeteers’---
We frequently are ‘played upon’….
To life’s folderal and fiddle-de- deeds!
I could be less positive of time's resolving karma
without not(not) as negative
binomially defining
what is not polynomial not
and what must be more positive
you see, or not.
This double negative binding positive
hurts my bicamerolling brain
intuiting what is not Right
deducing what could be Left
to permacultural imaginings
balancing economies with ecologic
synaptic sap reversing
not aptic snap
fusing neural patterns
of polynomial permaculturing positions
overwhelming this knot of double nots.
To be
is to belong meta-diastolic,
I hope a positive existential phenomenon,
whatever that might mean.
But, too long this longish longing
is not to not be,
it is simply a not
waiting for a second;
to not not long
incarnates belonging grace
and not not karmic knots
in negative implicating space
without a proper polynomial place
for knotish naughty
not not negative integrity.
Karma double-masks what grace uncovers
as incarnation reverses back
toward naked origin of well-wombed undouble-knotting fetus,
DNA enscribing nurture's primal covenant,
warm and fertile buddha-care.
Uncovered human nature
erupts through Janus-masked cocoon
discovering nature's
uncovering intuition of polyculturing unity;
and competitive not,
hidden within ego-defensive
cognitive dissonance,
immune instinct
repulsing tied-up distinctions.
Biting into life's positive oysters
risks gnashing knotty pearls.
Dot-matrix monotony beasts,
Bring endless agonies and fake archetypes,
To drown the silent scream of nothing inside.
I know now why you turn up the noise.
Hide your ears, as they pound on the drum of sadism.
Because I howl the song of terror.
And now we both become batteries.
You the positive, I the negative,
Existing purely to give power to the another.
Their box of lights bleeds our minds.
With a thousand meaningless babbles,
Like over-zealous wasps.
Senselessly knotting round and around.
Constricting mind, body and soul.
Under this monochrome sky,
In this thick, wet, air,
They are almost tangible.
Tasted, smelt, but never heard
Cartoon wraiths flitting at the periphery.
Not waiting, not feeling.
Blind mechanical bats.
Without voice or form.
They feed my failings,
Fattening me for the feast.
But they hold no malice,
Just a circuit with terror as it’s current.
They no more hate my soul,
Than the fox hates the rabbit.
Fearing these surrogate pulses,
I pull a blackened hide over my shoulders,
And with snakes for eyes, I pull on chainmail gloves.
The metal cuts my skin, the rotting hide constricts
My last breath bears a spirit,
Which eats the sky like a rusty knife.
A speaker stands upon a hill, he talks of change and hope
And while you're at the ballot box he's knotting up a rope.
A general kills another man whose children scream and cry
And while you watch the tragic news more sons are sent to die.
A CEO accepts applause for giving good returns
And while you're waiting for your share an oil platform burns.
An actor stands upon the scene of profit, death, and greed
And while you're shopping for your food he tells you what you need.
A weatherman predicts the end with charts, and graphs, and curves
And while you're driving to your job you wonder who he serves.
A banker says, "Fear not my friends". He smiles and shakes your hand
And while you're working for your home the sheriffs seize your land.
A cleric preaches peace and love with words like truth and fear
And while you're praying for the world a martyr's bomb you hear.
A doctor tries to heal the sick by giving out a pill
And while you're staring through the wall he's making out the bill.
A policeman shines his leather boots which help protect and serve
And while your protest goes unheard he steps on your last nerve.
You're toxic you
Burn like acid rain
You're toxic radiating
So much pain
Would it be wrong
do you think?
To put some arsenic
In your drink
To go and get
Some rope if ya will
And practice my
My knotting skills
To go out and buy
A shiney forty-five
Be in your face
And put if between your eyes
Your toxic you
Burn like acid rain
Your toxic radiating
So much pain
Your toxic you
Burn like acid rain
Your so f--king toxic
You make me insane
Virtue flee and vice will come
A new observation I made today
The things I do not want
Are always in the way
When what I desire most
Tetters me pining at some sturdy post.
Here comes cockroaches trekking on the table
Here comes rats my hate to disable
Here comes flies knotting up my space
And spiders threading desert place
I little use, even for waste
Here comes gobs of green fungus
Turning black on a cloth of white
There is so much oddity in my race
That I share with every man
We do what we do not want
And what we want we can't
Resolutions are a shamble in this place
They creep and crawl
Infectious desires
Contaminants of everthing but fire
I cannot let this in.
As we walked that day the sun shone.
The tide was turning, the beach long
and littered with driftwood, debris
left by tidal flow, and we searched;
broken shells, human rubbish dropped
overboard, and washed up with the swell.
We walked together. We walked apart;
holding hands, then separate again
as we paused to search for seaside treasures.
I went ahead as your path deviated to the dunes.
Running barefoot and kicking up the sand,
letting the sea touch me as I teased it with my hand.
Then I saw you, sitting, knotting rope;
concentration etched upon your face;
oblivious, intent on your task, a mask of ingenuity.
You bundled up the driftwood, securing it for
transportation, then the elation as in that moment,
while I watched you, cache tied, you became a boy again
It's curious, finding
the way to God's truth,
Men knotting their
faith as holding it fast,
If called wrong, they
fight with nail and
tooth,
By words they first
attack, then sowrd at
last.
Methinks it wrong to
fight with men for
God,
Who made the earth,
stars, moon and sun
in heav'n,
In face of religion, see
disguised fraud,
Can't God himself
keep his foe driven?
He, who makes blood
run in veins of men,
Provides lungs from
huge air stores,
And food he feasts
from oceon, air and
plain,
Do need you fulfil
that Mighty's chores?
A man's needed to
have his faith inside,
Unlike rough, smooth
air raises good
smooth tide. Hashim
nizamani.
Weep no more sad candle
for the world has not ended.
Star still blaze
in the streets
above our heads
and river
rush in meandering
languages to the sea.
Even comets still remain
to billiard the heavens
arcs.
Cry no more
your liquid tears
knotting on the indifference
of small table.
No worries my little candle
for you bless me in the purity
of your ebbing flow
of flickering the scripture
on the hymns
of my life's impossible corners...