Best Languishes Poems
I've written of great longing while my teardrops flare
Rhyming lines of sorrow that were nested in my mind
Tomes of poetry that exposed the depth of my despair
Now, my heart lies withered; to its fate I am resigned.
My sonnets are all testaments to the love, now haunted,
decaying on yellowed pages, they make my heart bleed.
It languishes with pitiful sighs, ignored and unwanted
like my dust-laden poetry that I will never again read.
Verses were woven tapestries, a lovingly stitched story,
Remnants of us left threadbare, colors dull and faded.
Time cannot repair moldered love to it's former glory.
Ours lies buried in a grave; rotting because it's jaded.
Love spills its final drop as I gasp for another breath.
From this mortal wound, my afflicted soul is bereaving.
I've one last poem to pen, in refrain before my death
about the broken part of me, still mournfully grieving.
September 22, 2020
Quatrain Writing Challenge - Decay
Sponsored by: Constance La France
It often trickles slowly, timid and shy
From the inner eyelid of a song
Or down the cheek of a distant mountain
A sunset rising beyond the hill, or moonlight on the window sill
A rose in bloom…a drop of dew…so tiny, sweet and beautiful
It fills a cup with voiceless wonder, and deep affection
It languishes softly…with wild abandonment
And will not be tamed
But, another kind is rooted deep
Buried where the light can’t reach
The anguish of the world falls on it’s cheek
It dwells beside the hopeless shore
Until thundering waves can't be ignored
The first single tear drifts down the walls
Into the shadowy tide of a river, longing
Bleeding old wounds, through all the old hurts
Looking for a place to hide
The sky above the earth will darken
Behind a leaden, lumpy cloud bank
Now the day has puckered up a bottom lip
Round spattering tears are warm
Prelude to the storm
The day will weep
Until it falls asleep
.....................
For the One Silver Tear Contest: 7/26/12
I'm not overly fond of receiving a family's annual gushing story,
In the form of a Christmas Letter stating that all is hunky-dory.
I received one the other day in which they told the honest truth,
And I'll relay its contents though of me it may be somewhat uncouth!
"My son Jimmy who was in the army gave a sergeant a lot of sass,
And was unceremoniously invited to leave the service by the army brass!
Daughter Sarah became in a 'family way' bringing me much disgrace.
The father of the kid left the state and of him there is not a trace!"
"Son Robert attempted to rob a bank and now languishes in jail.
The judged sentenced him to twenty years sans the benefit of bail.
My husband up and left me for that hussy waitress at Joe's Cafe.
That left me with little money, having to keep bill-collectors at bay!"
"My sister fell on hard times and moved in with her three little brats.
She also brought along three hounds, a nasty parrot and two hissing cats!
My trusty old 85 Chevy blew a rod and left me without wheels;
I can't afford another car because of outrageously high-priced deals!"
She goes on to say, "I hope all has gone well at your house this year.
As you can see, this past year ain't been one for me of great cheer!"
I appreciated her honesty but found her dismal plight quite appalling.
Her letter left me quite bereft and before you know it, I started bawling!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
THE LADY WHO BATHES IN PUBLIC
Harlot moon
Languishes in star bath
Shamelessly
Victoria Anderson-Throop
the moon last night made me want to repeat this favorite of mine!
A melting river, a tree's return
A respite from the winter's burn
Where thin leaves capture the sun's might
To briefly hold the weight of light
An elusive bloom in a fragile berth
And the heavens envy the warmth of earth
Even as day falls to gray and languishes there
Gold could not be so lovely, were it not rare
Lament
Brooding days,
Vanquished in the unconnected gloom,
Shower frost,
Standing watch at dawn to pierce the morning
With an artic tempest,
Swirling ‘cross a land lost in forgetfulness:
Sighing
Beneath borderless views of snow unbroken,
Where nothing dare disturbs
The unchanging vision
But a single line of footprints
When skies of grey and bleaker daylight
Lean so close to earth
They lay their heaviness upon a homeless wood sprite
Wandering in the raw breath of twilight dawning,
Caught by phantom gusts
Spiraling down,
Shivering as the brumaled wind
Runs its fingers
Through the marrow of the soul
Where slumber languishes,
Icebound
As plodding steps
Frantically searching groves of tangled silver linden,
Pursued
And haunted
By the relentless midnight sun;
Errant fugitive,
Followed by the wispy remnants of a golden morning,
Trembling
As barren aspen branches
Beneath bright errant bursts of fiery lights -
Racing
Across
The northern sky -
Taunting
Tortured
Eyes
Seeing only to remember;
Grasping
For a single crocus
Plunged into yearning
Until the boreal shadows
Touch
The depth of darkness
Bidding nordic sprite to sit,
To rest,
Curled up against a frozen birch of black and white,
Taking final flight on tattered winds
Heralding the touch of sunlight.
Godspeed my friend
11/29/2015
Idioma
There is a man with a gun.
His finger taut,
tensed and still,
the intention obvious,
no reason instilled.
Because guns kill people.
Or do people kill people?
I can never remember.
Let's take a look at entropy.
A molecule hits a molecule
hits a molecule and
BOOM - a bomb.
Thousands dead.
More on the way.
But of course that's a bit clumsy,
seeing that entropy's remorse
only marginally taps the
frayed edges of something,
Atomic.
So what stops it?
Science might tell us
Energy.
That’s a bit broad though.
Come back to the man with the gun.
Naturally he's drunk,
and not a man,
an adolescent.
Waving the gun -
the weapon in your face.
He points it at you.
So what do you do?
What can you do?
One might pray
and hope his hand is stayed,
for in the land of entropy learned helplessness breeds
Power.
And the masses will pray and cower.
Some might fight,
or fly,
in instinctual flurry.
But these options are
few and far
too crude for more, sophisticated tastes.
So this sophistication leads us...
Ah, but sophistication sounds so posh.
Let's instead call this
Order.
And so you order,
Yell,
or speak,
rather;
yelling is so harsh.
You speak,
maybe even
whisper.
You don't want to antagonize this
kid
willing to put a hole in you
- you in a hole -
covered by the thoughtlessly certain curtain of
uneasy infinity.
So you,
oh so subdued,
whisper,
Please.
But a simple please
has never gotten
anyone anywhere
worth being,
so you follow up with
a more firm
Stop.
And in his inebriation,
the most powerful
being in your world stumbles
upon a moment
of lucidity.
His finger slips,
sending a .45 caliber
bullet - lead some might call it,
but this is grossly anachronistic -
into your frontal lobe
and out your cerebral cortex.
Enter.
Exit.
An open system.
Because in an entropic world,
Language languishes in its ephemeral rags
and is wasted away by greater things.
“Every wall that would entrap me has a door that would free me. And I languish because the fear of freedom often leaves me preferring the familiarity of the wall.” Craig D. Lounsbrough
I'm languishing in self-pity
My cat is lost in the city
Grieving for my itty bitty
Missing kitty Missing kitty
Again, I find myself alone
Nobody calls me on the phone
Weeping for loved ones I have known
Fate, I bemoan Fate, I bemoan
A poet languishes each time
He seems to be bereft of rhyme
Unable to write poems, sublime
It is a crime It is a crime
Artists languish in mortal fear
that their paintings will bring a tear
Like Van Gogh who lobbed off an ear
End of career End of career
Who has not languished in despair
pining over things hard to bear
Anguish reveals how much we care
Heartache beware Heartache beware
My heart's renderings are shaded
in poetic images and creativity
yet, my mind languishes in the scrub of sad dirges
thus...I am a part-time poet
for the bell tolls not for my words
from thought in celebration
rather it tolls for graffiti I place before the public
I have called poetry
7/6/19
contest Part-Time Poet
In me, now is an insatiable thirst,
I know well that I have lost my track.
I have gone astray from my God, all goodness incarnate.
Searching Him, lonely and longingly I stray,
To place Him not in a shrine, but in my very innards.
In me, now is an insatiable thirst,
To offer my hand with childlike faith
To the one who is forgiveness incarnate
So long I have been running away from Him
Taking devious turns, fleeing from His presence
Now I discern, like a hound He has been after me.
Through shadowed tunnels, He was following me.
That’s why now I can see Him through the mist.
In me, now is an insatiable thirst,
To seek shade under the safety of all strength incarnate
And to sup on His love that serves as balm.
Madly once I ran struggling to keep pace
With the spinning world moving very fast,
To catch up at the illusory pleasures.
Now my mind languishes in the prison of my own make,
And wearily I trudge through valleys dark,
With burdens heavy on my drooping shoulders.
In me, now is an insatiable thirst,
To hear His whispered words in deep quietude
To calm my fears and to be filled with hope
To feel His presence and to see Him close
To hold His hand and to be led by Him
To be held close like a babe to its mother
To seek comfort, to find rest and to feel blest.
Until I merge with my God, all goodness Incarnate,
My soul will never be at peace. Oh Lord, hold me close!
if attention be absent, then we are not present
in as not quite so in active mindful cognition
thus Turiya as screen of consciousness
dims for awhile its resplendent lustre
as presence languishes in stupor
softening attention rescues us
with ego resistance removed
requiring active negation
in a mode of surrender
to the light of Self
aflame within
In a far away land
Was a castle prison
In the left back tower they were held captive
The Fool
The High Priest
The Magician
Hours to days
Days to night and months to years
They all looked out the tower windows
The magic gardens beyond their reach
Where the elves danced and the holy ones prayed
The fool babbled his nonsense
The magician made dreams disappear
The three captives suffered
Evading death each day was a victory
All wondered when evil would come out and play
Castle guards drinking honey wine
Talked of conquests beyond
Battles won and women scorned
On the thirteenth year up in the castle tower
The magician’s birthday arrived once more
Tapped 3 times on the tower floor
The fool became a fool no more
His powers opened up all locked doors
The guards asleep, dreaming honey thoughts
The magician the priest and the fool, out they walked
Along a forest path at night
The fool turned and stared
I am the fool who are you?
The magician lit a fire of magic and burned his soul
The high priestess prayed as he plunged his faith into his heart
He fell upon the sword of holy injustice
Fires rose making forest walls
The earth divided, and the rains fell
In the distance the castle tower tumbled to hell
He was a wizard of another time
Now he wanders the earth, the fool of all time
He wears a cloak that hides his true desires
One day he knows
Deep inside
The people shall one day be free
Of all the burdens they hoard like golden treasures
The fool walks the universe
Free
In the heat of a desert sun
At high noon
The sand soaking the blood lust of battle
The hangman languishes
Holding a head with no body
Wishing he too could be a fool
Free of haunting memories
Free to roam with the
Slaves
Gray fog on silent, smokey feet
walks by while cricket songs still greet.
It languishes on cool, night air
and adds to darkness shadowed flair.
The eaves drip honey-heavy drops
onto the ground in easy plops.
Damp remnants of a late night shower
that fell to earth from cloudy tower.
Each blade of grass is wet with tears
of rainclouds as the night sky clears.
This sweet and weighty air tonight
an aromatic dream delight.
This smoky coat of fog belies
then dissipates as dawn gives rise.
We wake to see fog's night-coat spurned
as sultry sunshine takes its turn.
Gray Fog
8-11-15
Rope around my neck
I’ve choked myself to death
What I’d do for one more breathe,
To go back to when I was a kid
Relive my first love,
To feel the love of my mother, and see a hero in my father..
Be in awe of the stars as my eyes glitter with wonder,
The voices in my head are quiet now,
But my heart no longer beats.
I long for a feast,
A gathering of those I called friends,
No longer can my broken heart be mend,
Be mend by kind words, sympathy and borrowing of the shoes in which I walk,
No longer will I borrow an ear
For I’ve let out my final breathe.
I want to feel the excitement of coming first,
But the fear of coming last has left me dangling my feet.
Don’t cry for me,
Remember the good feels I gave you
Ignore my selfish action to take your friend, your brother
Your son..
To ye who languishes in sorrow,
Don’t be disheartened for you shall join me in the morrow….
Creation perfectly wrought
designed by God* for mankind
precious gift to tend
with responsible stewardship…
such was magnificent in the beginning
a paradise of wonders.
Paradise
indeed, yet corrupted
as inhabitants
keep on maligning
her elegance of grace-filled beauty ---
now … Mother Earth grievously languishes.
Mother Earth
oh, verily afflicted with men’s exploits
while technology soars
toward progress’ crest
leaving her virgin forests ravaged
against original stature: Nature at its best.
Nature
sighing in desperate disgust
at civilization’s arrogance
along mocking skeptical mirth
never stops to give stern warning
tolerating not abuse to planet, once verily functional.
Planet
offering life
brings earnest admonition
inflicting guilt…to heed, hopeful
we do so, lest in despair
wail for wasted creation.
*Genesis 1:1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
June 1, 2021
1st place, "ALL YOURS(JUN 8)" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 6/8/2021.