Best Mediates Poems
let me be a wanderlust vixen in the vortex ~
a voltage liquified to the upbeat vibrato,
versing vehemently in venom-glazed grief,
and rehearsing your criminalism
like a serial liar ~
because I am too voiceless
to command the Monarch of mercury
to vindict the sojourners
that lure me to their blind holes,
and vandalise the chromatic criticisms
that clench me in their cyanide claws,
through the cracks
branching in the demonised billboard …
Oh scorching serpent,
slithering with velvet-tongued torment,
never leave me tethered
between the lips of loneliness ~
like a leaflet tucked on
the seaglass screen,
screaming for those stygian seashells
to lock my secrets behind
the bars of misplaced passwords,
because, this pulse of paranoia
is too pure to palpitate
in the pixels of poisoned prayers ~
and there is no anecdote
that annihilates the anxious
acronyms of abandonment,
streaming through the realms
of disposed dimensions.
There are no strings attached
that hum in hexed hoaxes
through the violin vendetta
strumming an acapella ~
through the lusty noise
of monsters longing for
the loss of my sacred insanity …
perhaps, the voice in my head
is an ode to the orchestrating shadows,
too mindless to manipulate ~
scripted in secluse
replaying the ruins,
paused in the prison
a sketch of sleep in splitting senses …
as bipolar ballads
tame their schizophrenic strokes ~
when the Maestro of moon
mediates a megalomaniac
sonnet of venting slaves,
in the muted matriarchy of mantras
that keep repenting rage,
in the impulsive incandescence
of my icy azure ink ~
refusing the warmth
of vulnerable sagas
that ache to heal me
and release the
insomniac coldness ~
blanketed with the sparks
of murky mermaid stars …
I own this label ~
the name of a lunar lunatic,
and this is a war,
between the sphinx of sabotage
and the never-ending nocturns ,
as, I remain weapon-less
like a cardinal iris,
rewriting the rules
of unshakable madness
in your maniac meanderings,
ineffable ~ invisible ~ incurable
an impostrous
i n v a d e r …
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.
gravity craves in the sky
weightless surrender -
comet reaches rock bottom
tides foam a lullaby
crested lengths wave -
ripples focus underneath
horizon lingers abreast
pain drenched capture -
currents expose lost hope
a life buoy tied to an anchor
flare soaked in life’s blood -
cess pool seizes cessation
atlantis meet nirvana
tranquility draws in the sand-
jetsam leads the way
the saviour dies dried tears
an offering’s nail to the cross -
hobgoblin mocks the journey
drift wood walks on water
parts with seven wild seas -
beach hut shelters new dreams
a lonely star fish grants company
octopus offers eight fold path -
tentacles points to serenity
shooting star recovers attraction
wings hardship and meaning -
levitation mediates sorrow
earth-wind meets fire
mermaid shares fins -
life life rescues calm voyage
07th February 2020
In flash of lightning on clouds' darkest tide
Christ gave light to the world -He gave His life
to forgive all our sins, He suffered…died
Exemplifying His loving deeds for
we’re His children, in Him we must unite.
His sacrifice gave Him unrivalled sore
to make His Love reign in this world, not grudge
Hatred inflicts pains of body, mind...heart--
Spoiling one's relationship, soul is smudged.
No sadness follows or unending war
if our contrite heart will swallow its pride
and His Holy Spirit mediates and guide.
Jettison our heart’s hurts through forgiveness
and sail on life’s light flow with happiness.
©2015Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Sept. 30, 2015 11.15 pm
Also inspired by a bible verse:
Ephesians 4:32
The subjective mind,
mindly eye,center point
between our physical eye's,
objective of the subjective,is to
determine the difference between
...truth and error,
trial and tribulation period
in accordance with what's aright...
as the soul mediates the body and mind,
expanding consciousness in proper order...
object reality,is only the minds eye's interpretation,
whether developed or under developed,as
the object itself doesn't change,
it is what it is,as we learn it...
When It Is Winter
Whence from shine the seasons to whom and to where
High on snow peaked mountains sits the Buddha under a fir tree
Exalted warm in the glow of change and stillness he mediates
Never ending contradictions assembles frost transcends right there
In the heat of the desert Northern lights shed their guidance
To similar truth’s complementation seek meaningful sense
In abandon vast perception’s years cycle from our point of views
Swift within and without riches and scrap heaps of dissimilar hues
When periods swell and spell interchange across planets and orbit
In constant revolution vison blind folded deceptions and ruses
No one come high tides water or drought can simply absorb it
The winter is summer as spring turns to autumn and perspective
Emerges in harmony when my lights in the South levitate from
Reclusion where wise humans freeze sweat which is highly subjective
Poem of “M”
Madmen Make Millions
Madmen make millions
Money mills manage the most
Mind a moody man on the moon
Meek morons miss many moths
Music mediates with mental myths
My mother mixes milk and melons
Maria Marcus must be Mrs Martin
Maymays may maze by a map
Mocked man must mourn more
Mute mode meant to be minimum
Minorities meet most mornings
Malls mean mega markets
Madmen make millions
The Ausländer
David J Walker
We share the world with sinners
We share the world with saints
We elect ourselves the oft mistaken
magistrates
Who mediates
The distribution of the various
prison tattoo’s
Branding with scarlet letters
The cautions of crossed pathed
Possibilities
each emblem
the feared
confession of Caine
The smokey glass window stained with
the flawed and
overexposed soul
of someone who knows
he/she
will always be
an Ausländer
Sanmati is my angle’s name. She never
Analyses her problem without sure.
Neither does she answer anyone directly;
Mediates before speaking desperately.
Amit is her uncle’s name. Smart is he
Though teaches him how to be.
I am proud father and Kavita her mother.
Savita is her grandmother who bother
Always for her betterment. We all
Negotiate for her better stroll
Knowing how the future world be.
Either ways are taught to be free
Truth and honesty being you see.
“Jai Jinendra” is the first word
All we speak before tea or curd.
I am sure her grandpa Deshbhushan
Needs her help when he in tension.
Sidewalk Strutting
She struts her stuff on salacious sidewalks
Where the midnight moon mediates her desires
With sensual strides in her high heel attire
Sleeping like a baby during the dusky day
And then she awakens with sore feet…
June.01.2018
She Walks
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
NOISES AND VOICES
( By S.Jagathsimhan Nair)
In my hotel room
I am abridged to a cube of light
I fold up into silence
The room is now full of noises
I took nine months to notice its
Paint’s tint. Its off pink brazenness
Its saffron aloofness, its overall
Oneness with my mind’s divisions.
Masons’ toil and owner’s order
And the combined craft receives
Caparisoned flesh and fleshed souls
Flesh that knows not openness
Souls that know not oneness with space
Despite its fast format of flux
It’s but its very same sameness
Wound up histories live side by but
How are the living mere actors
This strange physician with a stare
Prescribes a drug- god dichotomy
For cure. Another inmate kills his
Cancer with liquor and cigar
A plain youth plays cards with his peers
Occasionally a bedlam
Keeps mum or an argument mediates
Meditate incurably or
Float dead-flat in a rock-hard cot
Caught in its vortex I am flying
To its fringe. Is this bruise
Showing out of the earth. Is it
A piece of news blessing the battered
Here now I’m once again abridged
To a cube of nonchalant light
I wake up from my silence
The room is full of rare voices.
A single stroke
dispatches emptiness,
in one ambitious line
gives backbone to
my limp attention.
Rigid fingers tighten
on the brush.
The bristles slash again
and incorruptible reality
is neatly tailored
to my artifice.
Leaning on my arm,
I glance behind me
at the letters
inching down the page.
There's no return,
no second chance.
The brush no longer
mediates between
intention and accomplishment.
It races on ahead of me,
guided by the incidental
pattern of its progress.
Independent of endeavor,
indifferent to what I am
or what I hoped to be,
it brushes my design aside
and draws its own conclusions.
First version published in Poet, India
Pondering on Nirvana
The meditator mediates her thoughts meanders through
confusion and the onslaught overkilled by oscillating storms
Nothingness emptiness detachment as she does not wish to
be fragmented any longer but the Lotus flower seems
Appears to have departed the mantras has deserted her and her visions
are merely a picture of Guernica in which rotten demise remains
Her poetry resounds blank sentences a piece of paper fountain pain
pricked pen idle dried ink and empty hollow words craving expression
Her begging bowl scrambles for what is or is not meant to be seeks
the truth darkens memories of a blotchy future so far untold
Seeds are waiting to flourish agonise antagonise before the
waiting game is over and reality settles on her tired restless mind
The moment bargains like a Faustian pact entices temptations
doubts resolve capitulation yet fails once more the sweet surrender
When evening falls again she levitates on the putrid stench of
humanity while smells of roses have succumbed to thorns alone
Reflecting moons however guide shooting stars alleviate the scorching sun
so she resolves to try in hope once more when new tomorrow beckons
Had I known life would be this full of despair, I would not have lived.
Yet since I was not given a choice, why not find the good?
Why should I allow work to overrun me?
Why should I wallow in my self-pity?
Why should my life change without my consent?
The fickle feelings of love and lost love drive me mad.
Could I not choose to pursue someone?
Would not that upset my life's ideals?
Would not that end this strife?
Do I not stand for anything save sloth?
Inaction plagues my very thoughts as comfort controls my life.
How do I justify my injustice?
Is not every human life valuable?
Could not war be as anti-human as possible?
Is not greed the general of conquest?
America mediates middle-class, middle-age, middle-ground.
Is not the ruling class the upper-class?
Are not the middle-aged in charge of me?
Does not the middle-ground appear closer to both sides?
Should not America stand for equality and fairness?
Killing millions of people regardless of culpability is wrong.
Could not America stand for liberty instead of safety?
Could not America stand for freedom instead of entertainment?
Could not America stand for living instead of killing?
Am I not to blame?
at the entrance to the drive-in church the road divides deceptively
the sign signals divisive directions but mediates midway at midnight
Saviour salvation spirit Satan superstition sacrilege
God giving guidance gluttony greed gyrations
resurrection rejuvenation revelations agnostics atheism antitheses
righteousness roadside assistance available ‘enter at your own peril’
prayers pious power soda pop popcorn psychedelics putrid paranoia
temple tables terra-firma trivia temptation tribulations
selfless sacred sustenance slivering snake salivating
the slow-motion picture posits poignant perusal but it’s a silent movie
apart from back seats groaning settling for sex sperm and splits sheaths
scripted sanguine suggestions sighs salubrious screams
sanctimony shelter serenity suffering secrets sneakiness
spare me serpent and ravaging rod please hit me with your rhythm stick
appease the apple anchor my appetite avert my agonizing aspirations
Eve enters the epic production while Mary Magdalene marries measure
suddenly the speaker system sounds in supersonic spectacle’s squeals
sheep and shepherd apparition or angels dreams or duped delirious dance
purity pinnacles pentacles punishment penetration perspiration
chaste cinematic celebrations cradling caresses X rated cross
on the way home the bubble and the tyres burst into almighty shreds
but the spare rubber went missing and God works in mysterious ways
29th August 2020