Best Miasmic Poems
I dream poetry;
I breathe poetry, for poetry
calls your name, feeling your
inerrant essentia—
your soul bleeds into mine—
a collision of cosmos,
diffused magnetically, once
a vagrant in a haze of miasmic
vapors—wildered and exposed—
you unshackled me from
this purgatory;
inversely immersing me in
your sphere of solace, and
blooming artistry,
lulling the vast polarities
splintering each layer of my veracity.
I dream poetry,
for your love drizzles
burgeoning constellations, amid
rosette sepals galvanizing my
orphic nuclei, with
every spark we sigh,
tethered to the infinite composition
of our unwavering love compellingly,
beyond heaven and earth,
devoted to you—
your fallen star; no longer silent, circling
nocturne arias entwining our destiny.
A marionette to the mind,
Whispering fading schematics,
Deluging the heart and soul, in a
Juxtaposition of good and evil,
Betwixt Heaven and hell, amidst
Snowdrifts that swirl before my eyes, while
Spiritless shadows restlessly carouse;
Discordantly, far from reach,
Vagrantly ambling across
Deadened Arcadias, glimpsing
Floating embers, in wake of
Vivid firestorms, swallowing me whole,
Faltering with every step I take,
Decelerating towards the escape I seek,
As it rhythmically scars my timorous nature,
Awakening the monsters hidden deep within-seeing red-
Bleeding out miasmic toxins, as noxious
Spores erupt, immersed in a haze of austerity,
While it seeps and saturates, throughout
Malignant wounds exposed, undulating between
The storms of push and pull, as daunting
Tasks, of rippling sequences, splits my
Chasmic core.
Soulless footprints are all that remain, as
Moon tides wash ashore, ebbing away
Towards dystopian depths.
IT REEKS ANEW
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
When a Cow Defecates Onto the Grazing Field
There Is a Stench, That All Miasmic Odors Yield
But Given Some Time the Weathering Will Seal
And the Original Discomfort Becomes a non Deal
However, If the Deposit Is Stirred, the Odors Return
Leaving Old Conflicts Alone, a Lesson to Learn
We Have Disputes, Arguments Causing Unrest
But If Finally Resolved, Passing Times Test
However, If the Event Is Later Resurrected
Resentments Return, Peace Becomes Unprotected
If You Find a Bear Sound Asleep and Undisturbed
Poke Him? Dead Events Should Remain Interred
An opened fifth of hangovers
rests beside his dried driveled arm
(drug used by underachievers.)
Out cold, head resting on forearm
Unconscious in a dreamless world,
a portal often frequented:
an alcoholics netherworld
and mind most disoriented.
A parched throat forces arousal
And miasmic exhalations
rekindle once more pitiful
repeated, inebriation.
A morning swig begins his day
and ends the same as yesterday.
Calypso red dressed in dawn’s vague morning mist
Splendor painted behind the miasmic curtain
An enigmatic temptation dripping of murk and shadow
A delicately cruel mélange lost within nature’s backdrop
A barb in the thigh of our daily pious pilgrimages
Imprisoned beneath a shallow earthy grave
Forcing and screaming it entices it’s own release
In a measured fury of escape and conquest
The fragile orchid screams a silent blossom of victory
And worshipped thanks to the morning sunshine
When summer pierces earth and dying root,
And winds, the golden-honeyed flowers sweep,
And liquor rays bathe every bud and shoot,
Newly awakened from the depths of sleep,
When pollen springs forth in white, seasoned clouds,
Miasmic dreams, like visions, pure and sweet,
When gentle rainy mist the land enshrouds,
And tiptoes cross the meads on silent feet,
When sweet, ambrosial bloom shall sprout and bud,
And throw their dreamy breaths to weave a sigh
And cast their milky sap, and sport sweet blood,
And touch the Heavens that lurk in the sky,
It’s time, when fresh and pure is all of love
But still I worry, for the seasons move
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
The dimmest portion
Of a brighter light be I
Trapped in a miasmic
Cloud of misconceptions
Burgeon within her grace
For soon your eyes shall open
To the wondrous truth abounding
For you now hold the key
In mourning we stand bewildered
How can we truly comprehend
The divinity of pure freedom
Granted to such a miasmic soul
A passing of love and strife
Upon this ever turning wheel
Molting from your human shell
Transformed to seraphic star light
You laughing spirit soaring high
Risen above the anguished sorrow
Mending the aching tortured heart
Rest in that eternal grace
Sweet Mother
Soon the moment will rise
When I embrace you
And envelop within your spirit
Timidity pronounced them timorous,
Stout hearted glanced askance on their lot,
Scare of fear chagrined their visage,
Gladiators belittled their blushes,
As they sunk deeper into quagmire of luxuries,
They became laughing stock of laboring laity,
They proclaimed theirs was high echelon,
Those below clamored to take over reigns,
Deceit ,manipulation,greed and gluttony,
Turned into their notorious traits,
They fed on powers that were benign and flailing,
With fissures of disunity and discontent,
Entrenching themselves swiftly,
Each of them weighed what they had and what not,
Forgotten in this miasmic amnesia was their purpose and work,
Those below clamored to take over reigns,
The ruling had to be revolted against and were,
Those that took over became ruling and sprang to top rungs,
Till time came for populace to bleed and show their hearts wrung,
The society had reversed once more and will do so again and again.
miasmic,
alighting the foul bourgeois powers that be
bounce like carrion crows
on the prone corpse
of the bled world.
Emotion is the designer of dream
Search for the meaning of feeling is futile
As they mingle totally in my twilight time
My mind sinks in dusky obscurity
Impulses unexpressed.
After the wasted walk in the miasmic day
The meandering garden path I’ve lost
Look now for a guide to show me the way
To the unknown end after the journey
Story untold.
The cycle of good times and bad times
Shrouds the skeptic mind with confusion
That clears as the mist of foreboding lifts
I discover a new door open for me
Yet unentered.
When the day’s last sunrays flash past me
Under the chromatic sky I sing my song
You all go your way, don’t ever hear
The lyric of my soul I then write
For I’m unlistened.
I write for time's tome of eluding continuum
Although unfulfilled at the end of each chapter
When unsure if I should stop or keep on writing
The latent urge stimulates me to scribe for self
Even if unread.
____________
August 30, 2022
Contest : I Write Because
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
SPIN MASTERS SPINNING AWAY THE DAY
Every moment
I turn on the TV
What do I see
Nothing but liars laying down lies
Spin Masters spinning spam of deceit
Chanting
The truth will set you free
White is black
Black is white
Lies are true
Truth is a lie
Lies will set you free
I see nothing
But politicos
Dropping down lies
UN truths masquerading as the truth
Oh so sincerely
The lies spew forth so sweetly
From their corrupted lips
The toxic wastes
Spree out of my TV set
Infecting my soul
With paranoid distrust
And I vainly try
I do try
God do I try
To the find
The nugget of truth
Buried deep in the dark, dank, dangerous
Black, evil miasmic mists
Given off
By the talking heads on TV
So I leave my house
So full of doubt
And wander about
Looking for the truth
Some semblance of hope
And I look up
And see a solitary cherry tree
High up on a hill top street
Infusing the air
With its sweat ambrosia
And I smile
Knowing
Someday soon
The national nightmare
Will be pierced by the light
Of clarity and truth
And the evil ones
The body snatched aliens
Inhabiting our leaders
Will be banished
The brainwashed masses,
Wearing rose-colored glasses,
And nonchalantly flashing passes,
Never realizing the hourglasses
Are running out of time.
Miasmic shadows
And dystopian blows
Are working to transpose
The masses' crystal rose
Into a thick unending slime.
Enamel finger-smeared thick with butter
Yellow onions, yellow butter, floured and browned
Just add cream
From roux to dream
Now spice to glue that hold my world together
The team assembles for its tasty mission
Cheddar, gouda, mozz and more
Thick sheets of ham
Tubers sliced translucent
Layered, latticed, clothed in white bliss
Sealed deep into my black Dutch Oven
Four hundred twenty-five degrees, twice boiling
Every five minutes, I keep checking
Time warps
seconds are hours
Only half done, removing the covering
Top comes off, melting marbarella muck
Gilded golden gruyere
Splattering over spuds
Swirling cheese seas
Miasmic fragrant fromage tauntingly teased air
Beep! Beep! Beep! It's done!
Don't waste a moment
Too hot to taste
Bubbling lava lake
Slowly crusting cheesy skin emerging from the oven
Finally, the soup solidified, gooey cultured cream
Ready for the fork and spoon
Potatoes caked
Ham baked
Reality as gastro-goodness manifested dream
Onto my plate, my fork, my palette, my bliss
A dolorous mournful miasmic hue,
colors all of my closing days blue,
sweetness of days gone,
that can't be retrieved,
has me missing those souls
whose death left me aggrieved,
life should be lived with the relish of youth,
before old age comes and
confirms cold deaths harsh truth,
mark clear the note that philosophers chime,
get busy with life while you still have the time.
New York City