Best Minus Poems
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
We said our goodbyes in June,
and the months since blur into mist.
At unexpected moments, awareness
of loss hits; tears spill unbidden.
Family gathering, Christmas Eve
as usual . . . minus one.
We quietly exchanged gifts,
found flowers from her funeral
crafted into hand-made jewelry,
kaleidoscopes, treasured mementoes.
I cooked grapes today, dark muscadines.
I extracted seeds and peelings,
and measured life-sustaining juice
through the metal funnel she used
from the day of her marriage.
It came to me dented and bent,
like her body had been at 93.
I still taste those fresh-from-the-oven
chocolate rolls after school,
garden tomatoes warmed by the sun,
hot biscuits with apple jelly,
squeezed from the peelings after
she baked crisp slices in cinnamon-rich pie.
I'm glad I didn't know then,
about being allergic to Cinnamon.
Line of inquiry
‘Minus Identity Who am I’
‘What a piece of work is a man!’
……… ………
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust’
(Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act II, scene 2)
From Shakespeare, through Hamlet,
It rings down to generations
And falls heavily in my ears too.
In vain, I attempt to probe into the mystery
Nay, the enigma called man,
Both in the silence of my solitude,
And in the learned circle of friends.
(Fool…! Unable to find who you are,
Can you venture to say who the other man is?)
Man is a jumble of contradictions,
I know, a hard nut to crack!
So unfathomable, so mysterious
At once a Satan and an angel
To the outer world I am someone.
But in the well-guarded cellars of my privacy
Aren’t I different?
Hiding my innards to light, as every other man.
Am I not a masked player in life’s pantomime!
I wonder what’s true to my being
And what makes me, the real me.
I see contradictions abound in me
And my personality, like an ocean is volatile,
Sometimes tranquil, sometimes agitated
Placid without waves very often,
But at times roaring with billows crashing!
I am openminded, but hide many secrets.
I am instinctively emotional, but mature.
I am an extrovert and feel happy in company,
But I like to withdraw into loneliness often.
I am mostly thoughtful, but tend to overthink.
I act confident but am diffident at heart.
Though satisfied with what I get,
I tend to crave more for the love people give me.
I am a poet and an artist, feeding on the encouragement I get
And stimulated by internal inspiration.
I am never a nosy parker, but curious about things
That pique my interest, be it of people or of the world.
I am a good listener, but need someone to listen to me.
I am easy to get along with, but get easily flustered.
I am compassionate, adjustable, loyal and humble.
At best I am a child of God, but lets the Satan,
Take over me sometimes when my temper rises.
How often, I wish to change myself
Change some of my characteristic traits
But minus my identity, I fear who I will be?
Plagued by incandescent ferments I grapple zealously,
with tower blocks of titan topsoil myriads,
and melange of eccentric foibles,
considered by some to be a minus,
but without this composite what is my real nature?
reflection on a manifest mettlesome being,
leaden skewed traffic jam’s tailback of relative prospect,
normalcy a supernatural synonym,
apperception fringed by lambent twinkling,
that tantalising twirl of clustered countless spirits,
quirk-some inklings seem a weakness,
whilst chasing galaxy of plus point,
self-ostracised by atypical apparently conflicting plethora,
grave as in shadow id, tombstone stark exit but salutary motto,
etched eerily by one staunch depiction,
on catalytic other form of self,
unresolved human traits in multiples,
indicative of lack, lack of bearing?
me that nutrient rich plot that has,
this wondrous green blade potential compass,
me as sumptuous summer gust freshener,
of inner coastal home philosopher’s dwelling,
me an endless random version,
of charcoal midnight gleeful ghost,
blithely skimming chimney tops on deep quest,
yet nascent dawn usher lurks within,
augurs well for that sound ultimate coexistence,
despite an underbelly of niggling doubt
Hopefully I’m kind
at heart but rare traits might just
scupper thoughtful aim
Shines the season brimming with grandeur, rich
In winter... frills of ice and snow bewitch
My pine trees capped with tinsels evergreen :
Comes spring-- dizzy where buds' hues turn to sheen
While air minty weaves on glens to unfurl
My trail scenting walks on plush lanes...hours whirl.
Then summer calls, hundred moths blaze cloud's fire,
Red-hot nights flaming, sizzling moon's desire
To entice a June love I bring to shore,
Till fall chants... boughs spilling lace on damp floor
Relishing life's harvest...true hearts content
When I trace cycles blooming but not spent;
For this spirit thrives on stars, earth,
' neath clay...
I am life that begins and ends each day
Between seasons, time pauses for a while,
As hands nourish solstices that beguile.
For I, God's nature child, could grant relief
Bringing hope for man's journey...root to leaf
a season come and gone
mistaken thoughts and writing...
goodbye my haiku
9th Place Winner
P.D. Linda's "Any Poem This Week" contest
The high (?) today was minus seven Fahrenheit
That's ridiculous, it's a matter of fight or flight
To some place more civilized
Where my body's not paralyzed
From November to May it's a constant fight
Life’s equation works in a different way,
each moment is accounted for as is each day,
one be one, as we pass through time’s sieve,
what remains in the end is charity we give.
balance in the bank does not follow you,
friends and relatives will soon bid adieu,
all that wealth does not matter anymore,
your values are morals to settle the score.
life’s biology has different rules,
let us forget all that is taught in schools,
one plus one two, is not how it is done,
two people in love may say they are one!
when a child is result out of these two,
one plus one is three, that answer is true,
as more children come, there is a new tally,
as they become part of one family!
additions, subtractions, beyond our hands,
equations written no one understands!
foolishly we count sunrise and sunsets,
yet ignore the heart that beats in our chests?
in the big stream of life each drop is known,
each tree is counted, each seed that is sown,
each life created, each leaf that is dead,
each word spoken, many that are unsaid!
many have been and gone and more will come,
multiplication is part of this sum,
statistics here has no median, no mean,
sad tears that we shed do not wipe them clean.
the assembled gold medals on display,
will be sold in the market cheap one day,
that brave soldier and that pious old priest,
their value in sand, no different from beast!
equations of life are different kind,
never needed wealth that is left behind,
no matter what is in your final will,
sum total of your life is always nil!!
from nothing we come to nothing we go,
between those zeros, life is a transient show,
they who know this truth, know the travel route,
we know not Life’s true ‘power’ , nor its square root!
10 syllables each line
rhyme aa, bb, cc…
Beyond that- it does not matter,
life will write its own equation!
There are no seasons for you anymore,
since you chose to leave us for death's favor.
No day to await or night to savor.
And so now left to me,
still lips curl a child's bittersweet smile,
April's breath hangs on the orchid's gloom,
but I've no mind to bear such ironic blooms.
And so now left of me,
only shade to labor, hiensight to see.
There are no seasons for me either.
No days to await or nights to savor.
Just a haunted heart that limps to linger.
8/10/15
It was time, for my audition - a nice renditition,
I came armed, nothing too predictable, with ammunition;
this offered my chance for fame, only I was to blame
if I messed up, success meant I would never be the same again.
It was good, I knew by the smile on their faces,
now I waited, standing, while my heart really races;
I knew that one juror may give me a hard time,
playing to the gallery, a mountain I might climb.
The unnecessary hype, weirdly prolonged, was irritating,
I heard the voice: 'You know what . . . . ' , procrastinating,
why can"t he just say if he liked the bloody thing or not?
as though he was on another programme and forgot.
It was tiring, waiting for all their second-guesses,
I need not have worried because I got four yesses.
perceiving both sides
at once is as
of an equality
within...
an eclipse-moons light that appears dark and
hence light and dark seem as knotted
mind concepts
within...
perception limits just as left reflects as right
light humour may appear as darker being that an
equality of opposites is as an infinity mobius strip concept
within...
any single mind at any one moment in time to munch input/output
as with having the minds mirrored molars on both sides of an issue at once
and the perceiver pondering a neutrality as readers might perceive some bias
within...
an equality of opposites that a neutrality sums as a zero
stans sand
========== O
Monday night. Moving magazines. Aimed dead at killing an evening, my fingers target =========
These same old four buttons; >.
1, 2, 3, 4. Five’s a pipedream. Gaudy, small-minded and trapped in affected Americana.
Just like whatever the hell this is. Too much smiling.
====== > Diseases. An old man’s mouldy cock. Right there, mid-screen. Mid-bite, I choke,
as they mumble about vulvas
======== > A dog rolls in a mound of white paper. Whimpering at the softest **** tickle.
Like his little tongue? He’s running! With T.P! The Hilarity! Ho ho
======= > A mother and daughter swing together on a sunny day. One is singing like a
xylophone. They bond across a yoghurt.
Processed fried chicken cracked open with a wry smile and a twinkle in those white, white
eyes
======= A familiar street, full of families too awful to hate. Bald men stomp, cheeky
guy’s grin, heart throb’s pulsate. Young filly’s flounce, old hag’s huddle and all moan
mournfully. Other’s pass in between, and outside of, the broad spectrum of emotional
alliteration and post-modern punctuation without so much as a smile ==== >
Kevin Bacon and Kyr =========== > Michael Dougl
========= > Widescreen TV’s at my fifteen inch window
========= > A man with a silly haircut, waving a knife at a pepper with intent
========= Women in windows waving enhanced monstrosities at the wanking and eager.
Tittilitation for the text buck, a half-filled screen of despair. Tribute to the madness
that grips young men through the night
========= > Still, writing this keeps me sane. More sadness
======= > More sales
============ > ============= >
============
That’s a thought.
These images do not create ======== O
I
For once he banished all birds
from the air
not just Mynas tick-picking
on twitching backs
but all birds, unnamed
and high bred
with each wave of his contrived hand
extending the pelting rice on the shorn land.
Some came to sort the heedless grain
in their hunger of disdain
Some fluttered from hump to hump
from his total need
to his clambering might.
Each time they came and went
he let them alone
choked in their distensions.
He could not see their pain.
Perhaps their general nature - too
grave to offend
saw in his absence
in his indifference to want
the chance of their malice
their frolicksome end.
II
Too late in the arboured rites
he careered with his adolescent fancies :
the ghee-man
with his pails of souring milk
Working within his churning bones
old rishis’ immolating ambitions :
the curious incantatory neologisms
the crowd-infused lusty prayer
the unsliced un-schismatic advaita piety
What should he take : the game or the adulation
both silently exploding buds
in the crammed clutch of mania.
Somewhere in the lambent miasma
Old age and the deep cloistered pining of chaste women
roused out of season
make mud the surmounting of goals.
Must he not retreat then and melt
Fuse into a negating asana
Conniving at the self-raped
furtive orgasms.
That
he could extinguish his cravings
with too much incontinence
he saw
That
he assailed entrances along marbled corridors
with hardly a mindful push
he knew.
(c) T. Wignesan - 1965 in tell them i'm gone. Paris: 1983.
The existential bird in the supreme sky
flies abandoned with the rhythm of swan song.
The tapestry of time wraps with eternity hue
the innate immortality essence,
etched for the uniqueness of being.
The winsome whisper of the extant wind
rustles the lively lotus petals of perpetuity.
In solemn space of sanguine solitude of mind
deranged clamor subsides
in the eroded silent sanctum of entity.
Beneath the worn out layers of individuality,
thousand suns shine perennially in blissful bay.
In the seraphic sky of divine perception,
ageless consciousness dances
with the rays of nirvana.
I am then the immutable hymn of sanctified soul,
echoing through the melodic strata of consciousness.
The devout mantra intoned in the temple of heart,
resonates with the symphony
of the sacred spirit indomitable.
I am the essence of connected oneness,
transcend the self-seeking perimeter of identity.
The cosmic creator of resounding silence of eternity
makes my awakened soul proclaim the divine decree,
I am His absolute definition.
A neighbor is running the vacuum.
Whether or not she is cleaning--
Well, that's another thing.
It's 7:00 a.m.
And the dirt won't wait.
By 8:00 a.m.
It'll be too late.
I grab my pen
And my white-noise machine;
For these are my sanity
While the inmates run free.