Best Mortalities Poems
As moonbeams settle softly on her face,
lay bare the gaunt and haggard visage there,
a woman whose whole life was spent in care
for those who ran and won another race.
Those stippled hands, the measure of her grace,
her shriveled arms, now wasting in despair,
her saddened eyes so sorrowful and spare,
a broken soul who cannot keep apace.
Wilting now, her slender body gone,
wishing there were something left to say,
countenance once sparkling, now wan,
as she prepares to make that final trip
to glory, to the everlasting day
when pain no longer whispers from her lips.
Those who stand in grief can only wait
and ponder just what might have been,
but death is drawing nigh, it's much too late,
her appearance now so sallow and so lean.
Thoughts turn to their own brief mortalities,
as they reflect on how they will atone,
and justify their improprieties.
We cannot cheat the Reaper, foil his plan,
and live a life of immortality,
His grip is irresistible, and none
can bypass destiny, its fickle charms,
so may she sleep in peace, in purity,
and rest forever in His loving arms.
Kiss me when the sun sleeps
when the blazing sun doth rise,
hold my trepid skin timorous
with a requited reassurance
we’ve not been broken
of soulmate incarnate
ecstasy within our grasp
of this comes beautiful
hold me tight, my love
Nirvana’s desaturated shade, awaits
soft pink and warming gray, above
behind a burning turmeric glow
under an apocalyptic sky
brawn banished, lips silenced
after every word is spoken
sanctioned skeletal forms
melded are two mortalities
fusing into one metaphor
birth of man, woman, death infinite’s
earth, wind, fire, water embossed
no diener for dystopia
only death lives in destruction
crimson deserts recreated
ashen corpse servant
no hand his bones shall fall
sealed is our eternal love
our homeland a morgue
ossified cartilage caresses
immortalization in
pulverized sand dunes
touched by the flurries
of vaporized gold dust clusters
opportune eyes fell upon
excavating earth organs ripped open
evil befell the resilient relentless
by all that glittered gold
golden buried stones
by the arid drones
our existence erased
no genogram depiction,
not relevant to treatment
ashen of undying souls
are there more lives,
…what do you think?
Difficult to sing, but let us chorus today
Let us all sing African patriotism song
Africa the golden land of our fathers
Would be exceptionally advanced in all fields
But stewards full of ego, serve self interests
Stewards, think about Africa first
Minerals, fertile lands, good climate
Would make Africa earth’s goods, bread plate
But stewards serve, family, relatives, parties
Stewards, think about Africa first
True peace, justice, good governance
Would make Africa honored land of freedom
But stewards want fame, serve world powers
Stewards, think about Africa first
Poverty, disease, hate, backwardness
Would be scattered into the sea of imagination
But stewards horde wealth in foreign nations
Stewards, think about Africa first
Unemployment, landlessness, corruption
Would be strangers in African continent by now
But stewards value foreigners more not citizens
Stewards , think about Africa first
Infant, maternal mortalities, genocides
Would be unknown in modern world of reason
But stewards value conflict, witch hunting others
Stewards, think about Africa first
Admiral John Smith sat stark and semidark at the crossroads among the war torn.
With no urgency for liturgy, he wrapped his men tightly with tattered blankets around
likewise mortalities.
Nearby, in an irreverent attempt for a God-like Eucharist, homegrown quilted women lit
store-bought cigarettes and watched the smoke curling out over a foggy crisp soggy bog
near will o' the wisp.
Admiral Smith sat quietly. At his feet, fleas flit like stones skipping 'cross the barely dim
glow. Down below bitter cold creatures' skeletal souls scattered broken-field into a hissing
abyss. Alone he remembered how his battalions never broke formation charging into those
shattering shells of Hell.
Battles were fought steely with stern determination. He saw this great nation lay askew
where Clearwater used to be free. As the bald egalitarian deadheads stared dead ahead into
shadows of semidark, the Whitewater fights ran yellow into red and white stripes through the
deep blue that runs through many sleepless knights. We prayed Admiral Smith would get
sleep as he kept watch over the faithful.
Thrown are we, irresolute innocence through regurgitated realities…
Distortions of parallel paradigms-
excrements of encrypted rhymes,
Sacrificial sapient slaves marooned by masochistic mortalities’
+++
Prolific pondering of minds within spatial exponential existence...
Social intorsions of inauspicious illusions-
captive calamitous confusions,
Warring machines mandating annihilation with rigorous resistance
+++
Tempestuous tyrants dictating, Overlords ruling of magnetic masses...
Dormant dimensions descending-
seraphical souls forever defending,
Dreams diminishing spiraling, convoluting nebulous germinal gases
+++
Hordes of Habitual hunger, incarnating wells by blackened abysses...
Demons demanding distraction-
embryonic echoes of attraction,
Succumbing’s sensorial seductions of love by misguided misses.
Feb.08.2019
I died a little inside
Sponsored by: Silent One
...the muse is in recluse...only somewhat posting now...partial involvement...will be back to full duties soon...thanks to everyone who have commented...love & peace to all...
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
A MINSTREL, OR A BARD, OUT OF TIME, IN A WORLD I DIDN'T MAKE(THANK GOD, I
WOULDN'T WANT THE BLAME)
THE POINT OF IT ALL
IN READING OF HISTORIES OFT VIOLENT COURSE
I FIND TRUTH IN PLATO, THEN FEEL REMORSE
AFTER ALL, HE TRIED, THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO
ABOUT WHAT IS OR ISN'T GOOD OR TRUE
TIME IS ENDLESS OR NOT, AS IT WERE
I CAN DO NAUGHT TO AFFECT MORTALITIES CURE
AND EVEN THOUGH I LEARN AS I GO
IN THE END, TO WHOM DOES IT MATTER THAT I KNOW?
I THINK THAT I WOULD LIKE TO BE ABLE TO TEACH
TO SOMEONE THAT I COULD REALLY REACH
WHO, THEN, IS THAT, OR JUST WHO AM I
STILL, I WOULD LIKE TO GIVE IT A TRY
REALLY, TO BE TAUGHT WE MUST BE WILLING
EAGER AND EMPTY, AWAITING A FILLING
IF, PERCHANCE,YOU WOULD LIKE TO TEACH AND LEARN
DRAW NEAR AND LISTEN, AND SPEAK IN YOUR TURN
I'M A PHILOSOPHER AT TIMES, THOUGH SELDOM IN TIME
TO FEND OFF DESPONDANCY WITH A WELL CHOSEN RHYME
I, TOO, MUST LEARN, FOR WHAT GOOD IS MERE KNOWLEDGE
TEETERING, MEANWHILE, ON POVERTIES EDGE
SOMETIMES I AM HOPELESS, YET NOT HELPLESS I KNOW
I CAN HELP, OR BE HELPED, WITHERSOEVER I GO
ALAS, ALL THE PERSEPTIONS I COULD EVER AQUIRE
DON'T MAKE ME ANY MONEY, THE WORLD DOESN'T HIRE
OF WHAT WORTH TODAY ARE THE POETS OF NATIONS
MIRED IN THE CLAY OF UNINSPIRED RELATIONS
SO MANY OF US ARE LOST AMID SOCIETY, AN ODDITY
RIDICULED FOR OUR EFFORTS, UNLESS THEY MAKE MONEY
IN OLDEN DAYS THERE WERE RESPECTED SCHOOLS
FOR US POOR SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF FOOLS
WE WERE THEN A RARE AND PRECIOUS BREED
HAPPILY FULFILLING SOCIETIES HUNGER AND NEED
NOW WHAT ARE WE, WHO HOLD PHILOSOPHY IN OUR SOULS?
WHO LIVE WITH MUSES, BERIFT OF USES OR GOALS
MY NAME MIGHT AS WELL BE DESPAIR
WHEN WILL THE WORLD SLOW DOWN, AND AGAIN CARE?
CARE ABOUT ITSELF, NOT PLEASURE OR PURSE
IF WE DON'T LEARN, I FEAR, IT'S ONLY GOING TO GET WORSE
AND THAT THE POINT OF IT ALL, AFTER IT ALL, WILL BE
MERELY THE PERIOD, AFTER THE " D "
THE END.
Nothingness fills every inch of me
abominable sensations crawl from deepest recesses
anxiety lunges at me – clawing at the soul
already battle-weary, depleted…
Mortalities plague my waking moments
ungodly images rouse the mind to endless tortures
trepidation ignites every nerve – electrocuting me from within
conflagration, inferno…
Fractured surfaces blind me with incandescent lies
obscuring the truth behind enigmatic imaginations
dread and death roll the dice – a game of backgammon
double six, double one…
Frantic hands smudge the tears that cascade down paralysed marble
leaving stained trails in their wake excavated through frustration and pain…
A splintered glimmer breaks the void -
there is hope…
Copyright Deon J.H. Burger 2017
Whispers cloud the judgment of weakened minds
wreaking havoc with the fragile balance of id and ego
humbling the sprout in its new greenery.
The winds are made of whispers, fear is their home
and each human husk shivers at the sound of them.
The unknown comes in the whispers of dawn,
the burgeoning of night, the bloody bath of birth
and the shriveled skin of the corpses we become.
Whispers cloud the rage of temporal reality
beckoning with their softness, tonguing the ear,
licking the neck too soon stretched on mortalities noose.
Reference Carrie Richards – A Dream in the Mist – line 9 whispered steps
As moonbeams settle softly on her face,
lay bare the gaunt and haggard visage there,
a woman whose whole life was spent in care
for those who ran and won another race.
Those stippled hands, the measure of her grace,
her shriveled arms, now wasting in despair,
her saddened eyes so sorrowful and spare,
a broken soul who cannot keep apace.
Wilting now, her slender body gone,
wishing there were something left to say,
countenance once sparkling, now wan,
as she prepares to make that final trip
to glory, to the everlasting day
when words no longer whisper from her lips.
Those who stand in grief can only wait
and ponder just what might have been,
but death is drawing nigh, it's much too late,
her appearance now so sallow and so lean.
Thoughts turn to their own brief mortalities,
as they reflect on how they will atone,
and justify their improprieties.
We cannot cheat the Reaper,
and live a life of immortality,
His grip is irresistible, and none
can bypass destiny, its fickle charms,
so may she sleep in peace, in purity,
and rest forever in His loving arms.
...inspired by 'Inside And Outside' by Allen Tate
As moonbeams settle softly on her face,
lay bare the gaunt and haggard visage there,
a woman whose whole life was spent in care
for those who ran and won another race.
Those stippled hands, the measure of her grace,
her shriveled arms, now wasting in despair,
her saddened eyes so sorrowful and spare,
a broken soul who could not keep apace.
Wilting now, her lissom body gone,
wishing there were something left to say,
countenance once sparkling, now wan,
as she prepares to make that final trip
to glory, to the everlasting day
when pain no longer whispers from her lips.
Those who stand in grief can only wait
and ponder just what might have been,
but death is drawing nigh, it's much too late,
her appearance now so sallow and so lean.
Thoughts turn to their own brief mortalities,
as they reflect on how they will atone,
and justify their improprieties.
We cannot cheat the Reaper, foil his plan,
and live a life of immortality,
His grip is irresistible, and none
can bypass destiny, its fickle charms,
so may she sleep in peace, in purity,
and rest forever in His loving arms.
A MINSTREL, OR A BARD, OUT OF TIME, IN A WORLD I DIDN'T MAKE(THANK GOD, I
WOULDN'T WANT THE BLAME)
THE POINT OF IT ALL
IN READING OF HISTORIES OFT VIOLENT COURSE
I FIND TRUTH IN PLATO, THEN FEEL REMORSE
AFTER ALL, HE TRIED, THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO
ABOUT WHAT IS OR ISN'T GOOD OR TRUE
TIME IS ENDLESS OR NOT, AS IT WERE
I CAN DO NAUGHT TO AFFECT MORTALITIES CURE
AND EVEN THOUGH I LEARN AS I GO
IN THE END, TO WHOM DOES IT MATTER THAT I KNOW?
I THINK THAT I WOULD LIKE TO BE ABLE TO TEACH
TO SOMEONE THAT I COULD REALLY REACH
WHO, THEN, IS THAT, OR JUST WHO AM I
STILL, I WOULD LIKE TO GIVE IT A TRY
REALLY, TO BE TAUGHT WE MUST BE WILLING
EAGER AND EMPTY, AWAITING A FILLING
IF, PERCHANCE,YOU WOULD LIKE TO TEACH AND LEARN
DRAW NEAR AND LISTEN, AND SPEAK IN YOUR TURN
I'M A PHILOSOPHER AT TIMES, THOUGH SELDOM IN TIME
TO FEND OFF DESPONDANCY WITH A WELL CHOSEN RHYME
I, TOO, MUST LEARN, FOR WHAT GOOD IS MERE KNOWLEDGE
TEETERING, MEANWHILE, ON POVERTIES EDGE
SOMETIMES I AM HOPELESS, YET NOT HELPLESS I KNOW
I CAN HELP, OR BE HELPED, WITHERSOEVER I GO
ALAS, ALL THE PERSEPTIONS I COULD EVER AQUIRE
DON'T MAKE ME ANY MONEY, THE WORLD DOESN'T HIRE
OF WHAT WORTH TODAY ARE THE POETS OF NATIONS
MIRED IN THE CLAY OF UNINSPIRED RELATIONS
SO MANY OF US ARE LOST AMID SOCIETY, AN ODDITY
RIDICULED FOR OUR EFFORTS, UNLESS THEY MAKE MONEY
IN OLDEN DAYS THERE WERE RESPECTED SCHOOLS
FOR US POOR SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF FOOLS
WE WERE THEN A RARE AND PRECIOUS BREED
HAPPILY FULFILLING SOCIETIES HUNGER AND NEED
NOW WHAT ARE WE, WHO HOLD PHILOSOPHY IN OUR SOULS?
WHO LIVE WITH MUSES, BERIFT OF USES OR GOALS
MY NAME MIGHT AS WELL BE DESPAIR
WHEN WILL THE WORLD SLOW DOWN, AND AGAIN CARE?
CARE ABOUT ITSELF, NOT PLEASURE OR PURSE
IF WE DON'T LEARN, I FEAR, IT'S ONLY GOING TO GET WORSE
AND THAT THE POINT OF IT ALL, AFTER IT ALL, WILL BE
MERELY THE PERIOD, AFTER THE " D "
THE END.
Surrealisticity
WHEN IS TIME?
Ethereal benevolence surrounds the omens of my dreams
In lieu of hoped-for transcendence trickling through my seems
Your obtuse ambiguity invoked an angelic enlightening
My infallible faith was revealed through karma kin testament
Cosmic assimilation aligned and proficiently primed
Commemorate the acute frame of our selfless minds’ time
Time binds blind finds of time-vined minds highly inclined
Life's design resigns time's illusive rhyme to hide nine
Inside three's tree's evolved vigor of modalities
Scenes of six indicted through frail stale mortalities
-Times the crime between linked lines of yours and mine-
Infusing our soul's essence of true time unrefined
Will open our doors to the infinite nature of the divine nine
TIME IS NOW.
3=Life percieved
6=Life's connectivity
9=Life's existential reality
Inevitability
David J Walker
This is how I turned 20
With plenty of time left to
Opine its wastings awaiting
The sun to set
The weekend to come
Christmas
Birthdays
Summer vacations that
Race past the calendars edge
This is how I turned 30
Looking over a shoulder
To see who is catching up
Who is making up
For past mistakes and
Begging for retakes for the many
Wasted opportunities
This is how I turned 40
Feeling the changes
To my body and
The beliefs scattered over
The spectrum of
What is or
Is not to come
This is how I turned 50
Bracing for mortalities
Callings
Hoping that believing
May facilitate the stalling
Of recompense
On the final tabulation
To come and, oh
Tipping is encouraged
This is how I turned 60
In quiet contemplations
reflections
Concerning the reality of or
The days of coruscate refraction
that belong only to me
Is this how I will turn 70
in the insouciance
of what will be
is the outcome inevitably
predictable
— This poem describes our journey from the reality of life to the truth of death.
— The introductory “then” connoting ‘in medias res’ is reminiscent of the opening of Dante’s journey to the inferno in the middle of his lifetime.
— "Maximum point," "graph", and "function" are used in their algebraic senses.
— "Plumes" stand, metaphorically, for our worldly concerns; when they fall, we descend like a piece of stone!
— "Plane" is used in its geometric sense.
— "Seemorgh" is the source of knowledge and insight in Persian mysticism.
— "Truth", versus material reality, is idealistic and beyond the perception of the senses.
The following may also help in understanding this poem:
— In Persian mysticism, particularly in The Conference of the Birds (Mantiq-ot-Tayr) by Attár (the greatest Iranian mystic, 1145?-1221?, and Rumi's master), translated into English by Edward FitzGerald as Birds Parliament in 1889, birds gather and decide to start questing for their Lord. With innumerable hardships, only 30 survive and succeed to reach the peak of Qáf (/qahf/), the mystical abode of their Lord. 'See', in Persian, is 30 and 'morgh' equals bird. Their Lord, Seemorgh (30 birds), is their own reflection!
— In algebra, you can draw the graph or curve of, for instance, the mortalities for a time span. Graphs are drawn in terms of equations formed by a function and a/some variable(s). Some graphs rise to a maximum point and then descend, some descend toward a minimum point to start ascending afterwards, some only descend or rise. I've drawn the curve of men's life as rising to its maximum point in their youth, the peak of the Qáf, and then descending. I've also had in mind Sophocles's riddle of the Sphinx in Oedipus the King where man has been described as a beast with 4 legs at first in infancy, unable to rise from the ground, then standing upright on 2 legs, in the middle of life, and finally, when inclined towards the earth again, standing with the help of a stick (upon 3 legs).
No comments, please
As moonbeams settle softly on her face,
lay bare the gaunt and haggard visage there,
a woman whose whole life was spent in care
for those who ran and won another race.
Those stippled hands, the measure of her grace,
her shriveled arms, now wasting in despair,
her saddened eyes so sorrowful and spare,
a broken soul who cannot keep apace.
Wilting now, her slender body gone,
wishing there were something left to say,
countenance once sparkling, now wan,
as she prepares to make that final trip
to glory, to the everlasting day
when words no longer whisper from her lips.
Those who stand in grief can only wait
and ponder just what might have been,
but death is drawing nigh, it's much too late,
her appearance now so sallow and so lean.
Thoughts turn to their own brief mortalities,
as they reflect on how they will atone,
and justify their improprieties.
We cannot cheat the Reaper,
and live a life of immortality,
His grip is irresistible, and none
can bypass destiny, its fickle charms,
so may she sleep in peace, in purity,
and rest forever in His loving arms.