Best Obscured Poems
When it looks like the fire inside were doused
Do you pretend not to notice?
Do you try and lit it up again?
Will you walk away without a second thought?
Knowing that when you saw her “that day”
She had a smile that said I am me
Comfortable
Receptive
In my own skin
Do you probe for the reason behind the death stare?
When all she needed was to know you care
That you noticed her smile has disappeared
That the shadow of troubles was floating in the air
She just needed you to listen
Perhaps hold her hand
Not to judge her
When she felt a little bruised
In all this she might need a hug
Will you be there?
Will you turn your back?
Will you walk away?
With the pretense that everything is still okay
©200120161331
That is truth,
in England
all people have looked as polished talents and genius,
even a driver there
or porter, or steward,
or begger, or trader,
or stealer, or priest,
or head of ministry
do not work without great quality and service.
There is, seem, only one stupid man - mister Bean,
who prevailed all brilliant persons given together.
They are all have made themselves
as they want and planned
through successful work
and competition
in various branches and activities
of high improved community,
while the others unlucky
inhabitant of authoritarian countries,
post-soviet states
and Islamic caliphates
as the Iranian regime
that must proud only with Omar Hayam
in last millennium,
have had a very small portion
of really famous and respected men
or just intrinsic professionals.
And their waste majority
looks like as screws in clock,s engine,
or as soldiers in training camp of rebuilding empire,
or as religious fanats in Friday namaz
or as new slaves
in collective farm and weapon producing factories.
They have not any chances
for arise to personality
in terms of quality and standards
so usual for British community.
Tennis in the wind
An audience like fans to the trees
Serves an unfair advantage
First look, glasses as my eyes glance
From left to right I begin to read
Much as if I were in a trance
My education faulted for this deed
Second look with randomness I search
Looking for a pattern, no not the glasses
Does this person attends a formal church
This poem is one of their trespasses
Third look now the compulsion takes me
The poem was edited to fit the picture
But I say this isn’t possible, it can’t be
If so they surely deserve a stricture
Three looks, glasses or not, all were done in vain
If you copy, paste, add punctuation then it’s plain
Poem by Wayland Bunch for Occlusion contest. This is a rhymed form of poetry under 20 lines, but technically it fits better into the category of Sonnet, so I don't know if it will be accepted. If not back to the drawing board lol.
The River is wide and unbearably cold,
beyond the tide under a winter blanket,
alone in it's own secret is stories of old,
empty with aged beauty to beset,
sits quietly unaccupied with unread mystery,
shrouded among ferns and pines sheltered alone,
protected from the cold winter frenzy.
Through ages past does her mystery roam,
surrounding her walls,deep thicken grass grew,
while the winds sweeps through howl and moan,
branches broken and hangs about strewn,
this obscure house naked and helpless amid the wood,
how vulnerable she is for the raw elements,
as the coyote and weasel come in search for food.
Nature's melody sounds it's horn,
sharing with all that evokes her presence,
and the river murmuring towards the sea,
as she gives us the sight within her essence,
comforts us with her strength and we feel safe,
while laying on the bank pondering past tense,
serenity,peace and the joy this sweet morn we face.
And again the green dense pines,
with moss clinging like slugs thickening,
leads the obscured path into chaos that binds,
and the raven devours a mice no longer living.
Above the pillars of the pines where an eagle soar,
the north wind howls as it blows,
and falling trees leans forward in a painful roar,
hidden within her lore lay secrets of long agos,
and emptiness settles quietly beneath the winter's score.
The vision strained by this distant sight,
descending from it's aerial height,
attracting to view a familiar scene,
of more importance to thy self gleam,
this distant object for thee to ensue,
but turning inward thy reflective view,
to enter within it's open door will persue.
Smiles hide a sadness,
a haunting madness that
runs in circles.
Things accumulate,
rise up around him
until he is safe,
and obscured.
Unseen, unharmed,
unheard of.
Silent cries silenced, still.
He aches for you to hear him,
reach in and pull him
from the pit.
Take his hand,
please.
Sitting in a corner, observing events as they unfold
I live like a toad in my precious humble abode
Sleeping and Waking up from the same place
In a world obscured but certainly secured
Not that I am jailed in this place of grace
But that I don't want to face a life time disgrace.
The ancient Hindu text mentions the story of the celestial dragon,
the serpent that drinks the nectar of Gods holding wagon.
Indicating that abundance has its limits, get to the grips,
beheading the manipulating leech causing the eclipse.
The temporarily obscurity being in the shadow of another body,
or having another body pass between it for the viewers lobby.
Abandonment or the darkening of heavenly lights,
transformation and change of direction by celestial traffic cites.
The dragons bite virus in control of fears and misconception,
false perceptions and slippery tongue promised protection.
Orbital motions repeating harmonic patterns,
those who trust them know all what matters.
Revelation of ancient testimonies reveals the truth,
while others trying selling you the ferry tooth.
When words and promises have no meaning,
marbled sculptured humanity is rabidly declining.
The ecliptic dragon as spiritual liberator,
when pretenses desires are the generator.
The truth even obscured is the solution,
observations by twilight eclipse conclusion.
The dream maker of life and its credits,
time snaps where change is necessity edits.
Down distance streets distant days obscured
Visions of idle things resting in the weeds skeletal
Rusted eons have fallen machines dead
In their stance flies flicker and dance strange
Streets stretching off into complex patterns a city
Grid of a dead metropolis alternate realms
Realities a different shade of blue a red deeper
Like blood or a shade of rose a blue the sky clear
Ice on stretching seams leading away into
Unknown distances along strange streets,
Different highways or detonated boulevards the
Tanks roll or the boots match watching the rockets
Fly to war in the distance down different avenues
…of the world within worlds and without!
The clock keeps on ticking as time goes by,
I sit here to think yet still wonder why?
As the day passes does it leave me behind?
While the clock is ticking is it time I find?
Darkness approaches as the night begins,
I stand in the dark just me and my sins.
I see what’s before me but there isn’t much light,
There is much more to seeing than just your sight.
Cast among the shadows I still see my way,
The ghosts whisper to me I hear what they say.
Why are they here I thought I left them behind?
Or is the darkness playing tricks with my mind?
They don’t seem unfriendly so I just ask,
Are they still here to help me with my task?
Or are they just a reminder of a life that has passed?
The answers don’t match the all the questions I asked.
The clock keeps on ticking now it is dawn.
The shadows and ghosts appear to be gone.
The sun shines down revealing what to do.
Darkness has passed night time is through.
I think to myself why do the demons come?
Why are they here and where are they from?
I resign to it does matter and bask in the light.
Maybe the demons won’t come back tonight.
The time keeps ticking I feel I’ve wasted the day.
I need to break free and send the past far away.
Suddenly like the light from the brightest star,
I see the distance before me is not all that far.
I find my way back as I see what’s in store.
As this window closes it opens a new door.
What shall happen next I’m really not sure?
I look to the clock but time seems obscure.
Thomas Obscured
forgotten
by our religion
we have avoided
this channel to truth..
it is a direct channel
not impeded by tenets
and teachings which
veil that which
is obscured..
there is a fear
perhaps
which holds the
veil in place..
a glimpse plus
some courage
and we are pushed..
recognizing Peace...
(Referring to the Gospel of Thomas..)
On the way of choosing my path,
right or wrong I lost my mind
Thoughts are there stored enough to perplex,
waves of words blew all along the way,
unclear, be more precise else I might be caught,
caught in a couch tied with a string,
after when the precision came
It came, stayed roamed, gathered all along,
tied into a single knot,
which finally I tried to untie but burnt,
burnt in the very own place of where it was born
So now precision might not be the concern
Something more, more precise than the precision
Perhaps more accepting and acknowledging
By thinking this way, once again lost,
lost into the whirlpool dying deep down of thinking
what is indeed needed to be thought by this mind,
of what really is it trying to do with me?
The silver moon capped the golden sun ~
Festive eyes gathered for fun
Rust clings like memories,
framing the world,
a mottled lace of time—
the window pane,
a portal to whispers,
yet the view is
a watercolor dream,
blurring edges,
softening the harshness,
where light dances
through corroded veins,
and beauty hides
in the flawed
and the forgotten.