Best Parchments Poems
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Four centuries stacked like stones,
each year a weight
on the chest of heaven.
Prophets became ash in the wind,
their embers cold,
their parchments brittle.
Then~
not in the temple
where men strained to hear,
not in the desert
where fire once spoke,
but in a backwater hovel,
where livestock chewed their cud.
A gasp.
A shudder.
A mother’s blood on the earth.
And then~
sound.
Not the trumpet blast of Sinai,
not the whirlwind that answered Job,
but the thin, wet wail of newborn lungs,
puncturing the quiet like a knife
through paper.
Omniscience, wrapped in rags,
drew its first shuddering breath.
The angels,
who had bitten their tongues
for four hundred years,
could not contain themselves~
They split the sky with song,
startling shepherds
outside Bethlehem’s gates.
The first cry was a declaration:
Here.
The last would be an absolution:
Done.
Between them~
thirty-three years of footsteps,
of splinters, of bread broken,
of a voice that refused
to go quiet again.
When they tried to silence Him
with nails, with thorns,
the earth itself cracked open
and roared No~
because eternity,
once loosed,
does not return to the tomb.
The thinness of skin
parchments across
blue veins and brittle stick bones
dreaming of budding branches—it lays loose
you've matched my desire
with phrases of burning leaves
flames—flaring gold, yellow and red
rheum fills my once clear eyes
but echoed memory guides me
through forests of fall
descending with feathered down
from empty nests
dulled and lifeless fodder for fire
ungathered leafless—
forlorn as stalks of dry corn
still, I eye beauty—
voice symphonies of words
and build bonfires from
each passing
night
Unable to somehow escape this castle of want
As an apparition endlessly roaming its corridores
From room to room and door to door; up and down its spiral staircase
Looking at the paintings upon the walls, of another era, gone by....
Desperately seeking something inside, of these bolted moments
Trapped within its confines of self imposed?
Fairytales of created desires; born upon the pages
Of the now, once upon a time....
Sitting in front of the Venetian vanities looking glass mirror
Lights aglow and brush in hand
As voices resound all about, within hushed tones
Whispering a myriad of marmoreal; which haunts her past
Eyes penetrating beyond these reflections; caught behind their closing gates
As a hand reaches out amid the darkness
Her once again trance, broken, by its gentle touch....
Rising from her Victorian armchair, to embrace, his offering of love
The prince of longings arrival ~
Adorned in the jewels of promises long ago written
Across the predestined of the parchments, blood red heart
Two souls colliding....
Crossing these barriers; to the always, of meant to be
Holding the magical key, to these chains that had bound her
Within the chambers of the castles walls; which only he, could ever unlock!
Beyond the balcony of never never lands, forbidden forest
Apparitions of dreams once dreamn't; sealed, forever, between the paragraphs....
As upon a white steed they ride, unto the sunrise, of happilies ever after ~
Into the awakened hand of fates, land of the enchanteds, "Love," forevermore!
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The crumbling of ebonies tower....
it’s raining leaves
hallelujah
it’s raining leaves
and those shapes
are leaping over me
they’re coming down
the jewels of a crown
hallelujah
it’s raining leaves
and I’m crushing them
descending, ascending
and I’m grooving,
hushed at the sound of
hallelujah
hurray, my legs hurt
in just the right way
what a great payday
the parchments of ink
that infuse from the gates
of heaven, I sink
into the scurry of tulip,
maple and birch
and I raise my hands
and my eyes do glow
hallelujah
it’s raining leaves
In a world where we are constantly told how we should do this and that,
we must learn to thank them for their opinions…but, to listen to our own
hearts and THINK for ourselves.
There is a difference between guidance & being told what to do; where
opinions are sometimes, sadly, just glorified pre-judgments in hiding. In this
world today, more than ever, we must stand our ground and water our seeds
with our own heartbeats.
Because in the time one could spend listening to loud/louder/loudest opinions
of why one should or shouldn’t do it someone else's way, one could have
already done it their own way. Always move in the direction of time:
Forward
...
Another herd of evaporated soliloquies
Flashing warning signs of good-will
Unto the lost
The deaf
The mute
The righteously blind
They simply ask for a sip of strenuous cognac
To lighten regurgitated burdens
Yet, throats become condensed with
Good intentions
Under a cratered moon, afflicted with two-faced vertigo
How can one stand in the face of adversity
When our legs are kicked from the same foundations
That opinion’s high court built
How can I be told to write with syllabic serenity
When a rambunctious rhyme
Would be the socialized death of me
“Guided” by educated parchments, recycled without signatures
…
If poetry is freedom,
Why do critics scream in beer-battered rings of opulent contradictions?
If poetry is freedom,
How is one frowned upon for speaking the word of Life, the word of God
The same God who told us to speak upon epiphanies’ climactic pain
Towards the same “heaven”,
They swear,
They’ll arrive at.
©Drake J. Eszes
Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow I lost my w a y -
Forgetting all the heartache and sorrow I found a way to s a y ...
MY passion is within my journal-
I starve for each new verse-
My parchments dependency eternal-
My pen has become my thirst-
Belonging to something brings healing inside troubled m o m e n t s -
Longing for redemption eases my feeling of my forgotten a t o n e m e n t.
My MUSE flows freely-
As I softy write a stanza-
I can write a sweet story-
Of a passionate extravaganza-
I desire keen senses ON midnight's twilight i m a g i n a t i o n -
My fire keeps burning with each delight of a poet’s a n t i c i p a t i o n.
THE meter can be quite difficult-
Blank verse fills my void-
Impassiveness can be principled-
My compositions never destroyed-
I sing a symphony of lyrics that reveal my intimate e x p r e s s i o n s -
I bring epiphany into my rhymes that appeal to my d i g r e s s i o n s.
Alliteration in versification-
My quill has been seduced-
Intense devouring revelations-
My poetry…a muse on the LOOSE.
Couplets with internal rhyme
followed by A-B-A-B rhyme
Originally for Muse on the Loose Contest
Judged September 12, 2016
Written: September 6, 2016
Half eaten hearts
pump on three surviving parts,
Loyalty, Lust, and Longing,
thump thump thump,
I was your secret crush
you were my finest rush,
put Poetry in my veins like victory ongoing,
placed your loneliness in a casket of flames,
our language so lustful, demolishing civilized chains,
touching so trustful that asking permission would be aweful,
team work more natural than rhythm to rhyme, a new breed of Angel,
clutching uncharted romance rough & rude we jump,
Strange how we sew, rip and stich the fabric of our worlds,
I can see your constellation in my dreams Luv,
a glimmer for every kiss you clamped on my confident lips,
I told you that my love can be the richest food on earth,
I understand now, that your love is stronger than diamonds,
I already miss you more than my heart can count,
my tears do not fall, suspended in the lock of a love saga,
Lets split the loot babe,
parchments & prizes of Love's plunder we'll divide fairly,
raise up anchors from Passion's Port,
slap and smother each other one more time,
blow on pearls together,
throwing them in this tempestuous sea for Luck,
breathing honest devotion in your ear,
whenever you need me I'll be there,
flag flying fast to you, cannons cursing for your care,
your final stare, the softest I've ever seen -
J.A.B.
Shall raw and bleeding wounds gape wide for thee
and overcoat each new parchments’ page?
Are thee foul succubus seeking a sage
undead and living vicariously?
Shall another’s soul flow unbound to thee
like a courtesan released from her cage
each tomes rich with crimson text overlaid.
So alone, thee can dine veraciously?
Shall life come a courting as thy subject?
Nay, lance the ripe boil of lassitude.
Purge thy barren cloister genuflect.
Author thine own life thee are not destitute.
Expand into the world, let life project.
Arise, pale spirit and the sun exude.
When tears dry up and laughter is not funny any longer
As duvet feathers grind the weary soul to sunken skin
The parchments dehydrated canvas folds the poet’s path
A cliche strewn among the notion ‘it will make you stronger’
Depicts an empty victory pretends to gather strength and win
The prelude of the past in future remains a lonely aftermath
Gone are the days of jolly frolic of showers gelled and Turkish bath
Of journeys tickling monumental Derwish’s allegoric spin
Despairing anger cannot shed an inner war’s destructive monger
With memories and wreaths of praise and laurel turned into wrath
Then conjoined before and after numbness seems your next of kin
A magic oriental carpet’s washed out fabric evaporates inside her
An ancient pleasure cruise shrouded in silence’s muted fanfare
Sails of plain cloth mystery weather worn in droplet’s silent fall
Its time and place and time-place for scented oriental candles
To rekindle a mosaic of epic proportions a glancing care from scare
From feeling so minutely small and festered no recipe for standing tall
Yet seeds of cinnamon and hope might just reset this hold of strangle
Meditation reclusive pastures enlightenment from darkness’ bangle
Retrieved from imposed prison shackles to praise to heal and call
‘I want to be the muezzin once more sing forcefully in ink and dare’
Climb my minaret resolve cacophony write messages to Self and strangle
All those demons massage my dreams and foresight grab the haul
Then conquer quietly as time proceeds ‘I know I can in solemn prayer’
I say, this is for a delightful poetic playground of golden words I did receive
Transcendence is the pursuant goal for you and I to ascend to and to achieve
The colorful use of lofty words that were chosen by high decrees
Then the words to be transcribe on translucent paper for all to see
For, to speak to; to tell to and to write to poetic these:
Rhymes, similes, alliterations, metaphors, and vibrant imagery
The enabling for the unfolding of hidden scrolls, deep within one’s soul
The artistry uses of the canvas of life, nature and environments told
Writings of phrases philosophical, sublime, unique and esoteric
Yet, strokes are of love, joy, passion, compassion and lamentation
Poetic Artistry as if it was a sculpture chiseled
Then tanned and engraved on fine paper parchments
An unspoken romanticism possible between it and thee
Everlasting masterpieces that makes you gleam and beam
No Recommendation
Unreadable ideograms
Beaten thin leaf to tenuous holds
Of failing parchments
Brittle in their folds of tears
Remember, they struggle for survival
In clasps ever present
Reverberate continual back down
The long lost corridors
Searching for the regurgitation of their meaning
Black and white memories
Of some sickness
Which threw off kilter
Every next days other day of life
The heat of its brand, a whimper
Kicked on late stirrings against a pillow sleeping
Fizzog fierce of demons forming
From an ugly defining rampage torturous
No recommendation
Other than a scar to pit against its will
Other than the pain burns continual
Of insubstantial rape
Its shame to twist and wring the neck
Till breathing burdened
Utters not
Its last and inconsequential gasp
Released
The lump constricted full of throat
Strives to cough up on agonies point
The vendetta it holds against the past
And its freedom overburdened by desire
Children, screaming into silence
With a wish of blooded nails
To scrub away the indelible marks
And eaten hours
Rips against the mirror inside a heart
Cold implacable bleeds
The warm vein of isolation
Designs its unreadable ideograms
There are no recommendations
A satchel of poetry rests over my shoulder
A silver pen, parchments and paper, and a journal
Laying them, next to the wine, on the blanket, next to you
And you are Mars to me, and I Venus
Shadowy Scavengers
The darkest hour of the hallowed night
Wake up the blood dried shadows with
Unfulfilled desires rotting in purgatory
Wriggle out of their graves to earth flying
To their unwanted descendants' homes
To fill them with fearful reminders that
Their ancestors are connected through blood ties
Beware of the denizens of the night!
Crosses and candles at the door
Scare these lifeless invisible parchments away
Thresholds laden with goodies satiate these
One night scavengers howling with the wind
Gifting and treating the tiny devilish vampires
Purge them of their undoings and guilt ridden lives
All the empty hungry souls are tricked
To the golden ladder of salvation to heaven
EIGHTH
Balveen Cheema
October 18, 2015
Contest: Halloween- Prompt-2
Sponsor: Bev Smith
What's in a Name?
by Preston Hill
The Sun gives birth to dawn. We meet for the first time. We introduce. What’s your name?
We chat respectfully- all the while the sun continues to rise.
To think that once long ago in the cradle of humankind an idea sparked knowledge.
Testing, poking, prodding the mind, pushing thought into expression.
What was then an idea to be spoken was finally written down.
Pictograms on cave walls, diagrams of the hunt, the battle.
Pictograms on clay pots depicting commerce from a life long ago.
Pictograms on parchments that develop shapes, gestating onward to the formation of letters, words, ideas.
Of contracts, agreements, mortgages, governments, constitutions, proclamations.
Pictograms on chalkboards, blackboards, whiteboards on which an idea will be conveyed.
And children learn, apprentices advance, executives and politicians chart budgets and trends.
Pictograms on buildings, bridge abutments, railway cars declaring “This place is ours”.
And as ideas spread so did humankind. Wars and peacetime. Love and hate. Dignity and honor.
All emotion within passed from one generation to the next as the sun climbs higher in the sky.
And on one small piece of ground a family, a clan, a tribe, a village began to grow giving titles to their neighbors in relation to their geography.
Mr. Rock, Mr. Hill, Mr. Rivers greeted with a jaunty wave of the hand.
Then John had a son. Then Samuel had a son. Then Lars had a son.
Yearning for identity, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Smith and Mr. Baker began to teach their trades and build a future, contributing to the economy and serving others.
Soon, the village grew into a town, the town into a city. Nations and states formed and families, clans, tribes and cultures pooled together with separate and distinct idiosyncrasies.
In every language and aspect ideas spread, carrying seeds from the beginning.
Leaving their expectations, hopes, fears and dreams imprinted on the pages of history.
And as the sun reaches its apex, I look at my watch. You ask me, “What’s in a name?”.
I reply, “The world”, then smile politely and change the subject.
voices skating secrets across the rim of a wine glass,
breath advocating a glance. Plucking nerves like a guitar string
wind revealing the liars tongue,
never failing to encapsulate
the quiet tuck, serenades of existence
pouring solitude down a rusty rainspout
to particular seasons that shadow
a present future;
as corrupted stain glass contributes
a haunted soldered image.
We never fully realize the petals won’t wilt,
gardens remain constant
hope becoming a postal card;
parchments sealed with the adieu
real like hairline cracked sidewalks
sowed by constant sorrow.
Distribute me from your straight jacket of resents,
sanction me to feel the softness of
the salt water breeze;
a chance meeting with eyes unable to ascend
knowing that the plural form of time is indigo
you are violet.