Best Pinpoint Poems
Dream schemes play across the screen
And third eye examines them,
Ever so closely; tonight,
Another etheric flight;
Will show me new horizons
And the beings that dwell there;
The archetypes and images.
Scenes play out in colors,
Shadows weave their magic;
I am inundated.
Visiting spirits came,
Just to bid me adieu;
My guides know what I need.
Somewhere the light starts,
To glow; a pinpoint,
Growing as it moves
Toward each scene, shines;
Revealing wisdom.
A dream is an
Education;
Dream and wisdom
Will come to you.
Dreaming mind,
Subconscious,
Library.
Dream long
And deep;
Dream.
Categories:
pinpoint, appreciation, dream, education, encouraging,
Form:
Diminished Hexaverse
While finding myself in season’s twilight
I see parts of life crumble amid grime of ruins,
As a declining mind wanders to balance
Gratified triumphs and numerous offenses.
That from an era’s DNA, I search my own history
Sorting out the will of earthly fate, to pinpoint
The wake of milestones... the numbness of lies.
How can I redeem the what ifs?
Accepting my fragility held by a few strands
Of cycles’ thinning yarns, my essence
Spins up down through countless revelries:
Then to gaze at the most lustrous star
Where a thousand vestiges imprint faces,
Even melodies which bear laughable chatters.
How fondly old can I really get!…
And yet, yet, as nightfall grabs
One more petal falling… there is something
glorious about ripened age--- after all.
5/09/2019
The Smile At The Foot Of The Ladder
For craig cornish
Categories:
pinpoint, introspection, self,
Form:
Free verse
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Strange Unicorn of the Sea,
we solved your mystery.
Of Arctic Ocean fame
you are Narwhal
as named.
Unicorn
of Sea,
our fascination
crept for secrets
you had kept about
tusk's outside nerves;
what uses do they serve?
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{
Allows you to communicate.
A great aid to seek a mate.
The perfect sword to joust;
the feared enemies to oust.
Safest water space ensures
by measuring temperatures
and the water pressure too,
gauges spaces to get thru.
Long pick to break the ice;
an excellent, sharp device.
Pinpoint your hidden prey-
use a sensory-based way.
You measure out at sea;
saline levels guarantee.
Survival tools evolved,
so the puzzle's solved.
}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
Deep ocean mystery
our Unicorn of Sea,
you are Narwhal
by name with
firm Arctic
Ocean
fame.
|
|
N
A
R
W
H
A
L
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Categories:
pinpoint, life, ocean, tribute,
Form:
Shape
Moon In Auburn
As the stars were heaped upon a mantles Shangri-La
The miniature toy town beneath its cape
Quiet hung in yellow golden windows lit
So silent in the dales and woods blanket
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
Crisp and cloudless chill less coldness
With the twin of the moon fluxed silver blue
In the tiny handmaidens mirror of reflection
Natures dark slept beneath the shadows of her hand
And she crept in dreams
Within the tip toe of cats
Rendered the night through amber eyes
Glistening on the turns of lovers kisses
For all the endless that she misses
Arched above an eternal sky
She is drawn to the moss of rocks
And clings in branches hung with lichen
To the feathered damp of leaves
Which catch her spark
Just a whisper footfalls breezes shifter
In the country lanes of ancient mazes
By stone wall and rabbits foot
Close upon the dandelions head
With all the disguised colours leaping on unseen acoustics
Were hidden amongst rivulet beds
Catching the silver blue
The dog fox cry echoed from the moon
And swung out the flax upon the stars
Fingers traced their destiny within those pinpoint suns
A pattern constellation traits of has; she was born
The atonement of steady reckoning he had
Cut in trough on the ploughed earth
Where all the seeds of tomorrow had been scattered
With all their promises of a seasons ripening
Old songs sung of proud man “John Barleycorn”
And the distillation of his bone and marrow
And while the stars piled high on their Shangri-La
Recounted the lost tales of lovers in forgotten times
All the memories fell in auburn locks
And swept upon the Luna light shores
The twin she fluxed in silver blue
And the dog fox cry echoed from the moon
Categories:
pinpoint, love, mystery, naturedog, cry,
Form:
Free verse
"...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track." C. G. Jung
"The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal." Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don’t mean what they see
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3, 1997[Revised May 2003] -from longhand notes: a binding of poems. 1997
Categories:
pinpoint, angst, introspection, world, flower,
Form:
Didactic
Pointing her index finger towards me,
with a frown asked the young fair lady,
"Do you know the definition of points?"
To me it was a big disappointment.
At that point among us ,the back benchers,
a discussion about lovers' point was 'on' there,
it was then the question was thrown to me,
"Answer must be to the point"yelled she!
Various points were coming to my mind then,
did she ask for 'point' or 'points' in question?
No point in asking her to repeat it,
started thinking about the point(s) little bit.
Seeing me blank and pointless till then,
one of the friend poke my back with pointed pen,
along it came a whisper in my ear,
"to pinpoint the answer you just look at her!"
As I looked at her reddened and angry face,
the answer came to my mind with a sudden flash,
"Madam,a point is a dimensionless slender dot,
just like your little cute beauty spot!"
===============================
Placement:7th
Contest:What's the point?
Sponsor:Paula Swanson
By:kashinath karmakar(14th January 2011)
Categories:
pinpoint, funnyme, , cute,
Form:
Rhyme
I heard a story once about people up north.
Where there’s long days and long winters
And the snow piles higher than houses.
They hunt wolves in winter,
Finding ways to do it safely.
Horrific and brilliant methods.
Take a knife and dip it in blood
Freeze the blood on the blade,
Do this over and over
Ten times over.
Until the blade is deep beneath a thick coat
A winter coat of deepest red.
Leave it in the open blade pointing up
Saluting the sky
Taking a bow before the grand performance
The great seduction of the beast.
Curiosity can be wonderful,
Curiosity can be devastating.
A hint on the wind
And the scent makes itself at home
Amongst happy memories
Eating dinner with family.
You come out of the trail
Seeing this small tower of red
Amidst this ocean of white,
You remember this shade of red.
It wasn’t the first lick that killed you
But it sealed your fate to be sure.
Those that live by the sword die by the sword
Those that thirst for blood drown in their own.
Niceties we say to excuse our guilt,
You never stood a chance against this trap
It looks like food
It smells like food
And it even tastes like food.
Your tongue swarms into every crevice
Made by the swirling vapours
Of your hot breath excited
Panting with desire and hunger.
You lick and lick and lick
And endless fountain of your favourite flavour
You denied yourself nothing.
The blood just kept coming,
First from the frozen blood
Thawed by your warmth,
But then it switched and you didn’t notice.
Did you?
Can’t pinpoint the second but sometime
Your tongue met the steel
Blood now spouting from many sources
And you swear it’s the best day you’ve ever had.
You died in a garden painted red,
By the fleshy brush jutting forth
From your strong jaws
Bathed in your own paint.
I just listened to the story,
Dumbstruck.
I’ve never understood
A wild animal better than now,
I’ve been betrayed
By my longings too.
Curiosity can be wonderful,
Curiosity can be devastating.
Categories:
pinpoint, faith, inspirational, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Fifty years ago this July
Three American astronauts put the lie to 'Why'
On the surface of the Moon they made a pinpoint landing
Primitive technological devices notwithstanding
We thought the era of space exploration had started
But after only six more missions, the Moon we departed
For 47 years now we haven't been back
It is raw courage, or determination, that we lack?
Sad to say, it's a fundamental distortion of human vision
No longer do we look outside ourselves for challenges to meet and surpass
We've become self-absorbed narcissists, content to sit on our arses
This diminution of our vision comes at a steep price
When the going gets rough, be it at home or abroad
Our instinct is to give up, not to make sacrifices
Categories:
pinpoint, courage, moon, space, today,
Form:
Rhyme
Whatever has passed me by, it's winged shadow
Cast a chill that lingers in my eyes
And strangely feels like losing, dying or missing
Something never chanced to materialise.
Gone in a blink and whirlwind embargo,
Candle extinguished at pinpoint of gutter;
Soft wax dripped petroleum blue at my feet,
Stuck to the floor with a cold tango stutter.
I placate my ruffled feathers with thoughts
And platitudes fired in a blind ricochet
That echoes a mockingly reasoned rebound:
"Ah, well, there will be another day."
Now I have a chasm to train and to feed,
My companion regret calls your faraway name;
And it sounds like a gunshot wrapped up in a wish
As I wish I had known you were feeling the same.
Categories:
pinpoint, lost love, love,
Form:
Verse
Written: January 04, 2025 For Contest Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
“free from conditioned belief
no agenda on our shelf
vibrant as the light of Self
life flows on all by itself”
________________________________
Our peaceful place is a serene stillness,
Freed of a firm grasp of the familiar isthmus.
No steered ambit, no behests to satiate,
No truncated quest, or toils for tribal vitiate.
Sepia slate chutzpah, the soul's shining spark,
Diaphanous slivers and mullions pinpoint its stark.
Life lingers as leaping strides send quads convulsions,
A ceaseless cascade, a haunting mix of red, casts visions.
In the serene sanctuary, spirits shall plane,
Freed from the fetters of borrowed strain.
A stream surges, unscathed by dim schemes,
Radiating tinsel, reflecting radiant gleams.
Bathed in moonbeams, velvet drapes create a pearly gleam,
Amid enticing melody, toads hatched a fantastic dream.
This tale, a paper-thin silken gown of a gliding string,
A seed root segment fixed to the probe, splendidly cling.
Like leaves rowdy from autumn's fickle breath,
We shed imposed beliefs, escape false death.
Roots reach deep where truth alone can mend,
Untouched by fears that others' wills may send.
No nagging neuroses of self-control and vanity,
Gleefully fair breathing, obnoxious bully of inanity.
Liberated from loads, major culprits in building tension,
Unbridled, freed seaworthiness of untested dissension.
A quiet loot, winning gentleness upon a serene face,
Liberty lolls, luster trails hemmed in balsam firs and grace.
No view marred, no stance clutched, just paideia and piety,
Simply splendid, no spiders in their webs or anxiety.
Categories:
pinpoint, analogy, freedom, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
Your shoulders are broad and strong,
Like you’ve been carrying boxes of experience,
Like you should have known better.
You block my way and–A signal
for me to move–you shrug
Shoulders lifting half an inch
To that pinpoint of a moment
When your voice echoes in my mind,
So familiar like so many others,
“Step aside, woman, this is how the world works.”
The safety of obedience is enticing.
I could move for you, I thought.
I could choose to do that.
So easy. One step to the right. So easy.
But she–has already moved for you.
A woman–has had to move her body
To make space for you in the warmth of her womb,
Your mother, built space
Within her, stretching, contracting, expanding,
Exhausting the air from her lungs so you could
fill yours.
So much has already been moved for you.
How dare you ask for more space?
How dare you ask more of any woman?
As I stand here, unmoving,
What do you see?
I have been called a muse, an angel,
The rising sun, a delicate flower, the summer
breeze;
I am a never-ending source of metaphor.
But what do you see?
Do you see an aggressive stereotype of a
feminist?
Do you see a stubborn little girl?
Do you see an inferior creature meant only to submit?
Will you ever see a warrior–
Who deals in blood,
And bleeds an ocean–
Grotesque and beautiful?
I have no armour.
I do not need an armour.
I barely scream at the pain of broken bones
As I push another you into the world.
I am–a woman.
And as that, I will stand still.
Categories:
pinpoint, inspirational, spoken word, strength,
Form:
Free verse
I can’t change/You can’t change/We are Two separate/ people with Two separate hearts when did this road shred apart/
I can’t force this love anymore/ I am lost in deep thought / Emotional pain hurts/ but when you Add mental games/ and a teaspoon of lies/ It’s just ugly as a newborn cries for help
This broken heart lingers woman/ I am tired/ Trying to piece this love hate relationship together/ it’s so torn in pieces I can’t pinpoint the location/ we are too far apart / Now longitude and latitude can’t place us together/broken hearts/ Frustrating tears/
Now it’s two separate lines/ two different directions/ do you see my reflection/ reflect off this glass mirror/ Now look at my torn face as sweats falls off my face/ Tears in my eyes a whale can swim/ It’s frustrating to find a answer/ At first I couldn’t sleep/ lonely night became very dark / but now start to feel like Morning’s are my best sunshine
Categories:
pinpoint, heartbroken, lost, lost love,
Form:
Narrative
(Transit Lounge, Dubai International Airport, circa 2007)
He answered
that he was from far Kazakhstan,
“Exotic place,” he added,
which I know but could not pinpoint
on my mental map.
She smiled
and said, “I am from India somewhere
farther to the northeast bordering China.”
“Hence her fairer skin,” I thought.
And she piped in,
“From Ethiopia,” and I could not
but think of just how much she paid
to have her curly hair straightened.
From the counter
of their air-conditioned, compact
caravanserai, they all chorused
the suggestion that I opt
for king prawn salad
which, indeed, was so delicious
to the hungry eyes but just so rich
for my already travel-thinned billfold.
Thus I settled
for some salmon sandwich
and a bowl of curly noodles
that the Chinese had perfected
long ago in those steaming kitchens
of their fabled silk road inns.
“Fragrant tea
from out the hot and humid hills
of southern India,” the Ethiopian
said with flourish, bringing me
my mug to wash away
the fishy taste still lingering
along the silk roads
of my taste buds, as I vainly tried
to pinpoint far Kazakhstan
on my travel-weary mental map
while waiting, sleepy, for the call
to put me, once more,
on my way.
Categories:
pinpoint, travel,
Form:
Blank verse
Do you have it in you to love a broken man?
Do you have the time for a man who's trying to be better than his past?
I was kicked while I was down, but will you help me to stand?
Do you have it in you to love this broken man?
Let me tell you about myself so it doesn't come as a shock
I'm trying to gain feelings again because I've became numb to what's lost
I became isolated after I had my arm extended and no one offered a hand
I'm trying to change my ways and be a better man
I come from a broken home and I need fixing
We can complete the puzzle because maybe you're the piece missing
I'm a working progress that needs a lot of Working on
I've got a lot of bleeding wounds so i cant pinpoint exactly where i'm Hurting from
I've been stumbling drunk out of clubs at god knows what time
Just trying to cope with a broken heart and lost mind
Drinking most nights and waking up to a hangover for breakfast
I'm just trying to grow up and stop being young and reckless
I'm tired of the one night stands and meaningless flings
Before I fly again I need someone to help fix my wings
I wonder if such a woman exists that can cope with this
Would she be able to fix my heart and give my scars a kiss?
Maybe one day I'll find out where this princess is at
Give me your all and I'll pay it with interest back
Every day I'm growing and trying to be better than I am
Do you have it in you to love a broken man?
Do you have it in you to love a broken man?
Do you have the time for a man who's trying to be better than his past?
I was kicked while I was down, but will you help me to stand?
Do you have it in you to love this broken man?
Categories:
pinpoint, anxiety, deep, depression, desire,
Form:
Free verse
She waits,
eight black spindles joined at one end by a pivot, a compass.
Each pinpoint balanced at the intersections
of self-drawn polygons.
Legs jointed like the fingers of a skeleton,
deft, dexterous as a harpist.
Body in two sections with ample abdomen,
the African who carries the water jug on her head.
Or an Indian, the untouchable with her caste mark,
the microscopic grains dropping through the hourglass
like drops of blood.
Blind, she has the surrogate sense of a seismograph.
She would feel a disturbance in the web
were it only a thought.
Never mind she lives in a dark corner
as devoid of light as she is of personality,
she needs neither.
She does not look as the wrapped body of her cannibalized mate
as at a gilt-framed photograph of the dearly departed.
The egg sac is not a silk-lined bassinet,
the hanging ornament
to all her future hopes and dreams.
She is absent of frontal lobes,
moralizing modifiers,
second thoughts.
An instrument of logic,
mate=food
sac=young,
syllogisms minus all prepositions,
additional excess cargo to be jettisoned
as the dried shells of devoured prey.
No welcome mats on the front step,
no settees in the parlor,
no cunning seductress with scarlet claws.
Only a modem waiting in the spaceless black.
Categories:
pinpoint, future, insect,
Form:
Imagism