Best Purist Poems
'Twas a fortnight fraught with tainted stars;
'Midst mournful tears salting Neptune's sea.
A withered lass swallows internal scars,
'Twixt purist passions removed from thee.
Thoust bravest beloved her soul kept dear;
A buccaneer's quest sculpting pirated pride:
"Seizing Zeus' crown 'neath Poseidon's bier;
A jewel I'll bequeath to thine waiting bride."
Lantern lights flicker past sheltered shores.
Naked thee writhes; nary a vow to don.
Rest not the rues grieved 'pon garish moors -
Whilst honored prayers of thou beau breathes non.
Replete in requiem; Thalassa exhales,
Thine darkened omens proclaimed by thee.
Dying the deaths of thoust betrothed prevails;
Whilst unheard novenas abandons she.
A fortnight chills and the stars grow dim;
Neptune's waters heal whilst God's fingers burn.
A comely maiden torches thy heart for him -
In hope thine's glow reflects lost love's return.
In pleasantries, orchestrated on our screens,
We live the lives of many men and women,
As if sex could be! We grow, composed of well-cooked pablum
Eaten between long work hours, digested pleasantly.
In a fetal coil, I rest, my optic eye
Doesn’t blink at the silver reticules of my mind:
My body well knit by well-knit engineers,
This me-model makes real tears, running from my eyes.
Of course I’m human – hammered out in school,
Wearing what Designers Club tells me to;
You and I, we can adjust ourselves with tools,
Look down upon the Primitives -- those old fools.
Insulated from all microbial bio-terrors,
Safe from the brute, the thorn, the flawed flower
Blooming wild; we -- kept safe – know no variant weather,
Pity the Primitive, exposed to flood and laser-tower.
Did you see those messages, scrawled upon a wall,
Comparing us with vipers at Adam’s Fall?
There’s not an original thought in what he thinks:
That purist Primitive! His raw flesh stinks!
Computers say it best, and yet, I see
Something –compelling--- in his graffiti:
“O song, sing forth unto the endless skies--
O hear, created stars! You long have looked
Upon all who weep, who ever made outcry,
And wrote it down, in God’s forgotten book.”
written for those in the future--a protest against genetic engineering
I was on the road to Vezalay, for Richard and his
quest. All the Christian knights would gather from
countries east and west. The papal hordes would
vindicate, and our swords and banners blessed.
As I walked the woods of Avalon, in peace and
serenity. By a stream in the shade, a vision came
to me. There she stood before me dressed in purist
lace, against the sun her silken form, my eyes
could easily trace. With her eyes she beckoned me
to a place where blossoms lay. From her shoulder
the garment slipped, a moon and star above the
breast stole and transfixed the eye, all was haze
and peace below the bluest sky. Jasmine filled the
air as we lay that summers day, we questioned
nought and let our feelings play. Her fingers of
such tenderness, danced and skipped my
nakedness. Her skin against my chest, I leant and
kissed the moon above her breast. Longing sighs
and the joining created, sensuous tones until our
love was sated. The evening grew cooler, the light
began to fade, our bodies locked in passion, all was
love in shade.
The morning proved a darker place, of my love there
was no trace. No bright star to light my way, no kind
lips for me to play. I searched with a heavy heart but
could not find, the love the heart so kind. I asked
myself with great contempt, surely not, I had not
dreamt. Then I saw in the blossoms there, lay the
flowers from her hair. With a heavy heart and heavy
soul, duty called and gained control.
Often, I enter a contest
I enter the ones I like best
But one sponsor said
Write stood on your head
I moved on to check out the rest
Another said stand in a bucket
Write Latin, or I’m gonna chuck it
Eight lines by the way
Or get an NA
I thought about that and said f… ..
[They say stick to your chosen form
You should never break with the norm
In two stanza’s time
I’m switching to rhyme
The purist would kick up a storm]
But what really scrambles my brain
Is what comes up time and again
It’s apps for surmounting
The problem of counting
And one’s a particular pain….
*
‘How many syllables’, that’s what gets me
The logic it uses ain’t easy to see
Take for example the simple word ‘Wouldn’t’
They say it’s one syllable…
See it?..
I couldn’t
It misreads quotation marks, single or double
A single’s a syllable….. doubles?…. no trouble
It claims that the open quote counts as a syllable
Yet the ensuing quote counts not at all
Now I’m not unique so I run with the crowd
And I’m sure that no-one reads quote marks aloud
With ‘How Many Syllables’, if demand lingers
I simply ignore it and count on my fingers
But Soup has a resource called ‘Syllable Counter’
Which disregards quote marks that it may encounter.
In ‘shouldn’t’ and ‘wouldn’t’ and ‘mustn’t’ and ‘couldn’t’
The syllables all number two
And all of that makes pretty good sense to me…
So does it make good sense to you?
*
I love writing poetry, dearly
And often I get it right… nearly
So please do feel free
To set rules for me
But ‘How Many Syllables’?…. Really?
Like discarded panties at a derelict drive-in
The good citizens... have been abandoned
Dropped into the viper's bottomless pit.
The brightness snuffed from all their tomorrows.
A president fleeing, with claws filled with cash.
An army in training for twenty years... simply ran.
As the viper coils around a fathomless sorrow.
Panjshir Valley is where the purist heroes lie.
Vipers have surrounded them from every side.
Fighting for the right to breathe freely ..or die.
While the jackass has left a trail of martyrs behind.
many daffodils
beautiful on windowsills
narcissus appeals
one yellow divine
single or double refine
purist flower mine
dainty and sublime
standing hours at a time
waving in their prime
*For Carol Browns "What's The Buzz" Haiku contest
Thieving Without Conscience
There are thieves, and there are thieves without conscience. ..
Woe to the average Malaysia, of the latter are our elected politicians....
As the US treasury did put it so succinctly that there can be no doubts...
Malaysia as a sovereign nation has been robbed in broad daylight......
By our exalted policians entrusted to uphold our country's economy and its ideals..
By blatantly treating 1MDB as a vessel for securing immense sovereign funds...
And chanelling those funds into privately owned bank accounts...
Colluding with third parties that involved of all things, a so called Arabian prince...
Makes you puke just to think how our corrupted political bigwigs hasten to band together..
Just so that they can cling on to office and indulge in more misuse of power and plunder....
A political purist extols, Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. ..
That sums up nicely the gang of thieves who somehow determines how Malaysia is doing...
Malaysia has the dubious record of being the biggest kleptocracy case in American history...
The sheer magnitud of which involves billions and billions in US currency....
Those who have been following news about the 1MDB imbroglio since a couple of years ago..
Will recall the many evasive statements and misleading answers from 1MDB the vessel...
Through which billions of funds were raised only to be mysteriously siphoned off...
Involving convulated financial transactions that moved chunks of money across nations..
Poor Malaysians, we are still saddled with corrupted politicians and their cronies...
Hoping fervently that the big brother in the US Department of Justice will invoke some miracle...
T
In the boxed gilded frame exists the residue of
A painter’s vision, of his nightmare placed upon
Canvas.
Locked within the cells of four square,
Lies a view into the ethereal world beyond our
Conscious mind.
A heckling demon does laugh, as she the white
Gowned maiden of innocence lies slain, as her bloods
Warmth slips silently away, and life's flash memory,
Closes around her for the last time.
Hear the thundering sounding. From the heavy laden hooves,
As hell's white steed, claims the vanquished heart of
The innocent, and riding unto the gates of black ebony,
He does so bare a rare prize, the soul of purist beauty.
Oh so do the angels cry in heaven, weeping in tandem's chorus.
For death's fallen will know the torments hidden in
The mighty halls of hell's keep, for dark has over come
The light, and at its flickering the last hope of mankind,
Has become one of the shunned.
Seductions father of evil, takes the white hands of
The maiden of innocence, for one last waltz, as life leaves
Her damaged shell, behind a phantom spirit of betrayal,
Is left at the threshold of the forgotten, and salvation's door
Slams shut unto her; she is suicide's victim of the broken
Hearted, never to know the taste of Eden, or to see the glory
Of Gods kingdom beyond.
Nipping beneath the ladies gown of white, the demon
Chastises her, belittling a life so sacrificed for what
He does so scold; it is a minor thing, this emotion called love.
Tears fall, be you so quiet, demon, I've suffered enough, but he
Is the hell's jackal, and is her greatest tormentor.
Awaken painter, she pleads from the ethereal realm,
In sweats uneasy slumber, but the artist shields his eyes to late,
And he has seen too much, for a mortal to so easily forget.
Upon the canvas is a dreams vision,
And trapped within, is she the soul of innocence,
Forever encased within this prison, a
Painter's revelation, called the portrait of a
Nightmare.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
An unsavory man from Montreal
squatted in dim lit cafes
writing of the pain of love
a charlatan
he was the darker lovely dove
he inhaled the smoke of Satan
he sang to the devils army
purist of evil
his grave a urinal
to be used, over and over
his words knelt like prayers
and rose like knives.
Thinning morals
he possesses zero virtue
just a shadow
of the fires down below
he sings for the child killers
the thieves and robbers of the land
he chants of love, he means rape
for those not of his blend
his wishes burnt under
hidden flames of hostility
He may dress in rags
he may play the victim
in the end though
he will burn your flesh
a sacrifice
then he will call you his fool
he sang for genocide
not for the goyim half wit
Dead, he is dead
angels he will never see
The meadow was so sweet
Our stile where we sat our retreat
When her longing lips met those so willing of mine.
Yet a cloud of unconsciousness
Overcame reality,
The darkness of the day revealed
Inside one’s head a busy mind,
Then a soft voice from a distance
Echo’s throughout the confusion.
A face appears I thought I recognized
Saw a little girl her hair white as snow
Yet in a fragment of time she was gone,
Through the haze materialized
An Angel in a gleam of light so bright
A touch upon my face a gift so powerful,
Tender love in its purist etiquette
Ran through my entire body,
To awaken me to reality
Another chance this celestial gave to me
If only to say one last time. Goodbye!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
The rented hall ways so surreal.
Cheerful alumnus ranting sex appeal.
Forgive my dropping a time bomb.
Taking Mother to the prom.
Our student body didn't shake.
All others escorted steady dates.
A proclivity prom, above all others.
Our band encrypted, "The Righteous Brothers".
Bobby Hatfield's introverted eyes, somehow.
Deeply scanned the milk punch bowl.
Imposter bandits, smuggled from Jersey.
Spiked the punch bowl, with laced heresy.
Setting alumnus minds; off and reeling.
We never, "Lost that Loving Feeling".
Alas, by now you must have guessed.
A convert Baptist to Catholic to Buddhist.
Thanked and Blessed.
Times worn quickly it seems.
I betrothed the crowned prom queen.
If begets lead to further begetting.
Trumpet in the table setting.
Now, before I forget to mention.
I'm Chief Commander of the United Nations.
The priestly Buddhist Monk is my adjunct.
No!!, pundits from paltry pulpits Shout.
No needed pouting, I'll get put out.
Covetous opponents horns, a' Blow-in.
I hold cards, but none are show-in.
That female candidate, can she insist.
A real, lopsided bubble purist.
Piling coals upon my trouble list.
She never, "Closes Her Eyes Anymore when Her Lips are Kissed".
Dear Jesus, may I adorn my Bobby Hatfield headphones.
Appreciating a, past on, baritones gigs.
Someone strummed an evil trick.
Thank You, for Your promised Rainbow.
One end of the spectrum, birth and mirth.
The other end death, it seems much worse.
"It Makes Me Just Feel Like Crying".
"You are My Soul and Highest My Highest Inspiration".
Pressure doesn't bother me at all.
What casts my craw into the fiery jowl.
How all my works got twisted.
As tho, I took your Mom to the prom.
Hoped betterment of bastion dorms.
Face radiance of holistic norms.
Is "Something Beautiful Dying".
Red.
It's love at its
Purist. It blooms intact
then love turns a numb, cold shoulder.
The frost.
As I was peeling this orange, it whispered an epiphany.
"You must first be taken apart to gain strength.
Seek out the purist of storms
Dive into the cyclone, be cleansed, be reborn."
I followed the advice of the newly flayed orb.
Tracked down that cleansing wind.
In its billion unrecognizable forms.
Chasing a shattered constellation.
On the edge of starry town.
Cracked thoughts stretching out.
Nibbling wildflower- gathering strength.
Weaving a metal skin made of sun.
Devouring the sweet winter rain...
Life then began with a hum, then a roar.
Soul ignited by spectacular, undefined things.
Stardust of the mind, gathering clarity,
Now the bright fields of life flash eternally.
It's time to leave the old snakeskin to the weeds.
A new constellation rising into the night sky,
Broken hobos and coyotes dancing in delight.
Laughing, cascading so rich in their dreams.
What name shall be given to this infant skin?
This gathering of pristine baby stars.
Some feel that Bible verse conclusively
Describes all life explained through liturgy.
Some feel that evolution holds the key
With science leading forth explicitly.
Positions juxtaposed perceptibly:
A purist view of Life's conformaties -
A prescient view of Life's complexities -
Could one more view assuage disparities?
What do papyrus texts in fact convey?
And, what does nature's yield expressly say?
Somewhere between these two compelling sides
The letter and the spirit both reside.
We take from texts enough to salve our minds,
And then from nature context-laden signs,
With each constrained by factors of its lot.
Questions for both - what is and what is not?
Yet, could these sides assemble what should be -
A pair of constancies through which we see
Two halves converging as to form the whole
Reach toward a common line that's not a goal?
This dictum for another day, but now
Enough for both conjointly to endow
A symbiotic sense of harmony
And hope - if our thoughts are inclined to be.
(METRICAL FORM)
THE LONELY SEARCH
Innate tremendous beauty dwells in words
That surpass all visions --- wilder than the shade of purest blue--
No trilling song that I have ever heard,
No surrogate-- can surpass the purist elegance that I pursue.
Each night my dreams entice that I will find
A kindred body whisp'ring words I long to hear--
But--waking fear my restless hungry mind
Holds me doomed in isolation...dreadful fear.
V Anderson-Throop
2013