Best Quondam Poems
Alabaster streaks of warmth
in its dewy first glow,
tepidly stirring the senses, as
my gaze roams to the
trickle of ebony beads;
in the distance,
chimes of granular dustings,
with fragrances rich in
mahogany earthen grounds,
shaking the last of the
quondam night’s moon specks,
as life’s poignant rays
seep deep into my sights,
coaxing myself out of
hibernation,
longing for the first sip
of sunshine,
basking in the early beams of
balmy dawns and
sepia sunsets,
blessed to
start and end the
sands of time with you—
upon my soul’s sanctuary,
my lucid dream ablaze.
"God within me is the enjoyer of the aroma
As also this dopamine boosting flavour I taste
I surrender all pleasures to the dweller of my heart
Breath by breath thus that my soul presence be chaste"
"'He,' whom speaks into existence those things which were not as though, they are...." ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fables; to dream these seemingly impossible things!?
A compiling compound upon the pages of a lifes, forever tarnishing of stories....
Drinking this mixture of both poison and cure; night after night and, day upon day
Finding but, these mostly barren tainted walls; no repreives and no relief; vacancies
This continuing onslaughts never ceasing to slay, the spirit of a living hope ~
Until one day the precious heart so finds, no more air left to breathe; condemned
Slowly, it dies....
Depicting cycles repeating themselves once more as, deeper, into the mire they fall
Beauty desperately countering within; framed moments to stem, these portraits; illusions
Painted upon the canvas of creations reasons not knowing thus, nothing to win and or, lose?!
Destinies foreclosures; deposits towards the paradigms of, signed sealed and delivereds
Reciprocating affairs, amid the not so magical mystical mystery tours; misled....
Ponderings upon the reparians reflective waters; refrains perceptions; lost in the muse
Bleed me a river please and then, break me in two, time and time and time, again!?
Quondam sleeping now as, waxings cankerous sores somehow, speak their tolls
Tomorrows, priceless tears....
Diagnosis being it so hopeless then, let us gather in what we can, while we can; deja vu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The house, of fallon dreams?!
Note: Smile ~ I was listening a bit earlier to the song, "Beautiful," by Mercy Me & I thought
About certain lives & souls so, painted them a poe ~ "My 'Love & Warmth,' Always," John!:) ~
Animation I grew up with,
Bride of fantasy stories.
Comedy with action I watch,
Death of worries I snatch.
Earth of penitence is
Fist of imagination I sense.
Girdle of suffocation, I sike
Hinterland of minds, I hike.
Insatiable finds take off
Juggernaut of marvels thereof.
Kommandatura with style,
Love of sequels I file.
Mysteries of lifestyle are not farfetched,
Nincompoops play unwretched.
Over and under a replay of streams --
Posthumously acclaimed.
Quondam penners survived,
Reminiscences of sets --
Sets of scenes and takes,
Travesty of the reclaimed.
Up, up and away
Victory not far away.
Wonders of life in a bucket
Xanadu of strife in a socket.
Yabadabadoo!
Zen of life.
Erstwhile his skin was beautiful as an obsidian, with great markings alongside his face, as was the likeness of the Benin people; an imagery so poignant and meaningful.
His shoulders were wide, his back strong and his mind resourceful.
In his quondam years, the mystery of the Niger River had captured his inquisitive soul and inspired his longings to ride the smooth waves in a Pirogue.
A tale far from the likes of any mythical apologue.
The spirit of his graceful and modest mother, who lovingly called him Baako, once hunted his dreams.
On his hard days and nights, his body cried out from pain and his cheeks were forced upon by relentless water streams.
His memory of his proud father of great strength and wisdom once pounded against his brain.
In an everlasting refrain.
Once, with recapturing flashbacks his mind was flooded with the taunting sounds of the water drums and sticcado.
Fast and sweeping rhythmic legato.
And his mind automatically reclaimed images of his village, with its thatched roof huts and rows of lifted cultured soils with beans and yams bedded deep, and grass of deeper green.
And the days long, and the sun harsh and the nights with brilliant white stars that convene.
There, he now lay face down on foreign land with its first winters snow.
With his life source seeping deep and wide into soft crystals giving it a crimson glow.
Tattered clothes revealed his back; etched with brutal markings liking that of an old twisted and leafless tree.
His calloused feet a grayish-blue as the Adriatic sea.
His last breath was a moan for his native land.
The Mother Land.
The harmony of his innate love for his country, his people, and his latent genius and powerful will has been dispersed, wasted and erased.
There …
It was
dark. England,
set down, and stretched out
for miles,
and days
without end
Far afield her quondam spirit,
But forever sprawling
Beneath
Discouraging clouds
with unbroken tears
that washed out …
cricket games
and pigeon stool,
bleeding into drinking …
Watered-down whiskey
from pubs
following the concrete pavements
Victorian structures,
and verdant meadows
that sleep …
to the lullabies
of Jackdaws and humming engines
I often wonder,
how one can speak
without both lips in motion;
Are they half ventriloquists?
I need no retort;
I’m just playing George on this one
When Auntie returned …,
from London, with her brain
swimming in high tide,
they were quick to blame
the clock,
but Manchester is the author
of this charlatan
The tale is that
those who trust
Big Ben for time
Will in fact misplace their minds
How true a case is he?
Old England will agree
he is special
Rum will whisper tall stories,
same with Cognac and Vodka,
but aren’t there days
when we are restrained
What is Sawicki,
but a train, blowing wet whistle?
How straight can one walk
with neurons bathing in ethanol?
In days past, dictionaries were scarfed-up;
men were …
Men were quick and questioning
Where is evolution;
like monkeys we mimic?
John Fletcher
I know, and C. Marlowe
Much of William Blake and Carew
I recalled Arnold,
the Brownings, and Dowson,
So much for Killigrew,
old Abercrombie, Crowley,
and young Liam Wilkinson
Who in God’s name is Sawicki,
Whose “master” is he?
The necktie wearers, and flag pin bearers
Combing arcane smiles
With not one word out of place
Colluded to recreate
Pearl harbor's reincarnate
History's wounds slashed by new swords
A mirror of quondam contempt
Semblance of peace sat behind a podium
Truths interstice fogged
Aridity of public sentiment
Proved a deserted nature of love
Thirsty for blood of whom we know not
Patriotism painted from a teleprompter
As cobblers cleaned and mended
The boots which young feet filled
Whilst scoundrels signed a death waiver
For workers to pluck cold limbs
And prepare the fields
Where black gold geysers
Diluted the red stained, hallowed ground
Commissioned were penny whistles
And morts moaning on cue
For quarry men slouched
In the dirt, for eternal rest
Before rhetoric trumped up heroism
The azure above was clear and crisp
Til mercurial darkness was summoned
On desolations blooming row
As pinwheels kept on spinning
At the home of those who plot
Another stratagem, another canvas
To splatter blood upon
THE EYE of I
What is life? What is love?
The eye of I took it in…
The material rolling sweeps highs and lows--valleys cuts, grooves, gullies and gorges eye engorge crevices of porphyry
heat flies from the ravines
places the eye cannot see but the soul can visit-- living matter,
infused with tissue thoughts generated externally electrified internally
the sweat that beaded on the brow drips and spatters, absorbs the entity under
What is the breathing open petal life… radiating respiring
One throttle to quell that respiration, bright lightening beauty gently fusing into glow?
Brightening as I faster
Turbine-whistle I your master
beating, spewing, thrusting, ignition transference… body grue and stifles?… Gone
She stiffens the radiance of the face pale, milky, alabaster, clammy pore-less beams the lips and cheeks rubescent now. Smoothes, and transition into deep hues of blues, violent violets, ebony black. Hardens, stiffens stone then softens? as alabaster
Deterioration, matter, entropy all so naturally
Squall has past--the quondam respiring takes long respite..
The eye of I took it in…The material rolling sweeps highs and lows, valleys, cuts, grooves, gully and gorge I engorge crevices of porphyry
heat flies from the ravines folded as petals from
places the eye cannot see but the soul can visit
of living matter, infused with tissue thoughts generated externally electrified internally
The sweat that beaded on the brow drips and spatters, absorbs the entity under lies the breathing open petal life… radiating, respiring?
The fingers trace and fall in place the Etowah infused with breath
The sweat sinks in, absorption energy transfers electricity thoughts
Cabachon crescendos!
All the while the living, beating, breathing, entity flutters, shutters, smiles.
Never seen a day light for quondam
impediment in abdicate quitdaim
auctioning what thinks best incessantly
believing it’s a good stomping realm
eatoboree and drinkoboree in deterioration with chum
struggling in all his days with felicity
is there another life better than? This in quandary
on that stunch day exert
in getting what to eatoboree and drinkoboree as customary
a step beyond his terrene, mistakenly
Alas! Sees the day light
back to his terrene and step out in plaudit
seeing same thing, no surrogates
moving around, the different is bright
on himself, passes arraignment
A step out of my zone is what I need these days
exhausting all these pasts in lapses
believing he has best domain ever in history
not knowing, it is the best in disguise
was that life or is this life? He grills
such is life, I parry
someone’s house is another person’s poultry
how much will it cost? He grum
the ransom has been likely
not there; here is the liberty
liberate the paid ransom
here I will stay till eternity
exultant in seeing the light
enjoying without no constrains
summoning his crony
freedom is premium!
Takes it a powerful, almighty congerie of the
Most toilsome and rigorous lucubration,
To write these, my poems...my poetries.
Or, insofar as declaring, do I
Attempt thus to prevaricate?
Is my literary legerdemain
And poetic prestidigitation and prognostication such that it
Requires little duty, less laboriousness, and a
Far lesser sort of toilsomeness to compose this,
My poetry?
This be the forty-fourth poetic work by my hand enwritten
In this hebdomadal period-
This week, in short.
Yes, in something lesser than a hebdomadal span, even
Did I complete, thus far,
This three-notebooked writing.
Quotidian was this writing and diurnal,
And hodiernally I can write little of the quondam poems:
Written in such a fervorous, blazing, blurring manner,
That I scarce am sure I canst rightly recall the composition of a solitary one.
This love of irrevocable
Hold I sent it from empyrean beyond
Nightfall calls stars upon the welkin
My love! Glimpse higher and higher
Preeminent stars which of paragon sheens us
Come nigh clasps for a spell
Scintillating planetoid effulgences and watch us
Afar the intoning troubadour of nightangle bides in earnest to sing
These entire cosmos peek and descry of our love
Oh my leman! Come closer and closer
For thou, I surrender all my psyches
Rouse me by your amiable osculation
Let me romance for quondam in your balmy bosom
Let me trance and sojourn to the bliss.
::Dawa Zangpo
I want to relinquish this stagnant pain.
It has been lurking in my subconsciousness
and perforating my reality for too long.
I try to extricate myself from this servitude
but it sticks to my fingers like resin
whenever I try to discard it. Clinging to my memory
like a limpet to a rock: embedded in my remembrance,
and etched into my history. Niggling, annoying,
irritating, like a loudly-ticking clock.
I want to assuage myself of this recollection.
I have served my penance and paid my dues.
I try to escape this quagmire, but my shoes
capitulate to the quicksand, dragging, dislocating
me from the solid ground of familiarity -plunging me
into the slavery of remembering once more.
Let me relinquish this putrid pain.
It is disabling my forward motion.
I am trapped in the quondam of a past life.
Let me go! Let me let it go!
Stop calling me. I won't answer.
I can't hear you. I won't listen. Go away!.........
Oh blissful silence! Peace from the demolition
of future's construction. I look behind, one last time,
but the ashes of hated memoirs dissipate in my view.
Looking forward now, steps gathering momentum.
Safe from the past, and welcomed by expectation.
Free at last, sure footed in my pursuit of happiness
As I sat in quondam agony and anguish,
The inimical air stales through my nose.
A teary, terrorising sting like a potent radish,
So envious of shared beds and emotions volubly composed.
Weakened by haste I screamed in ignominity,
Unaware of these eyes of judgement swelling my wounds.
I pushed away the triffid times. Silently. Cautiously.
On my knees i begged for repletion in ruins.
I stood up with broader clarity yet ponderous,
Awaiting the moments of interregnum once 'He' was king,
Looked up to the persed skies on edge with sights so wonderlous,
Trying to share such cogent details to you in the interim.
A Wraith. Such shock and surprise, I ought to follow.
So suddenly, the despair secretes out of my soul.
Confabulating the past while smiles start to nourish what used to be hollow.
Thankful I avoided the burking. Blandish with touch, sprouting to be whole.
I do not like my state of mind
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men...
I'm due to fall in love again."
Upon this fairly scribal yet oversize,
Very squarish or rectangular tablet,
Do I scribble and scrawl these very words,
And those of the completeness of at least a brace,
A twain, a pair of poems, though
These are, after a fashion, hardly meet.
Albeit, they are not so ill-fitting for all of that.
They are good poems, those I've today
And herein written;
Yet to themselves, they ascribe all
Manner of different motives,
Emotions and motifs.
Yet I purpose not hereby and herewith to delineate
All the consequent, attendant minutiae compassing those
Works; no, my purpose herein is to
Fashion a poem much less circumspect,
Summary, and oddly essayistic
Than quondam ones, yet in so doing
I've partly failed-no matter.
Yet this poem and those indited formerly,
They weren't inscribed beneath some large,
Tyrannous, blindingly refulgent
Saharan sun;
Nor were they beneath the caliginous caul of the night
Scrawled hereon, nay;
It was my oddest delight to compose these at a time of day
Quite interstitial to those abovementioned.
Yet some inky darkness even now depends
And lends its crepuscular, darksome weight to the entire tableau:
That of a poet-writer over his tablet,
Head bent low. Yet, a dichotomy, I find, crops up
Herein, as a more modern meaning of tablet coexists
With that upon which I actually, diligently write
This: Which is merely a glorified book of notes.
*Image of Sun by A Shared Soul.
The Fifth of July
(Pondering A Newness)
A gold sovereign wakes, dimly rises
afar, a relic of sorts once revered the
world round, except occasions when
a quondam ebbs loyalty, ergo, limbo.
Exchanging trenches, a vanguard of
patriots images shrugging dust off
their palls trudging a field of honor,
swapping expressions, ubiquitously.
The vestiges of DC prolix amidst ere
night euphoria, wane. Atonements
for our liberties are owed. A grateful
nation solemnizes.
2021 August 29
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND 1092
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 March 20