Best Reappear Poems
An ember sparked will softly glow,
and fed by fuel, will grow and grow.
I once was cinder, sparked by you,
first timid. . . till the flames then grew.
And so our start was touch of dawn,
with amber hue, for I was drawn
to eyes so welcoming and warm
I never guessed you’d do me harm.
Like morning glory, love in June
the rapture of mid-afternoon,
romance of which the ancients wrote,
our passion had no antidote.
And with the dusk, though scarlet tinged,
our love began to come unhinged,
for clouds arrived, which filled your eyes,
extinguishing bright twilight skies.
With cold of night came shadows’ pall,
and I could not tear down your wall.
By midnight’s hour, the fire was dead.
Mere ashes smoldered in its stead.
You left, and should you reappear,
I’ve vowed to shun you. Now I fear
the very thing for which I yearn -
one touch. . . and then again - to burn.
It's quiet whisper stirs my languid mind
Inviting coffee colored memories
A young man's face with future yet defined
Each vapored breath a page in history
Familiar apparitions reappear
Whose images I dare not chase away
The roads they traveled, washed out by my tears
This morning's chill a bridge to yesterday
Then as the welcome sun breaks o'er the trees
I find myself attended by a smile
Their goodbyes echo in the rustling leaves
As I walk back alone those last few miles
While standing on the porch I get a chill
Although the morning breeze has now grown still
Sept 11 2016
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
Khalil Gibran
In days of darkness,
sad stars shimmer like somber souls.
Upon the return of solitude,
whilst shaping strings of silence,
a troubled tongue becomes a soundless voice.
In each tear there is torment.
Reminiscing unredeemed memories,
heartbeats of the heartbroken echo gently at nightfall,
as a black blanket covers indigo horizons before my eyes.
In an anthology of angst.
Shrouded shadows in manipulative mirrors,
shield the sensitivity of sincere speech.
Without words, embodied emotions,
integrate into invisible inflictions.
Perpetual pain from a poisonous past,
repeats in an unrhymed repetitive rhythm,
as fragile fingers trigger hidden trauma.
In the midst of misunderstood metaphors.
There are secrets in suppression,
with so much lost in a suicide of expression.
Spiteful spirits reappear, reflecting like
neoteric neon drops on midnight shores,
washing away forlorn forgotten footsteps -
yet the sorrows continue into tomorrow.
Trials of time leave behind trails of truth,
as facts of fate fail in this false fairground we call life.
Reflections of regret resonate a reality,
where the world is working on its own worries.
In hollow nothingness, death is a blessing,
as no one offers holy hope -
only silence remains.
“You try to be faithful
And sometimes you're cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can't cope."
Rumi
in the kingdom of love,
nothing is simple,
not even musings,
so tell me:
in your annoyance
do you still think of me
or am i just another
common cliché
in Rumi's philosophies
for cosmic connections,
must we be a
contradiction of circumstance
when our story has been sung
beyond the reach of stars,
so despite the dystopian demons,
i keep hope in the invisible
golden harp strings,
yet to compose our swansong
oh mistress of medusa
in splitting seasons,
when serpents spit venom,
your British horizon soul,
coupled with your
climate change heart,
procreate porcelain patience,
where rhythms of rage
lead to breathless silence,
but i never forget you
it can be tiresome
battling against
ebony lashes from
metaphorical daggers
when vertigo eyes
hunt for their prey
and i wonder if i
was at shooting distance
would you pull the
trigger to rip my
heart like shredding
secretive documents
but despite bonfire breaths,
my samurai spirit has
become immune to
momentary flames,
adopting a mermaid mind,
finding sanctuary in
deep waters until
the last ember dies,
as at the end of each storm,
when rainbows reappear,
i resurface upon your
ivory shores,
for what am i,
but a sea urchin and
you the empress of the sea,
so each time you are cruel,
i wait for the return of
tender gestures,
as i know it is your
veil of vulnerability
you hide from the world,
but in the intricacies of conflict,
i am still the moonlight
glowing upon your ripples,
as i know the code to
your handcrafted heart,
floating in wandering waves,
as you still ignite intimate spiritual
sparks of soothing sensuality,
so never abandon me - forever
in the imperfections of love,
in my abundance of flaws
i know you adore me
internally and externally,
for we are refuge and
safe haven for the broken,
like a masterpiece of
alliterative adjectives
glowing like gems
in topaz textures upon
mookaite mosaics
I know I'm no
Leonardo Di Caprio,
I've never been as
romantic as Romeo,
so love me for
what I am today,
I am not your past
of wasted sunsets,
so ascend with me like
tomorrow's sunrise
"Sweet child in time,
you'll see the line
the line that's drawn between
good and bad"
Having cold sweats again in this godforsaken ninety degree heat. Shivering uncontrollably. God, what I'd do for a warm comforter right now. Zombies all around me mumbling incoherent poetry no one understands or even cares to hear. Young people half my age or less without souls, without heart, without vision.
Nam 1968. The nightmares won't stop even now, fifty-six years later. Nineteen years old. Just a kid. What did I know about good and bad, right from wrong? I did what I was told just like everyone else. When I was young, I used to dream of Eden.
"See the blind man
shooting at the world
bullets flying
taking toll"
Deep in the jungle, trying to rest but sleep is elusive. Out of the corner of my eye I espy a young child, a girl I think. Or is it just a dream? She looks ragged, hungry, sad. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she stumbles through the brush toward us. The air is suffocating, a train is rolling through my head when suddenly I hear a blast from an M16. Sarge yells "Everyone down!" Then an explosion, but this time I can't hear a thing, just debris flying everywhere. And then the child is no more. When I open my eyes, a tiny hand lay two feet away. So delicate, so precious. What the hell am I doing here?
"You'd better close your eyes
bow your head
wait for the ricochet"
Kensington avenue is hell in the real world. It is here I exist and it is here I will die, homeless, sick and alone. The needle is my one last and true friend, for when I am high I am free. It is then that the dreams of Eden reappear, if but for a moment. I am seventy-five years old now, but I never really got to grow up. For you see, back there, in '68, I was just a child in time.
dreams are illusions
white lady offers solace
forgiveness denied
*Kensington Ave, Philadelphia PA
**Song lyrics from Child in Time by Deep Purple
Her persona is like
a portrait
of picturesque perfection,
embalmed in
bittersweet lavender,
unseen within depths
of tributaries of elixir.
If only they knew
the chaos that flows,
constrained in
a confined
gallery of grief.
Not everyone is
a master painter.
Some brush with brutal
bruised strokes,
provoking timeless
streams of
implicit secrets,
from crimson stains
on ivory satin,
where scents of juniper
evoke phases of
unpredicted phenomenons,
oblivious to chronicles
of forsaken tales,
which hide
beneath barriers,
many have struggled
to venture within.
But there is an artist
with a
pastel on his palette,
that can correct
her disfigured pigment.
He holds cryptic
calligraphic engravings,
veiled behind the inflamed
chamber of her heart.
He understands that her
spirit drowns when
winds are forceful.
How her
delicateness has
been sleeping
on withered roses,
wilted by
cruelest rays of a
summer
mourning
morning star,
Where bedtime stories
were puppeteered
by hurricanes
feeding on
fenceless vulnerabilities.
yet when
sleepless silence sings,
it can disturb
in reverberating
heavy metal screams.
So she echoes her trauma
through hurtful hisses,
poisoning with
vicious venom.
Her aura alters in
acrimonious attitudes
from serene sunshine
to furious gales.
She remains without
a grip on untamable
seasons of
unholy torture,
Only he knows the poem
in her eyes is the
last train home,
so he calms her
tempest temperament,
enabling hidden rainbows
in her mind to reappear.
He is a soothing
gemini night-flower,
even with outcries
of midnight thunder,
his patience resembles
raining jasmine water,
purifying
her murky waters,
into a crystallised milky-way
of kyanite desires,
guiding her
to swirl and swoon
into
whirlwinds of closure.
Now that your spirit hovers in chilling night air
Can you find your way to offer me some insight
So many times I pledged my love to show I care
But your lack of response trepidation would ignite
If I could hold you once more, would you tell me now
Would you utter the words I longed so much to hear
Instead of leaving me hanging from love’s frail bough
You’ve passed from earth, but in my dreams you reappear
I see your lips moving and long to comprehend
Words that silently escape into the vast void
I reach for them and your death I try to transcend
Expressions in life that you never employed
Our hearts had been broken countless times before
Your actions showed love, but the words I needed more
Faraway, across a widening
Expanse of vacant fields,
Dawns slated light is gradually
Awaking;
And too soon new Morn's stilled
Indifference
Determinedly steals
Into the abstractions of my fitful
Dreams,
Where, deeply concealed,
Many forgotten memories from days
Since past -
Ne'er once unto me unworthy...
Although long be they in their
Forsaking.
Those languid days, that, lately,
I quite often see and hear
Crowding throughout my wandering
Slumbers;
Vivid recollections, interns of a
Jumbled mind - for ages absent,
Beginning now to inexplicably reappear;
Insistent murmurings troubling -
Troubling incessantly:-
Unwelcomed guests from
Yesteryear...
Strange impositions, of a sorts,
Burdening upon this weary soul,
Which, encamped within my
Dampened Spirits -
Doth so unwittingly encumber!
The.isolated moon in far arc of her epogee,
As she searches Earth's surface in cold winter's hemisphere,
She bites her tongue of protest of what she will never be,
And throws sharp knives of jealousy into the atmosphere.
In the cold moon's distant musings, her echoes can't be heard,
And but for the crunch of snow, silence waits for morning sun.
A blizzard has filled a reservoir, and so needs prepared,
Yet moon added sparkly diamonds to selfish pleasure's run.
The winter moon shivers with knowledge that her days will end,
And a yellow moon will rise during six months of the year.
The anguished, tormented moon whose dark murmurs now portend,
She will vanquish the yellow moon, and once more reappear.
Belief is the nemesis of uncertainty,
in times of torment we keep faith
in God's gift of blessings bestowed upon us.
In a world without morals
Children of summer seek refuge
in colder climates; leaving behind
loved ones in the care of the almighty.
In days of Devilish darkness,
sad stars hibernate like somber souls.
Upon the return of solitude,
whilst shaping strings of silence,
a troubled tongue becomes a soundless voice.
Reminiscing unredeemed memories,
heartbeats echo gently at nightfall,
as a black blanket covers indigo horizons.
Shrouded shadows in manipulative mirrors,
shield the sensitivity of sincere speech.
Without words, embodied emotions,
integrate into invisible inflictions.
Perpetual pain from a poisonous past,
repeats in an unrhymed repetitive rhythm,
as fragile fingers trigger hidden trauma.
There are secrets in suppression,
with so much lost in a suicide of expression.
Spiteful spirits reappear, reflecting like
neoteric neon drops on midnight shores,
washing away forlorn forgotten footsteps.
Trials of time leave behind trails of truth,
as facts of fate fail in this false fairground.
Reflections of regret resonate a reality,
where the world is working on its own worries.
In hollow nothingness, no one offers holy hope -
only silence remains.
As snow covers frozen shores,
hearts look to horizons of higher powers.
Hope for a prospect of principles
from our creator, creates
realms of reverie offering refuge.
Lost in a moonlight dream world,
dormancy evokes pale hued horizons.
A serene scene of saffron, scarlet shades,
glowing gloriously in a devotional dawn.
After an advent of adversity,
ascending in adornment of appreciation -
born again blooms blossom to butterfly breaths.
I walked up to the bunkhouse, beneath a cloudless sky,
searching to find the Christmas star, still shining there on high.
The bunkhouse was warm but lonesome with no other cowboys there.
They had all gone home for Christmas. I pretended not to care.
Christmas carols on the radio brought back thoughts of the star
that had shown down on those pastures in that Eastern land so far.
Taking off my vest and Sunday shirt, I threw them on the trunk.
I stripped down to my underwear and crawled into my bunk.
My day had started early. I had worked hard with the crew,
so they could start their Christmas fun, when all the chores were through.
With no wife nor kids to need me, I had told the rest I'd stay
and watch out for the cattle. They could have their Christmas Day.
The warm room made me sleepy and I started into doze.
Right there before my astounded eyes, the Christmas Star arose.
I was a lonely shepherd in that land so far away,
who had been left to guard the sheep until the break of day.
I heard the angels singing and saw the moving star.
I marveled at the beauty and glory from afar.
The bright star beckoned to me and angels led the way
to where the future king of all lay in a mound of hay.
I wanted so to follow them but I had pledged my word.
I had to turn a deaf ear to the messages I heard.
I knew my solemn duty lay in guarding helpless sheep.
I prayed the Lord's forgiveness but the vigil I must keep.
The star reflected in the eyes of creatures all around,
waiting for the lonely stray or any sheep they found.
I could not shirk my duty to seek Him out that night,
but I knew I never would forget that glorious, wondrous sight.
I had that dream some years ago, but should that star reappear,
I've hung my rope and saddle up. I can follow with no fear.
Posted: 12/1/14 For "One of your best" contest
Panacea
Panacea…
Goodbye, my love, do not fear, I am here, no more tear.
Dear dear, no more fear, in my dream, reappear, reappear.
Wake up dear, can you hear? Wake up, my love, fly like dove.
I am here; kiss me dear, mommy dear, I am near.
With my two eyes, I taste your lips; panacea was all your kiss.
I am aware, from far away, go, my dear, with no more fear.
Your love, my world, your love my book, you're the world, I was the look,
Your voice shall chant in my silence, I can hear, so clear.
Come back, dear, I am in pain; I need to see, come back to me.
Pain and darkness, night and silence, all are here; I am here.
Lonely I am, silent shadows calling your name, always the same.
Go, my dear, go to heaven, all the angels full of cheer.
Without your touch, nothing feels right; my days are night,
My nights are long, full of fear; what do I need? A burning spear.
Your world, “Haloo” shattered with pain, tears falling, falling like rain;
Panacea is just a dream; I just want to disappear.
For Mom
10/27/16 Haloo
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound
the lamas leap and the water falls-- clear,
mindful, the wind's play on the Quechua's ground.
The majesty of the Andes astounds
for from behind the clouds, the peaks reappear.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Like great red-clay dunes or snow capped mounds;
courts rise and fall in terrain, so austere;
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Rainbows of red, blue, and gold oft surround
distant ruins of gray stones, now severe
from the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Solid, earth-bound, sun-browned, lost to the hounds,
so, Quechua shepherds bound stairs cavalier--
mindful; the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Pachamama's love surrounds without bounds,
long gone are the conquers; all life is here,
from the mountain's peak, the wooden flutes sound--
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
* Quechua is one of the native people of Peru
**The Dominican Monks set hounds trained to kill
on the natives who refused conversion.
*** Pachamama, fertility Godess in Incas Mythos
I always weep for you in the hush of eventide hills.
In their mystical muteness I can hear your heartbeats.
As tears indulge in indigo dusky deepening horizons,
I put my hope in the last morning star which lusters
upon waves with sapphire iridescence shades of eternity,
flowing upon seashell shores stroking your sacred footprints.
Ever since your opulent hypnotic essence
stole the innocence of my lucent purity,
you've left me drunk on the wine of passion.
I'm stumbling like a drunkard in the dappled depth of desire,
with my provocative facade forming into a bodacious flame,
searching for my poetic pearl lost in a sea of mauve enchantment.
Wailing winds have discoloured my eyes with stained illusions,
in their darkness, I yearn for your sunlit glimmer to reappear.
I've been kissing the emptiness of porcelain moonlight,
since you left behind the taste of your fragrant lullaby.
Wondering if my kiss illuminated the ebony entities,
veiled inside your mystique of midnight eyes.
Visions of your majestic scarlet seraphim lips,
poised in sultry pulsation, forever flutter,
floating like blended opal and onyx butterflies.
Their tender beauteous softness merging
like ambrosia echoes of a cocoon, composing
the sweetness of saccharine symphonies,
caressing my soul like a magnolia breeze.
Oh my beloved ethereal lover,
will I be forever dreaming of your paradisiacal grace,
seeking your celestial scent from dusk till dawn?
Won't you gift me one shimmery glimpse
of your rialto rosette silhouette.
Forever wrap me in the sanctuary of your satin wings,
like the warm merino shawl of love's allure.
Why leave me in this state of silent saudade,
where I hunger for the silken hymn of your tongue.
Why bless me with such treasures,
only to deprive me?
The Silent One
27 December 2022
Another prompt, just another poem,
but are these genuine feelings I'm showing?
I think of past versions of my existence,
changing with each season without resistance.
But now I'm too fatigued to study myself,
so leave me alone on a dusty bookshelf.
Sitting upon the edge of unread distant shores,
soul sighs, tired from being a misunderstood metaphor.
Sometimes the inner child loves to run wild,
try to be patient, he forgets how he once smiled.
I can't keep blaming those ghosts from childhood,
but it disturbs the mind when all I see is graphic blood.
I'm trying hard to control these red mists of rage,
to start a new chapter with new verses on a page.
I search for avenues that lead me to chapters of purity,
but this facade hides behind deep suppressed insecurity.
Low self esteem massacres my confidence,
I'm just a man who sometimes lacks common sense.
My outbursts of slaughter are just a means for defence,
apologise in advance if I caused any offence.
Forgive me, I can never take back the sorrows I caused,
but is that any reason for love to remain paused?
You won't see any tears, but they hide my fears.
I've seen through the years that torment never clears.
Encrypted musings of my heart hide behind pain,
Sometimes the wounds reappear and still strain.
I close every door to find silent solitude,
but these devious demons begin to intrude.
Ranting and raving as the Devil joins the queue,
wanting to take me to a darkness that I once knew.
Toxic vampires sucking at my bleeding empathy,
compassion goes out of fashion lacking sympathy.
I try to explain but my views only frustrate,
after a while it seems my opinions are out of date.
Then you wonder why I refuse to communicate,
ignorance of my emotions isn't up for debate.
Silence seems to be the best form of narration.
No one is listening to the angst of my damnation.
I'm content in the deep depths of isolation,
don't summon my soul without an invitation.
Silent One
23 March 2022