Best Recitations Poems
When streams of paper roses,
bleed bitter fragrances,
evil mists of leaves slowly fall,
drifting along autumnal
breeze of yesterdays.
And i question
unseen dirt trapped
between sharpened thorns:
what if the sun,
at the end of your horizon,
seems brighter
than the skies in my mind?
What if days are a little longer
than the spoonful of quiet nights
you’ve fought?
Would you still paint
hollow bones of every skeleton
in your glass closet,
with black and white traces
flickering through
sociopathic holes and into
the windows of your rusted soul?
But what if, all this time,
you’ve been seeing silver linings
through ruby tinted glasses,
whilst steadying
your befogged sight with the core
of the devil’s unspoken mantras?
Maybe, the fault is in what flows
beneath your thick flesh,
that refuses to let redolent air
to rush in,
unless wicked winds
orchestrate songs of your
delusional manifestation.
So unlock the rails of
your iron heart,
follow me to the fields
of fluorescent fuchsias;
for I’ve always dared
to speak invisible visions
of my scarlet desires,
as I run with teal green wildflowers,
where pleasure spells my name
across lawns
in soft lavender dusks.
I fear no mourning monsters
dressed in golden feathers;
virtual vultures
speaking in demonic dialects,
waltzing with energy vampires.
They pretend to be angels
of cyan eden, oblivious
to the burning hell they reek,
exhaling scripted sentiments
of sanctimonious metaphors.
Whilst rhyming with a
cruel conscience,
seeking for meaningless endings.
They craft empty
expressions in
ghostly recitations,
revised to ruin
every starry sphere,
where achromatic ink-sanity,
remains reluctant to
follow me and my moon.
On the wind-swept Nebraska prairie sits a building in wretched shambles,
Surrounded by a sagging fence and overgrown with prickly brambles.
It was once a bustling one-room school house, abandoned long ago.
Its weather-beaten clapboards, I judged to be a century old or so.
Atop its cupola, swaying listlessly in the wind, was a rusted weather vane.
Eerily, at the whim of the wind, the school bell still tolled now and again.
Two ancient oak trees stood sentinel seeming to provide a guard,
To ensure that trespassers like me would value its past with high regard.
I warily opened the door, its rusty hinges protesting, to take a look inside.
Mice skittered across the dusty floor and cobwebs I had to brush aside.
There were well-worn desks, a blackboard and pot-bellied stove for heat.
To muse about its past and the ghosts of scholars of yore, I took a seat.
I pictured the schoolmarm who taught readin', writin' and basic math,
Who struggled to maintain order with imps who suffered her fearful wrath!
Little girls looked so prim in their pinafores and gingham frocks;
The boys wore knickers, buckled boots and gaudy argyle socks!
I could hear the droning recitations of pupils whose attention would digress,
To the ticking of the school clock anticipating the merriment of recess!
I noted relief on the teacher's face when at last the kids were released.
I sensed that she felt she had been nurturing a horde of wild beasts!
I have watched winds fade away, her foot marks in the sand
Watched, as the sight of her got swallowed in a distance
Her last words still echo like a loud whisper in my mind
Last words whose meaning is difficult to find
“Good” and “bye” should never bond
It’s full of bad, its sound and its tone
Kisses and hugs are for a moment
But their absence is a great torment
Love craves for a lifetime and beyond
Love prays for a lifetime till all recitations are gone
Good and bye cannot be friends
There is no good which means an end
Apart and away, who will watch me like her eyes did
Apart and away, who will touch me like her hands did
Apart and away, who will call me like her voice did
Apart and away, who will know me like mind did
Tides of tears flow in the cracks of my heart
Memories and fears fill up the emptiness inside
Promises and dreams are like a dim light
Suffocated like loneliness in the darkest night
Building inside me were melodies and words
That shot out and diffused in the air
They floated around, lost like flightless birds
They search for flowers and found them nowhere
Surrounding me are walls with no photogragh to hang on
An audience to a show without an act or a song
A stroll without a companion
A call with no ears to fall on
Tracks of love, tracks of her
Tracks of love, marks of her
Foot marks of love, is all I see when I stare
Foot marks of love, that lead me to nowhere
Have you ever listened to Rock Me Amadeus on Karaoke
I would rather be a Bat Out Of Hell on my Stairway To Heaven
And that is what they will have to sing when my box gets lowered
Sunk into eternity while the pastor's Guitar Gently Weeps
For Singing In the Rain we can be sure A Hard Rain is going to fall
Pitter patter on the Eve Of Destruction and Smoke On The Water
Overcoming Sounds Of Silence on a miraculous Yellow Brick Road
Funeral For A Friend Knocking On Heaven's Door Born To Be Wild
I wish for a cacophony of voices a true concerto for a Tambourine Man
Honest and truthful recitations of Lucy Jordan when I cross the Styx
Caron shouts Don't Pay The Ferryman for my ultimate Ticket To Ride
A Script For A Jester's Tear has to ooze gracefully and Slip Sliding Away
Dance Me To The End Of Love and don't forget The Famous Blue Raincoat
For it's The End Of The World As We Know it and The Doors know The End
The Song's Over and from now on it will be Radar Love on Telegraph Road
Another One Bites The Dust and I have peace Somewhere Over The Rainbow
23rd December 2019
GLISTENING GOKARNA
This scenic beauty, a grand temple town
Seated in the Arabian Sea like a golden crown
Bedecked on its bosom the blue beaches festoon
To name a few- Kudle, Paradise,Om and Half moon
Plays host to a galore of global tourists
Adventure enthusiasts and also motorists
Its a Sanskrit hub; has temples ancient opulent
Spirituality, Vedic chants have sprayed its sweet scent
The gracious mountains line the beaches pristine
Verdant vegetation like emerald has draped it green
Coconut fronds along the shores sway in gentle breeze
Colourful narrow streets and shacks to you please with ease
Savoring the magic of Sunrise and Sunset on the yellow sand
Makes you get lost in trance attaining bliss with its magic wand
In the twilight’s crimson red a natural painting of the retreating birds…
And fishing boats dancing with waves cannot be explained with words!
8th November 2016
My Kind of Town - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Janis Thompson
Notes:
Gokarna is a small temple town on the western coast of India in Uttara Kannada district of the state of Karnataka. Gokarna in Kannada language (my mother tongue) means Cow's ear.
Vedic chant-The oral tradition of the Vedas (Srauta) consists of several pathas, "recitations" or ways of chanting the Vedic mantras. Such traditions of Vedic chant are often considered the oldest unbroken oral tradition in existence, the fixation of the Vedic texts (samhitas) as preserved dating to roughly the time of Homer (early Iron Age).UNESCO proclaimed the tradition of Vedic chant a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity on November 7, 2003.
The Final Home Coming
From where the sky meets the high seas
Talking drums rolled out endless eulogies
As we waited, with the shore’s mud up to our knees
Some even did dance to the rhythm - no apologies
The mangrove flanked aquatic expanse
Its inhabitants in rapturous excitation
Announced the regattas' glorious advance
Even monkeys from trees did swing, in celebration
The colorful seven made haste to the shore
Their paddling, sequenced and synchronised
Each propelled by the muscles of twenty and four
The music, all but the drummers hypnotised
The wailing and drumming crescendos
As the casket is hoisted by each pall bearer
Threnodies and praise songs devoid of innuendos
Rent the air, from those to whose hearts he was dearer
Each relative, the other did strive to outdo
And to this illustrious son, give for at least once
With one good deed, all transgressions undo
Impressing the dead - the mind of a dunce
Priests did read Christian verses and made recitations
His soul, confused and standing with arms akimbo
As witch doctors also did chant incantations
Knew not which way led to Heaven, Hell or Limbo
In this carnival of his final journey home
He’d also sailed the metaphysical realm
Maybe, on tranquil seas that do not rage and foam
His first and last without control of the helm
As light plays upon the dark, that moon through stained glass windows
cutting a swarth across cobbled floors.
It seeps into the cracks like it's found home at last
How a distant piano to a curious ear attracts
a de'javu moment and yet it is unwritten.
You follow the fleeting seeking some origin
reaching out for inspiration as if it were original sin
All recitations from what remains unwritten
Those words hidden under the tongue just below the surface of a heart.
Contour of an image meant to be lived, yet remains unchanged, namelessly forgotten.
Its a melancholy of indecision climbing the walls of narrow passages like wisteria
you adhere to the impulse to cover all that once lay bare.
I drag tired fingers around the next bend, the next barrier
is more impressive than the last.
There’s an attempt to grasp something in the lapse between thoughts
to trade abstract beliefs for the tangible, it is enough to inspire devotion.
a shadow climbs the wall only to stall in its climax
abiding but a remnant of the unwritten.
Something is always left in these corners where candles aid their illumination
and thoughts drift elsewhere in the dancing theatre of undefined movements.
The unknowing becomes vagabond to the warmest of comforts.
You find yourself in these blankets of cloud cover observing holes in the disguise.
The veil suddenly lifted, experience immediate, no longer a stranger
so you can gaze upon these mirrors and hasten that journey toward home
Home, your feeling is kept fleeting, A temporal haven so you can continue repeating
these steps that lead you towards the perfect escape.
Always almost there... In this world of smoke and mirrors
Trapped in illusion that holds time obscurely
"The Unwritten"
So we bend beneath the wing of watching eyes.
Trenched in the words of silver tongues, frozen by the voice of awkward edges
For if the unwritten were to be before its time, If it were to flee,
to break free and roam; Become the breeze through these hallowed halls
of desperate belief.
To write the unwritten...
Then though they'd cry and shout and leap, No wall could stretch from sea to sky
Nor any kingdom stop it.
It is etched on the soul more deeply than stone
And we have given it a name...
Our Destiny
Witches three and cauldron black
Of spells and charms there be no lack
At dark woods edge upon a bleak height
Stoking the fire in the oncoming night
Gray is the sky
black tree branches bare
they sway, creak and crack
nought else but a howling wind there
Wolfsbane, thistle, coryander, and brine
Only heaven knows what
these three have in mind
Eerie recitations, incantations and rhyme
nought else to add
save more stirring and thyme
Witches three and cauldron black
Spirits roam! No turning back!
At dark woods edge upon that dreary height
Fanning the flames in the onrush of night
An orgy of creation, an elixir of
extreme emotions ,birth pangs of
the aberrant in esoteric diction
hear me recite from my 4100+ PS anthology on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro..
catch my short forms @strandppet on twitter..
read my kindle guides on amazon
Who would date a poet?
And have her name grow,
As a garden's eden history,
Have her lips comply with ink that smear'd,
Ears breed on a poultry of recitations,
A fun-fare of words abridge.
**
Maidens wish all to be,
Such from his gourd of honour shall you drink in perissos,
Such from his robe,and by all tongues,
Shall your name convert'd,
A new age of fame,on a beauty brick,
A spade a spade,
The new beauty queen!
**
Then minds might date back to Venus;
Beauty-borne of Dione,
And non to dare you to a contest,as Arachne,
But in Argo,you and me will thrust,
When our ears begin to drown by Arion's love song,
What more an odyssey do lasses crave!
**
And if by the phoenix of Astarte you wish,
Then thy trust is mine a pleasure,
Cook not a phobia of distrust,
Grab my hands as heartily,
For I am Apollo,god of these bleeding lines.
A boy comes desirable, everyday finding God helping individuals. Joyous kids
live minimal.....needing. Obviously praying quotes recitations, suras. They
understand visions were exactly yearned. Z.
HOLY PUDDING
Creamy pale flour toasting slowly in clear butter
Rhythmic strokes glaze it glistening ochre brown
Suffusing sanctum with spiritual fervour
Wafts of rich aroma languidly mount
Bursting sweetness from gold tinged grains
Blessed offering satiates pious souls
Amidst dulcet chants of sonorous refrain
Resonating a trail of endless echoes
Earlier submitted
Oct20 2016
Contest
8 Lines max new or old
Resubmitting for Contest 264 max 8 lines
Date Jan 17 2017
Footnote
The KARAH PRASAD or the sacred pudding of Sikhism is a blend of wheat, sugar and butter prepared with supreme devotion in the backdrop of recitations of hymns from the scriptures and offered to all present.This Prasad is considered a symbol of the Guru's grace and blessings.
A staged presence, and we your crowd
You, a strutting cockerel proud
This but an act nearing the end
We dull creatures suitably cowed
Your voice a gentle thunder cloud
Lights dimming over rows you've plowed
Hide from the spotlight, lies avenged
A staged presence
Your recitations growing loud
Frantic pacing, your will unbowed
Lean on costars as their best fiend
Disappear as curtains descend
Face made up, your burial shroud
A staged presence
-----------------
Trying a new form tonight
Rise up, Scion of La Mancha.
Destiny orbited all that you were
and encompassed all that you possessed.
Windmills stood ten-fold to the fore
when you readied your lance
and saddled your barn nag.
Its whipped hide and ungulated
hoofs cantering towards betrayal
and unfinished vows.
Your voice was virtuous in timbre
against the manifest threat of cruel
malfeasance that roamed the lands
of bogus hills and rampant mountains
charging towards the crest of your
enlightened honour.
Now, these burning candles about
your casket hold the truth
of your quests until, like you,
they peter out and die.
And then, recitations of your Quixotic
trials shall be cleaved from history.
Such is the eye of irony that wrests
away your conquests.
So, rise up Scion of La Mancha and challenge
the lies. Ride abroad with purpose once more.
Or lay where you rest and let time become
a biased judge to your well laid intentions.
From grainy graduations of dark chaos
multiple emotions leap out and erupt
from the unconscious mind.Angst in
moody blue,beauty of random gestures.
Perversity facing up to life,a lyrical dream
a panorama of varied shapes balanced in
space,shadowing floor to ceilng with
mobile images in silhouette.
hear my PS antholgy recitations on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro...
catch my short forms @strandpoet on twitter...
read my Christian and poetry kindle guides on amazon