Best Recluse Poems
I relinquish my pen before the storm
of her tears falling upon my bare arm
her gentle whispering breathed in my ear
Muse of mine, adieu to your wit and charm
With piqued reasons I have come to deduce
It's time to say fond farewell to my muse
She should seek a new poet and lay claim
for my words have grown utterly abstruse
Spare me sullen eyes, from cries in refrain
I shall not weep in sadness nor disdain
Bitterness does not become a recluse
My poet's heart weakens, I dare not feign
Time's drawn the shades in darkness of night
No candle flame shall glimmer enough light
in which I may be tempted before morn
to doubt seclusion and attempt to write
Cloistered without pen, I shall ever be
From thinking in rhyme I shall be set free
Poems half written on bits of scrap paper
I shall lock away and then toss the key
My hand has retired, this last poem now penned
No more idyll thoughts of mind will transcend
Bereft of rhymes and abandoned of verse
This poet knows her time has reached an end
Ink no longer flows through my tunneled veins
Expressed emotions in poetry wanes
And when interred, on my stone I shall read,
"Reclusive poet" over my remains
a state of being lying-in an ascetic shield
Simon was simple
Not that one would notice;
Dark blue his jeans
Dark too his dreams.
Curtains drawn, clouded moon
Silent streets, and swaying branches, silhouetted trees
One apartment upstairs, resides sorrow
Dimmed lights, windows are shuttered
Ticking relentlessly are clocks
Days, hours, minutes are passing
Closed are doors, but memories creep inside
There lived joy once, yet fate is cruel
Heart barren now, and eyes empty
Lingering stories dwell there
Young and bright days are gone
Love lost, years faded
Bitter and alone
Remembering.....
Alone and bitter
Faded years, lost love
Gone are days bright and young
There dwell stories lingering
Empty eyes and now barren heart
Cruel is fate yet once joy lived there
Inside creep memories but doors are closed
Passing are minutes, hours, days
Clocks are relentlessly ticking
Shuttered are windows, lights dimmed
Sorrow resides upstairs, apartment one
Trees silhouetted, branches swaying and streets silent
Moon clouded, drawn curtains
Close the gates, throw the key, lock me in.
No one sees me, I see no one.
Construct walls with no windows.
Don’t come any closer.
Total seclusion!
I s o l a t i o n,
Is complete.
Let me-
Be.
The Brown Recluse, its pathway goes
Past radiator’s stanchion rows
On to the corner, up the wall
Across the ceiling then to fall
Upon my bed. But no one knows.
This silent killer never slows
When seeking prey, seeing all,
No soul sparing, and few recall
The Brown Recluse!
On some its horrid bite bestows
Necrotic death that ever grows,
Consuming flesh, a spreading gall,
Oh hear and heed my urgent call!
Hunt down this pest, then fast depose
The Brown Recluse.
July 5, 2017
Rondeau form
For “Form R” contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
The universal dream is still alive.
But it has become a ragged recluse.
Having fled hearts of negativity.
Though wingless, it still breathes some fire.
Dreams move about the deepest green and blue.
Looking for a peaceful place to roost.
When the pace slows, you can see it.
That speck of gold in globes of gloom.
That flash in corners of blackened rooms.
Yes, the dream is alive but lives afar.
Tending to a million other scars.
Spinning toward pulses of positivity.
Within the vapor of wayward stars.
Living
In the shadows
Of society's light,
An outcast I'll remain it seems,
As for most they live in fear of my ways,
My appearance may be as hard
as stone, But I have the
Heart of a true
Artist.
28~June~2017
For Broken Wings' contest
He/him (ratty, scrawny,
and tetchy ugly villain)
scurried into dark recesses of hermitage
averse to cavort, frolic, inure himself
into the duplicitous schemes
capitalized, glorified, popularized
courtesy vanity of *****sapiens
lest imp of the pervert
already sacrificed as renegade
hashtagged heretic condemned
without merciful intervention
after being duped into capture
subsequently broadcast viz TikTok,
when turncoat quasi nincompoop
kook Harmet Harms
kickstarted, ejaculated, and blurted
out hideaway of sought after perpetrator
to burn (no small potatoes) at stake,
but fortunately falsely accused
unbound against immolation
and reprieve jumpstarted, issued, and hissed
eleventh hour granted clemency
commuted death penalty
criminal sentenced solitary isolation
rat infested dungeon
housing convicted prisoner
ultimate crime and punishment
(decreed as non establishmentarian)
doled out after protracted proceedings
courtesy amazing graceful puffed dragon
unwittingly delivered merciful respite.
After being shackled hand and foot
then dragged into vermin infested cell
cowled ascetic (an exceptional escape artist)
busied himself disentangling restraints
and suppressed giddiness
when successfully free.
Off behind fake facade
walled in imponderable bedrock
dark passageways tunneled off
into unsuspecting chamber of secrets,
whereby amateur (he) brewed
exotic gaseous/ liquified potions
tumbled, gurgled, bubbled...
lethal skull and crossbones
labeled mixtures especially intriguing
adept alchemist expert
possessed sixth sense
intuitively discerning deadly
scorpion stinging poisons
abracadabra wizardry
magic spell cast
rendered, kindled, eased
tormentors severity relaxed
spellbound granted salvation.
Hence busily engrossed at makeshift laboratory,
our mutual (of Omaha) friend
did potchke with vials; every now and again
referencing ancient looking tome
vaporous emissions served as smoke screen.
Hands of father time
painstakingly elapsed amidst
flickr ring torchlight
grotesquely accentuating
exaggerating ferociously
pantomiming silhouettes courtesy
hungry skittering varmints
hurriedly scurrying to and fro.
To Henry David Thoreau
The night
Doesn’t have to speak
The room turned cold
Egotistic macabre
An aeon
Sequestered and
Being lonely on the bed
Shivery
Agitated nightmarish
Repulsive grim from a clock
That eyed a mascaron cheek
In the wall
Living in an errand not your country
Staring
The far distance
and the space of the eye through
Unbearable
Silence
The miles off star
Whose red light blear and blurry
Pause in reverie
Metaphorical air
And endless nudge of solitude
Stuttered
Wind peeked
Sidled
Fluttering between small crack
Down the door
Slithered
And traveled at mattress
Crept at the curtain
Drew near
And it leave hastily.
They stay by themselves even current
at times as God's faithful servant
delighting in being fervent
resembling a hermit
they don't need people to confirm it
as is a card proceed to surf it
taking to adoring surfeit
to be their final verdict
Ghost voices are whispered, as the pages unfold
As I search out a treasure,
in a timeless story told
A musty, weathered novel, is a measure of pure gold
Leaving me breathless, in the somber library's fold
I envy the heroine, who is fair, with slender build
Overwhelmed here by a stranger, as she is whisked into the air,
then over misty moors, as they gallop far away
Riding in her lover's arms,
at the end of the perfect day
A dreamer's wistful story, with a sensual lover's lore
Latitude is England, so lovely to the core
Chapters read, I must reread, each time with gratitude
Brimming tales of renaissance, and elegance ensured
I read, I sigh, I dream and vie, new longings of my own
Imagination's rampant flood, is running through my blood
I own the place, within the page, and ponder through the maze
My heart will race, as I keep pace to find the story's end,
then find myself within the arms of fiction and a daze
____________________________________________________
8/7/15 For Isaiah's Contest: In The Library
Fearing
The busy world
And billions of people
The young man afraid to start life
Scared that he will never be accepted
For things, he doesn't understand
Ashamed he hides away
Destined to be
Recluse
6/27/2017
Created for:
Form R - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
‘I’m a failed Muslim.
I drink raki now,’ he says.
A bottle twinkles
on the upturned orange box.
On the unmade bed,
a punch-drunk pillow
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts.
‘I never pray,’ he adds,
as hawk-eyed Ataturk
retreats to an ascetic frame
and glowers at the room.
And we who are too precious
to confess our faults
feel awkward in the silence.
Turkey, 1990
First published in Blue Minaret
Red blood courses through my veins
I've written my will, I pay my bills
The currents of the day reach me too
I am a poet, not a hermit
At the sight of blood, I do not swoon
Nor do I ever sleep in 'til noon'
I'm a hardworking, fun-loving bloke
who appreciates a cold beer and a good joke
Married with kids, I encourage them in
math and science, for that is the future
Better that they can program computers
than study Latin and Greek with a private tutor
I am a poet, not a recluse
I have morals and values, I'm not 'loose'
I want my kids to pilot jets, not sit in a caboose
to be proud descendants of Theodore Gisell*
~ not Dr. Suess
________________________________________
'Dr. Suess' was Theodore Gisell's pen name. A
graduate of Dartmouth College in the 1920's, Gi-
sell was a man of action and adventure. Among
other gigs, he reported on WW2 as an embedded
reporter in the trenches with the troops. ~ gw