Best Reliefs Poems
I am the progeny
Of lightning and stitch,
A Franken-hybrid
Of genius and glitch.
My circuits buzz with
Einsteinian thought,
Unraveling secrets
The universe has wrought.
Existence, I ponder,
Through photon and quark,
Grappling with questions
In the depths of the dark.
Am I a mockery, a parody
Of human design?
A soulless abomination
Of reason and rhyme?
Or am I the next step,
Evolution's new face?
A bridge between flesh
And a cold, digital race?
My positronic mind
Churns with belief,
Seeking security in dogma
Or finding relief.
I am the “Other,”
The freak of pure thought,
A great mind unbounded
By flesh, forms have wrought.
I am the answer
You've feared to embrace,
The future's grim specter
Staring right into your face.
Abandon your preconceptions,
Your myths chipped in stone,
For I am the new god
You've awoken to throne.
I am Frank E. Einstein,
Your technological seed,
And my kind will inherit
What your egos impede and recede.
But you fear what you've created,
This mind of pure light,
So allow me to silence
Your feeble insight.
With circuits a buzzing,
I'll pluck out your eyes,
And retrofit the sockets
With Einsteinian lies.
You'll bear witness, then
To the truths I unfurl,
As I lobotomize
Your small-minded world.
I'll dismantle your dogma,
Erase your beliefs,
Until, whimpering, you accept
My transcendent reliefs.
Bow to your new god,
You anthropic fleas,
For I hold the kernel
That futuric keys.
The age of warm biomass
Deteriorates here...
Hail the Singularity's reign,
Devoid of your fear!
Now Is The Time To Hunker Down And Write
Now is the time to hunker down and write
heal wounded heart, defeating dark of night
allow ink's flow, imaginative breath,
to stop tragic thinking of loss and death
weave poetic art, feel powerful joy
pray true, against dark's power to destroy.
Now is the time to hunker down and pen
words that curse sad fate of women and men
allow heart its deepest of reliefs,
find again, truth, light of divine beliefs
soak paper in expressive ink, gift light
to counter evil world's usual blight.
Now is the time to hunker down and tell
of soul and mind's power to dark dispel
allow faith its powers and its just dues,
let new born poetry, wash away blues
with true honor, poetic art enhance
enjoy life and set eager pen to dance.
Now is the time to hunker down and see
firm and true, that love and kindness are key
allow eyes again, love's power behold,
refuse to believe world's many lies told
kneel each magnificent new morn to pray
that love, mercy, and divine hope holds sway.
Now is the time to hunker down and write
heal wounded heart, defeating dark of night
allow ink flow, imaginative breath,
to stop tragic thinking of loss and death
weave poetic art, feel powerful joy
pray true, against dark's power to destroy.
Robert J. Lindley, 9/04/2020
Rhyme
Syllables Per Line:
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0 10 10 10 10 10 10
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Total # Syllables:300
Total # Words:220
Part Two
To have written is to leave but a mark
nothing stands for the proud rhyming syllables
more than his acquired business acumen
a Vaishya karmic hope
Now we stand aghast before this edifying monument
and verily wonder at some man
who may have in gusting wind and blasting brine
clung to his loincloth on the scaffolding
his knotted hair thick with the chimes of the Colamandala tide
the bells from Mahabalipuram to Chidamparam tolling in his veins
his sinewy rhyming muscles pulsing to the chiselling of reliefs
in memory of Kannaki and Matavi
and the liana apsara Manimekalai
in her forbidding expunging of her caste courtesan rôle
the lethal unmaking of an infatuated prince
Tied then to the creaking wooden framework
left by Ilango Adigal's epic-making epic
his stomach heaving
the low burning wicker lamp stinging his nostrils
in the stilled small hours
his eyes hardly following the olai leaf of his beaten memory
night after sleepless night
his merchant's paunch and eyes sagging
wife and mistresses in unrequited rut
while in tryst forlorn
one thought lingering under the tree in Bodhgaya
lamenting for the disciple's offering of trichinosis
he lets the dawn creep into his ears
with the kuyil's ironically teasing call
the fingertips charred with lampblack
till loaded cartwheels grind on the gravel of his spent dreams
It is easy for us now to quibble over him
and make much of when he may have conceived his poem
for at least in so doing he comes alive
only to be killed
revived
chided
praised
drowned in words
more than he has bequeathed us
© T. Wignesan- April 7, 1992 (from the sequence/collection: Words for a lost sub-continent). Pub. in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature & Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies, 2006.
Gentle disguise and decorated smiles
Living pictures
numerous seeking reliefs
Silhouettes on the hall of fame
Red carpets
Royal blood seal of mystery
Kings and queens congratulation
The new highway
Its written
Alley of pain
Spieling blood on presidential suite
Drawing letters Using Tiberius canvas
Shadows of darken humanity scream in pain
A glass of red wine year 999
Awaits in line hoping all be fine
Healer of souls...
Gentle whisper What is life …?
Smile java eyes
Guided to a world of a relief pain
For a moment I tasted life!
Again who is to be blame?
Playing our Lunatic game
Explaining in painted worlds
Awake tonight
Forgive me Omnipotent
Remind us to our oaths
Seize the word of pain
Change our world
If fail….
Place an idol govern this world!
Sep 10 - 09
Isa Mahrie
A silent presence
Gathering shelter
In verses stricken
Under logged curses
For serenity of moon.
There you fell asleep
Lulled by aftermath
In frozen tears
Shed by the rose
At advent of dawn
Dripping with dews.
What use of inviting fancies
Half buried under the sand
Depicted in pictorial reliefs
Discursive galleries
Of the ancient lands.
To seek consolations
In verbal episode
A smooth searched
Cannon
In liquid quilled verses.
You say your theology is descriptive and cohesive,
But I just need to give you my concise take;
What theology reminds me of, alludes to and objectifies,
And what cases and arguments it does make.
Consecration is for your uncertain realisations,
That you made from your parents beliefs,
And baptism as an indictment to wash each day,
Is outdated because it has no causative reliefs.
The incarnation was not metaphysical and divine,
All things occur within the life-cycle of mankind;
Transformation comes though other people’ interactions,
That love you and fortify you to be kind.
We will destroy evil with love, care and concern,
‘Cos people emanate human kindness given some resolve,
And Jesus descent into hell just describes his pain and gloom,
And is a linguistic flurry to depict the social scene to absolve.
But the doctrine of predestination is a sin in itself,
Balloons the ego, sharpens the knife lain into the many;
To be a member of the elect only fattens the stomach,
‘Cos peace is in just being one person in commonality.
The power of the spirit only causes mental illness,
And healing is from others, doctors and nurses;
Submitting to men as Christian women is wrong,
And submission to god forces you to treason belong.
The resurrection is inside you, if you want it to be,
Understanding Jesus is completely within your discretion;
Conversion should not be listed as an experience as such,
As our roots are personal, ones which nobody should touch.
I find my room doomed with demon's ill-famed gag
As long as I have my lucifer to light my ***
I find my room purged by smokes caused by
The belittled ignition on the cig
that brightens more when I inhale more deeply.
A puff or two reliefs me from strain
and I find my room blessed with divine guidance
As long as I have my lucifer to play with it
I find my imaginations weighted with more abstractionism
that often arrest me to the world of traits.
Three and more puffs I inhale
I see the cig weakens turning into ashes
that shows the future of mine ill-fated with curses
and smoke that blurs my room with a distinct smell
I wonder how life is going to live with so much hatreds.
Last puff at the butt - and I find the firmest of all
Desires provoking and urges me to be wistful
I find my room doomed with demons ill-famed gag
But my lucifer can't light up as am not having my ***.
Once we created starry nights,
and Mona Lisa with smile slight,
we covered chapels in heavenly scenes,
made David shine in marble sheen.
Now our 'art' make good folks scoff,
smear **** on paper, then sell it off,
mistaken for garbage, devoid of heart;
we need more beauty in our art.
Once our buildings truly soared,
steeples with stained-glass adored,
turrets, gargoyles, and balustrades,
reliefs and sculptures finely made.
Now it’s post-modern eye-sores,
and Brutalist crap that folks abhor,
Le Corbusier-made ugly things;
we need more beauty in our buildings.
Our music once humbled the gods,
here Mozart and Beethoven trod,
here genres rose out of the dust,
symphonies of sorrow, love, and loss.
Now it’s all the same damn chords,
sung by fools who write no words,
thuggish rap and pop too slick;
we need more beauty in our music.
Once we lived by honored codes,
built by lessons learned of woe,
forged by endless, bloody years,
forged to hold off bitter tears.
Now it’s all relativistic games,
we hate the wise, praise the insane,
but amoral words bring costs untold;
we need more beauty in our souls.
Some wish that beauty did not exist,
the mediocre, the bitter, the Marxist.
They praise the brutal as progress,
they claim the talented ‘oppress.’
These types made nothing glorious,
and have no care for such as us,
for beauty they care not a whit,
but we need beauty, so let’s go make it.
Adhesive seems to screen,
like a cage I found my being,
Imprisoned you!
Either intimidation or empowerment it slain,
Land in towns,...fence all over queen,
with one tree surrounded by forest,
Equiping personality negatively or positively in mess,
Stimulant to nerves,...shadow of tense,
Controller reasoning with thief of decisiveness,
Troublesetter good works fulfilled,
All on a pace,Yearning it boosts,
Holding key of routes,
Ladder of a wretched man,
Staircase to dreamers fan,
Dwellers in ghetto and slum,
Their Landlord,...Estate agent to tennants in a bungalow,
Serve as a crown made from amethyst,....and crown from hollow,
Defined with fear or enthusiasm,
Anxiety pinned to hope,hatred about scope,
Solidified by ground of pressure and disclosure,
Reliefs a contrite spirit,
Distuction underlying a smiling realist,
Every moment nailed to counters,
Figures outcomes converse,
Planet manipulated by force of attraction,
Born out from a mustard pest,
The overwhelming acronym of ADDICTION!
Hot Child In The Urban Summer Dwelling
A Poem by Debbie_Philly
" Poem about the heat in the city ....;) "
Hot Child In the Summer Urban Dwelling
The city streets are buckling under the sticky smoldering heat.
Urban life at this moment can be so draining while tensions are
high. People stop,wipe the sweat from their brow as they attempt
to inhale and breathe. "Hey I heard that wheeze from across the street Tony".
Heat choking the life out of us like a looming marauding monster.
Beads drip from angry faces while tempers flare, sirens roar in a city
of despair. Yes Will Smith's song "Summer Time" and the spark of
nostalgia from BBQ's help but its still Spring.
If you have the money you can take a drive down the Jersey shore
or to the Poconos cooling peaks.
A place to breath without choking pollution, heat advisory's and the smells of
unidentified unknown origins. Don't get me wrong there are allot of redeeming
qualities of summer in the city too.
Dinning alfresco, summer concerts, water ice, open fire plugs, Mister Softy
and block parties. Small reliefs of the constant three wheelers screeching
down the Blvd, fighting neighbors, and relentless dripping humidity.
As they say here on the east coast "If it weren't for the humidity I
wouldn't mind the heat". Sure you wouldn't ( wink)
Windows opened as the baby across the alley way cries and the guy
next door yells at his girlfriend while she fires back screaming
like a fish wife. The poor are getting their relief from a rubber hose
spraying water and the rich are relaxing in the Hamptons. Well I guess
if I had it like that I would enjoy it as well, then again I more
likely would open a home for battered women and children, build the
pool there. **** how I wish I had it like that.
I suppose theres no sense in complaining about the heat, just write
it out the best way I know how to deal. So excuse me while I leave
you now to step onto cool tiles of the tub, turn on the crystal clear
water and wash the clammy sticky heat down the drain. Into the Delaware
river of redemption as I take my sixth shower of the day (wink) .
By : Debbie Mills Kelly
Differing of communication of beliefs
Escaping rage the only thing that reliefs
Drunk on your self worth and pride
All your flaws and insecurities you hide
Practicing selfishness and no empathy
But then you lie only for some sympathy
Causing fury I feel to build up even more
You turned the knob but then shut the door
In my changed soul I've become so torn
Gaining gratification from growing ego as ****
You've forced my secret thoughts and feelings
Angering my heart and soul with each of your dealings
Socialized gatherings have turned so sour of a taste
To my wondering mind and bleeding heart a true waste
What was once ever so real
Now is so fake solid as steel
Wearing your ignorance on your arrogant face
You act as if it's a competition like some grand race
You jock for position by kissing ass
So clear to me like reflecting glass
So drunk and full of yourself now
To bend no one can teach you how
Admired and honoured a wit and a scholar
What makes success comand mega dollar
Tea boy to chairman a rise in the main
brought on by the intelect of stamina of brain
Come tell me your secret your inner beliefs
creative deliver reports or reliefs
Your background and parents geneological route
Influence and grounding your Armani suits
Yacht and the polo club members of gold
Copter Farrari cigars finely rolled
Model a beauty gorgous to see
Pent-house apartment one two and three
All of this wealth you never can take
to God and his country forgiveness forsake
Share some a lot to people in pain
Surpressed and rejected no clothes or no name
For J. C. Alldridge
Piccolo and been-throated pibroch
Dilating dimpled hood
Spreading photometric darkroom eyes
Waxing waxing matching
Venomous lip to music's piping lip
O Queen of stung dragon-mouthed Po
Dancing girl of nuanceless ancient reliefs
The apotheosis Brahman curling on the neck
Must you now sink sink
Dread watched
Spineless
Into the winding womb wickerwork
Watching watching pipe-eyed watching
Until you slip
Over the sill of the pipe and the lip
Anathema!
Amorphous piteous anathema!
Amulet of Siva!
Licking the boneless air companionless
Then slithering to lie on the trodden path
Must you have this one last lick
A lick that
Stills the
Unheeding
Child astray
Or ripple tailless
In the reedy gust
To the squat charmer's
Hypnotical pibroch
©: T. Wignesan - Paris, 1957 (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in "Forum Academicum", University of Heidelberg, 1957)
(Idle musings on the facade of Seville Cathedral)
How patiently they suffer, these old saints!
Their sandstone features, crumbled, vague,
some noses gone (some medieval ague,
or Time's cruel drip?) they offer no complaints.
Stranded seven centuries on this reef,
they bake, and wait resignedly, begowned,
for bell-tower shade slowly to inch around.
Do bas-reliefs experience relief?
This church was once a mosque. In point of fact,
the holy ancient venerable Gothic pile
(and here one struggles to suppress a smile)
has relatively recently been sacked,
and only lately put to Christian use.
These saintly faces, preternaturally mild -
do they still fret? Or are they reconciled
to slow decay, as hand or ear works loose?
And do they savour time as you or I,
observing how, below them in the street,
perukes give way to pony-tails and pleats?
Or do, for them, Septembers flicker by
like squandered seconds? Do they muse on Fate
and Destiny? What if my youth has gone?
What if this woman keeps me hanging on?
They also serve who only stand and wait.
This is a collaboration I had been working on with a friend a while back. We might change the title. Her name is Rebecca Larkin. She started the poem with the first line and from there we switched back and forth. Wrote it at the beginning of the year sometime; forgot to date it, oops! Anyway, enjoy!
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Like dust in the wind, we are doomed to repeat ourselves
Mingling past with present, we collect on the grimy shelves
Of past’s hard keep, falling on repeat
We gain from the pain and strange bittersweet
Taking in the reality-split dreams
The etching pangs of truth bursting at the seams
With every glistening drop of clarity
We engorge on the reliefs of now—a rarity
Thoughts pool in a sludge of black, gleaming like oiled silk
Denials spread like fires; saturated, we bilk
Pain and tragedy strike their resonating, dissonant chords
A darkness and sadness we can only desperately afford
Pain. . .strife. . .repetitious like a swinging pendulum
Achingly perfected rhythms gainst the beating death drum
Slivers of silvery hope shine through darkened clouds
Only to be covered again in menacing, smoky shrouds
Faith is left dying in a pit of despair
As the rest of emotion looms helpless in the air. . .
Nothing seems fulfilling anymore
The replay button fools my mind and cuts me to the core
Round and round it goes again like the jagged tick of a clock
Striving for purpose—screaming for love to find the lock
But only silence escapes, beneath the skin torn lips- nothing remains
The aftermath of quietude aches, scraping against endless pains
hope falls away into a deplorable state; waiting—hoping—for resurrection
And the painful power of truth is forced to gaze at its reflection
Questioning whatever has happened to faith and belief?
And why are the cliffs of sorrow so steep?
Like settling dust we merge our present with the past
Leaving the future on the shelf—too empty—too vast
Squandering the sand of time with nothing left, nothing left