Best Residues Poems
Yet My Mind Holds Invincible Summer Hues
Bitter cold, ice ravages red-cliffs in my veins
Yet my mind holds invincible summer hues
O' Darkness thy black-hand my spirit restrains
Tho' thy power rages from thy dark Lord's pews
Flee thee far back into thy dark Lord's abode
Plead thy master, at Byrnhilda's rock for aid
Summer's warmth, my fiery embers sent explode
My Viking blood, proves I am iron made
With such power I banish thee with one breath
Tho' thy great wealth of evil is fierce and strong
Birthright, I draw residues from Odin's death
Epic strength and power from Valkyries's song
Bitter cold, ice ravages red-cliffs in my veins
Yet my mind holds invincible summer hues
O' Darkness thy black-hand my spirit restrains
Tho' thy power rages from thy dark Lord's pews
Carry thy dark master this warning I send
With shields of truth, and armored Nordic powers
And with soul's all, and all my strength I defend
Against stones thrown from Dark Lord's brimstone towers
When Valhalla's halls open for my passing
And Odin sits with mighty Thor at his side
Few will have entered in this pledge surpassing
Held firm, courage, loyalty and Viking pride
Bitter cold, ice ravages red-cliffs in my veins
Yet my mind holds invincible summer hues
O' Darkness thy black-hand my spirit restrains
Tho' thy power rages from thy dark Lord's pews
Robert J. Lindley, 8-19-2016
Syllables Per Line:
11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11
0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11
Total # Syllables: 308
Total # Words: 221
Note: I was bored this afternoon, decided to finish last 12 verses to this poem.
Begun as a tribute to my Viking heritage..
Hope you may enjoy it my friends..
Categories:
residues, art, creation, dark, dedication,
Form:
Rhyme
Remember all the Wise Men on their knees upon your yacht?
With orphans on their backs they’d crawled (with others that they’d brought)
Through rubble on the highway sands and residues of Lot.
They came from severed cities selling postcards of your thoughts,
Though offered for a penny piece, not even worth a jot.
They mused
“How are you feeling? What it is you want, you’ve got.
The words you scrawl on calling cards: ‘I AM – the others NOT’
Shun wisdoms of the Seven Seas: ‘Salvation can’t be bought’ –
Your fathers tried before you and your fathers came to naught.
“You started out by gelding goats and then by casting lots
Of bodies to the battlefields, contorted, tight and taut,
Then wallowed in the wake of trails the dervish devil trots.
“With marching bands of fatherlands, and drums of Hottentots,
You lure your legions in harm’s way like giant juggernauts.
Like Tweedle Dum your minions come (the sober and the sots,
The troglodytes, barbarians, and mislead patriots,
The Vandals, Huns and Hannibals and seaport Cypriots,
The Japanese, the Congolese, Americans and Scots)
To vanquish bows and arrows, spears and catapulted shots
Of those who hide in bamboo huts their families, pale, distraught,
(Their withered wives with dried up breasts, their swollen babes in cots)
Who swoon, engulfed in poison darts and vats of acid hot,
Consumed by magic mushroom clouds, atomic megawatts.
“In churches of your deities, your Holy Huguenots,
Your Imams, Rabbis, Voodoo Dolls and Mitered Lancelots
Lit wicked kindled candled walls in temples (while we fought)
(Used pins and needles, magic spells on makeshift mock whatnots)
And mosques, cathedrals, synagogues have blessed each new onslaught
With prayers for pipers, puppets, pawns, your rigid armed robots.
Continued in Part 2…
Categories:
residues, war,
Form:
Monorhyme
The eyes behind a head inclined reflect a universe
Of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
Of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
Of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
Of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
Of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
Of tinkle tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
Of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
Of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
While poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.
Categories:
residues, life, universe,
Form:
Rhyme
the ether is alive with oscillations
pulsations and electric frequencies
satellite and shortwave intonations
invisible, yet carried on the breeze
neutrinos and photonic modulations
infrared and x-rays, promptly spun
ultraviolet streams and applications
gamma rays and ions from the sun
ozone filled with radio transmission
microwaves pass thru us constantly
the residues of past nuclear fission
all that we have yet perceived to "be"
I've always had an issue with believing
the paranormal "ghosts" phenomenon
yet, with all the atmosphere's receiving
who am I to say what's here ... or gone?
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Ghosthunters And Spiritualists" Poetry Contest, Kevin Shaw, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
residues, analogy, mystery, myth, mythology,
Form:
Rhyme
I am patently smitten
With utmost contempt ,they treat any mention of its reality
The realm of the illusory is its permanent abode
Its at best transient , an ephemeral indulgence ,
A violet on a morbid pathway
The ill-fated roadside plant whose demise is lurking in the shadows.
A facade ,an imaginary concept birthed out of delusion and denial
Disapproval and detest permiate the dense air
whenever the subject comes up
The thickness ,stifling the atmosphere of any remaining residues of hope
Intense apprehension carved from a litany of painful experiences
But what's the essence of life if not the defiance of history? -
The obliteration of barriers thought impervious?,
The ******** of walls long believed
to be figments of overambitious imaginations ?,
The charting of venturesome trails in the perilous jungle?
Don't you just love it when you see tables turn ?
Isn't it a sight to cherish when the applecart gets upset?
I am utterly smitten ,
by that penetrating ,self assured gaze -Impeccable as ever
Cascading through my being like African okra in an enamel plate
Fluid and engrossing
The ravishing smile , aggressively addictive ,
which almost always succeeds in changing the climate in my spine
The lips which drip unfettered mellifluousness,
A song without want of both depth and sweetness
Something that only such a golden soul can exude
The archetype of perfection ..
Like a gazelle in the Savanna plains ,
grace and elegance attends her gait always
This is where even the most intransigent hearts ,
are rendered malleable and ductile
And utter patency becomes the heart's portion
Categories:
residues, love,
Form:
Free verse
Of first embrace and broken glass
I cherish that first spark
New light upon our forest' dark.
Do you recall that northern wind?
It came at first so swift
Perhaps our growing light enraged
Poor Hopelessness', her whims denied
Inspired shadows from retreat
Those having once left us in our light.
"There's hope for you!” her battle cries
“Forwards; towards the glowing night
Attack! The lion will not bite
I promise he will turn blind eyes
Go back! I will cover your eyes!”
“Follow storms winds descent
True path through forests dense
Enter hence.
Rip, tear, rent!
From low to high
Head to toes
Even to above
Where dark forest glows
Churn even these shades
Whites and grays
Yellows arrayed,
Where once were dulled
"My children do not stop there!"
She would say,
"You must inscribe them full
Lest unseen hopes, occupy as slivers
As pretending tones, they have been known to hide
Shimmers upon the edge of shades
We must leave them emptied, lost whims, denied
Their ways left as waste to ruins
Despairs do not relent with dooms
Leaving chance to sparks in time
Per chancing kindles from hearts that loom.”
“Descend, my raging opaque!
The dense itself engrave
Teach young love old lessons
That she may now know at such young age
The heart of this forest lessened.”
“Now go' my shadowed tails delight
Slice sharp paths without care
Cause those within their ears too bear
The roaring of fresh leaves…
Torn from their rightful place
Before the given time”
“Dying screams let them endure
Let them feel your shadows
….Purge!”
The cold so swift
We were so sure This was spring
........residues
Your body’s naked form, lovely
Dropping, encircling our flame
Dying breath
Woman’s instinct
Nurturing
Disregarding winds intent
Then came the rains' extinguishing
Saving coals
Your hands were warm
My feet were cold
I shiver at this memory.
…Rains cold intensity
The downpour overcoming
Me
I'm sorry I could not see
My circle enclosed circles now
Circling
I knew the dark complete
As our smoke heavenward arose
To late this pittance; ash offerings
Ashes on the ground
Then came the rivers rage
Cutting its path through the heart
Forever too leave
Forever leaving its mark
Upon our forest dark
Meandering on; its choosing path
And I with it beside; belonged
For a chosen time
My love again I say
For a chosen time
Do you understand?
I chose the time of days
My shame
Categories:
residues, devotion, life, love, passion,
Form:
Free verse
Beside the old chapel of Berhampur
A shadow of man
Residual on the lonely roads,
Always walked in circles
After 3’o clock at night.
One crossing to another,
He moved with no hurry.
Like a pendulum of his world,
He collected time and stones
In his empty pockets!
I could see him getting heavier
while he thinned,
Walking through the racing cars
at night
Beneath the yellow street lights
He lived from corners to corners
And in the shadows of closed shops
And perhaps on one of my scarred diary pages
Abstractly,
As if he had no face,
No name.
These men of torn cloths and blackened feet
Do not have names,
Only residues they leave behind,
On the corners where they sleep
Stories spilling out of the pocket through a large hole
And dreams vaporizing from his memory
While he slept
In broad daylight
with the shadows of the old chapel of Berhampur
Berhampur is a small town in India
Categories:
residues, life,
Form:
Free verse
Despair shrugs off its dirty shell
emerging as Enlightenment;
cramped and crumpled she crawls
off in dazed bewilderment
as remnants of vile Guilt and Rage
plot her demise, (shameless vestige!)
and residues of spiteful Hate
conspire to take her hostage.
Sitting in her brand new skin alone
Enlightenment is like to die,
'til Love, Confidence and Joy conjoin
to bolster her into a butterfly!
Categories:
residues, philosophy
Form:
Quatrain
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted rum,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
Categories:
residues, lost love,
Form:
Rhyme
Mornings fade into evenings, evenings slip into nights.
Day colors spill from their pails, then seep into
valleys, wind caves and shale.
The Painted Desert bleeds into a Stygian hue
as the heat reaches up to embrace the moon
and soon, nocturnal eyes will glow starry bright.
She is a stern and hardened matron, giving homes to
venomous lodgers, leathered skins and prickly spikes,
nurturing the Eagleclaws and Buckhorn Cholla,
seldom shedding tears, yet seducing hikers with
her raw beauty and enticing guile, beckoning
well-worn travelers, luring them in with her temptress smile,
wagging a crooked finger while breathing sweet, hot breath.
Her brilliance inspires painters, giving passion to photographers,
scribes, and past homes with heirlooms to Navajo tribes.
Though the sky grows dark with oranges and pinks slipping away,
they are resurrected at dawn, when cactus wrens scold
rattlers coiled by rocks, commanding them to dens.
The Painted Lady is harsh, watching with lavender eyes,
scarlet lips, and a throat of dust- thirsting for a drink.
She wears skin of leather, powdered with a coat the color or rust.
But she does no intimidate me with her sharp nails, hot breath,
and painted face- for she once was my neighbor.
And though years pass by, her radiant beauty never pales.
My great grandfather, "Sani" is buried somewhere deep
in her bosom. I placed a stone and etched his name above
the place where he now sleeps in this land.
The epitaph is covered by a tawny shroud
blown in from the Niyol- so I brush away the
offending residues with one swift, sweep of my hand.
Categories:
residues, beauty, native american, nature,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
Continued from Part 1
The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
for churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.
No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, all alone amongst the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.
Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.
Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Six steeple towers, steel though now drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
The chapel chimes? Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillon, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
No saints will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor bless pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm.
Continued in Part 3
Categories:
residues, angst, life, night, silver,
Form:
Rhyme
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
Categories:
residues, fantasy, me,
Form:
Rhyme
The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.
The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.
At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.
The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”
The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...
End
Categories:
residues, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
I never overcame your departure brothers
since then
my feet walk crippled
the kidney only filters half of the residues
my heart partially collapsed
and beats insufficiently
the gastric juice became acid
and corrodes the sweetness of dreams
the bronchial airways are carbonized
and emit a roaring echo
the neurons lost
innumerable synapses
when dying necrotic
but here I am with my soul
regenerating light
so that the guide with the candle
calms my rumble of jungle
Categories:
residues, death, loss,
Form:
Free verse
FOOTPRINTS
Footprints are walked memories;
molded cerebral impressions
of traced tracks—telling
tinted stories of freedom’s journeys;
like running rivers between banks
leaving trailing residues of liberation.
Remembered footprints
tell tall towering tales
of those who’ve passed this way.
May the Most High
let mine tell tall tales
of the jubilee journey jogged
as I passed this way.
And may my marvelous ones walk
proudly in the depths of my footprints.
Categories:
residues, allegory, analogy, freedom, hope,
Form:
Free verse