Best Rimless Poems
WHEN LETTERS DANCE ON THE PAGE
“Disappear,” I said.
They denied.
Didn’t the Casanova at the theatre
Return my ravishing smile last night?
The burgundy magic on greys!
Ironed with botoxed shots
The dry asparagus turns glossy;
Ready for the salad?
Midriffs declining, disappearing -
Decelerating; the passion of aping
A teenager for a climacteric but works.
The dried raisins, falling leaves
And the faded chrysanthemums-
Augmented, tucked in, liposuctioned.
The one who was being stared at,
Loses it all ; the pretence withers,
The efforts in vain.
I loved them the most
But they now scare me-
The letters diffusing, hyperopic.
Behind the lens, the zombies
Make me close my eyes- the mirror
Was never so unfriendly.
Progressive, focal, horn-rimmed,
Rimless – nothing works. They just
Simply refuse to go.
At the restaurant, travelator, bus
My glory shrouds as I struggle to
Settle the glass diptych on my nose.
“Disappear,” I say to them.
They deny.
As I remember Grandpa's face
the thing that comes first to my mind
his rimless specs with thick lenses
it was a unique thing of its kind.
The thing that comes first to my mind
his hanging specs at tip of his nose
it was a unique thing of its kind
at its place even with eyes closed.
His hanging specs at tip of his nose
always there throughout the day
at its place even with eyes closed
"precious thing" he used to say.
Always there throughout the day
it was frequently forgotten by him
"precious thing" he used to say
creating chaos with his scream.
It was frequently forgotten by him
his rimless specs with thick lenses
creating chaos with his scream
as I remember Grandpa's face.
© 2011 kashinath karmakar(31st July 2011)
===============000================
Placement:3rd; (August 2011)
Contest:Memories of Grandma/Grandpa or both
Sponsor:Carol Brown
'''''''''''''""""~~~"""""""""""""""
as daylight flows on floors of meadows’ weave
like tiny fingers silent in silk of sailing traces
this landscape travels on her fragile, hushed heave
and when full morn speaks in syllables of pink laces,
i climb her flights of smiles to touch those tender graces
just a glance of champagne cheeks through her secret seat
makes hours sink in seconds breathing psalms of time’s aces
then i’d go deep for a pageant of your tulips upon my feet
as i hide snuffed sighs claiming eyes that await my reply
of a love as pure dawn giving wings to flowers’ poised paces,
the treasures in my chest are not tiaras or diamonds sold high
this, my rimless devotion will plant years gold with praises
your comfort in blaze of thunder, i’ll gladly give raw braces
a lifetime of caress to guide our lanes pastoral and wild we’d greet,
savoring flute, butterflies and giggling shells on winds’ embraces
then i’d swoon for a pageant of your tulips upon my feet
have i grown weeds in yarns of time, answer not yet said?
a flick of hope blows on this my airborne soul for returned praises
oh, my waters entice me as potpourri of my lady’s rhymes are fed,
when she stalls, then crawls on wanderings of night’s mazes
her quiet flush textured with pleas of patience on moon’s faces,
this silence has many altars adorned by veils of her sun and sleet
still, i stay with serenades to dust her feathers too shy for chases
then i’d swoon for a pageant of your tulips upon my feet
the absence of her eloquence jail me in chapels’ clumped vases
till she, lady of my velvet dreams, lit my passion’s fond heat
our hands shall wander unto rhapsody of faraway places
then i’d swoon for a pageant of your tulips upon my feet!
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
14 degrees below zero in our backyard
The black midnight air is paralyzed like glass
Laid flat on a metal slab
Still for its hammer autopsy.
My son and I stand side by side
Shivering from the cold blows
Amidst the barren Oaks
Staring up from here, a rocky surface,
To there, the soft eternity filled with universe
A full moon above us
And rather than its usual white disc
Hung flat
Against a wall like a keepsake dinner plate
This moon is rimless and spongy
Orange as a squeezed fruit
Fully eclipsed from Earth’s shadow
No longer in the sky
But clinging from a vine
Hovering just below
The tree tops of our world
Where the night has lost its divide
While deer float by
Starved for gravity.
“I’ve never seen the moon like that before.”
I say to my son
And he replies “Me neither, dad.”
My 18 year old boy
His face less its oval yawn
More a sharpened angle like a raven clean shaven
His hair a dream of curls like Apollo
His hazel eyes even to me
Or should I say meeting me
With justified suspicion
A self-portrait vandalized by this art
Shape shifting time
From fear to wisdom and back
Like a sword striking a shield
Until the defender is reduced to his knee
Beaten down
Peeking up
Behind this growing shadow
Cast
From boy to man.
Broremann’s war
Spring, 1945, German troops in his town were walking about not
carrying arms, they spoke to the locals in a friendly manner.
Looking back it was peace before the peace. Near Broremann's home
there was a tall house occupied by old non- commissioned officers,
middle-aged men in their thirties with children, gave the kids
chocolate and sweets (after the war the building was taken over by
Mormons).
British troops arrived, put a canteen in a disused fish factory,
the German troops had surrendered. Broremann got white bread
with spam from the British. The Germans left by train; many
of the town´s people came to wave goodbye, there was no
dislike against the common soldiers, wrath was directed at the
local Gestapo who had betrayed their country by being crueler
than the enemy and by sporting rimless Himmler glasses.
Years later Broremann met a docker in Hamburg who had spent
five war years in his town. They drank together and declared
it had been a peaceful war.
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
THE DESTINY.
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.
Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.
The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.
It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the span of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.
on hyaloid shade phylum
of zaffre azure
swish
soulful scrutinize
apodictic vinculum
magniloquent
wandering of wispy whooshes
wrapping wisps of weird warbles
shrivel olive trees
overflow no omen
drenched in sweat
summoned by chimera
once called passion
title assertion?
baud pace of rimless dreams
blurred bark
bare branches
fruitless leaves
unfetter'd
sky loose
mythic gem idol
purine as Myrsine
space rock fit
moon zappily
uncanny
azure drilled of ritzy rag doll
mesh shimmer blaze shackle
include
dare
desire
gaudy Sirius in darkened spell
mottled splendor
to cognize my path
as xanthic whispers
afresh
Written: August 06, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
I'm not my hair, neither am i my skin.
Although the light of my shade throws different shadows on the wall but no, Hey! I'm not what the mirror says I'm even rimless glass.
I lost my colour long long time ago, when the beast of our nation bruised the sun on this rubble and i was tied to my fate.
I fought the high hands that patted our faces with one colour and disintegrated the others.
I made smiles to touch the tears of children that lived in the skin and i was tied to my fate. I was tied to the filament of life.
Oh! I went through my serrated fears to sing for my people with painful colour but i sang.
I sang songs of freedom, songs of the mangrove and my people danced around, shouting across the walls and celebrating their colour.
Today the ebony of my skin tone is proudly celebrated and the freedom is me.
Lotus
rising out of murky waters
illuminated by the rays of sun that fall upon the flower
in glorious pastel tints
I am reminded of the simplicity of beauty
the kind that takes my breath away
and leaves me
with a reverent soul that aspires to transmutation of banal existence
Lotus
at home in pond of still waters
resting upon outer rimless edges of time immemorial
living beauty that shines forevermore
I know that a pure heart is a wise heart
made wiser by looking within one's soul for truth
and then contemplation
the quiet sitting
abiding
watching the breath move in and out
wakefulness
in the midst of the world catastrophe
keeping the eyes open
the ears open
and moving forward in the steady rhythms
that nature allows.
In despair,
beyond-pain, I will watch my dreams
in rimless eyes of wet faces.
The lake had been sending back
the white and black shrouds
everyday.
They were jumping one by one
old and young,
from the twisted planks
holding geraniums.
A warm prayer on the lips,
what was left worth enduring ?
The innocence, the guilt, the shame ?
Clinging to bloody lumps of happiness
who is going to have a last laugh ?
Time is breathing gloom,
body is attached to a pole.
SATISH VERMA
A view from the cause,
alters the landscape in you
I surrender to the earth,
the roots. Purifying the leaves.
I tell myself, this was not me,
my music. Still my skin
has the tattoos of pandemic deafness.
I am breathing through the lips.
My attachment to death
is a private affair
my voice lies in a lake.
The butterfly in a womb.
the psalms under the rocks.
Is it ending of death
or death of ending?
I go beyond the brink,
drop the stone in water.
When the moon touches
my eyes, like a kiss
I start sharing the menu of night.
The rimless thoughts are hovering
like small birds. I listen
to their flappings.
Can we live without bargaining?
Do you know the price?
SATISH VERMA
Have not asked much,
still attached to you with subtelities,
I wanted freedom from you,
For removing stings from the flesh.
Anxiety was the darkest color
of floating buds on lake.
Sitting on the edge of panic,
I started counting the waves.
Mixed emotions always subtract a smile.
Just lonely, I went for the swim in rimless agony.
Have not heard much of you in ages.
Still memories crop up for a while,
I wanted nemesis from you.
Talking of blue and white clouds
love has many moods.
Devastated by a burning moon
I was wishing a watery burial.
SATISH VERMA
Have not asked much,
still attached to you with subtleties,
I wanted freedom from you,
For removing stings from the flesh.
Anxiety was the darkest color
of floating buds on lake.
Sitting on the edge of panic,
I started counting the waves.
Mixed emotions always subtract a smile
Just lonely, I went for the swim in rimless agony.
Have not heard much of you in ages.
Still memories crop up for a while.
I wanted nemesis from you.
Talking of blue and white clouds
love has many moods.
Devastated by a burning moon
I was wishing a watery burial.
SATISH VERMA