Best Shelved Poems
As I stand mindfully, facing mirror of my life,
Juxtaposition of yesteryears’ reflections revive
Mountains of grief and valleys of despairs,
Heartwarming wins and heartbreaking losses,
Echoes strumming joy and shouts in the void;
Thinking of plans shelved, dreams deferred,
Tears of rejoice and bawl of lonesome cries,
Past of dawns darkening on nebulous skies,
Cheerful episodes evoking days of sunshine
Ambivalent in discourse of seasons gone by;
Distraught in endeavors strived, but failed,
Overjoyed in laudable, worthy achievements,
Saddened by the hollering of indelible regrets
Callously crowding the path of my ambitions
On avenues not taken, of choices forsaken,
Competing for space in the mirror of my life;
As memories euphoric verbalize photographs,
And stories euphonic stoke cherished laughs,
And celebrations clap the sound of applause,
Endearingly revered and treasured lifelong,
Where, as I cogitate, recalling a life sublime,
Man in the mirror smiles, content with his life.
May 7, 2022
Placed 3rd: In the Mirror of Life Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
How life has changed
Simplicity no longer reigns
Now a society of ‘look at me’
Lost is self respect and modesty
Breasts and bums on display
Faces plastered in clay
Bodies injected with toxins
Natural beauty no longer an option
Plastic people with plastic minds
Self absorption and vanity combined
Every movement captured on phone
Posed and poised down to the bone
Never present in the here and now
Natural spontaneity they know not how
Life lived only for the screen
Admiration, praise, likes ,comments seen
Humility, modesty, respect
Replaced by egotism, vanity and body perfect
Priorities and thoughts all about self
Consideration , concern for others shelved
There is nothing they will not do
To get that almighty view
Void of decency and dignity
Now a society of ‘look at me’
~*~
Still and motionless, aye!
We prisoners in endless lockdowns lie.
Dreams of life, as it once used to be.
Days, sparkled with magnanimity.
When mouths were not gagged and children ran and played.
Those days, ah, never coming back, we live in media haze.
Now the chains grow yet heavier, yet tighter.
It's even hard to be a verbal fighter.
Punishment in wait for all who question.
How dare we disregard divine government direction?
People like me who speak and think for themselves,
In any form, our poems are read, but comments...shelved!
Truth telling is so very despised!
Punishment for anyone such as I, is always nigh!
Evil walks the earth disguised as good.
In all countries, all neighborhoods.
You cannot laugh true evil away.
For your tears, swell, in your eyes and your unique,
Godspeed Soul Bay.
We weep for the dead, but are we truly alive?
Life, still and motionless, in penumbrad, masked,
poioned lockdown disguise.
1-16-2021
~ 2~
Dedicated to all poets here, willing to take a stand for truth at the cost of being disliked. You write about it...You really impress me! Merci, blessings.
Whispers
Long and lost
Loud and low
“S e i z e t h e d a y”
Touched my ears,
Poured into my soul,
Vanished my inner ghoul,
The night nostalgic, new,
Nectarous and nefarious,
Feathered my hands,
Floated me from my desk,
I sniffed soul soothing poetry
Intoxicating from the dusty old
Buttery books shelved on, inviting.
I drank one poem,
And another,
Then another,
Until I was dizzy drunk,
My eyelashes winged to the window
And it was dawn.
( On backdrop of current JAPAN tragedy.
Dedicated to all who lost lives and property in worst devastation ever.
Our sincere prayers for their salvation, succour to surviving victims, early rehabilitation)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Fukushima
Nuclear destination, bombing and self-explosion
Human rant, God is just name for chant
Reign human invention, HE just mythological sovereign
God disliked apathy, shelved sympathy
thought to teach lesson, venue selected Japan
Quake, Tsunami, Fire, Radioactive leak, wreck plenty
65 seconds flat, venue littered with death float
Humans abuse Nature, expect HIM to spare, care
HIS justice, a show reality sans court, hearing or attorney
HE delivers salvation to devastation, superpower to roadside pauper
Avoid HIS wrath, stick to HIS rules, HE not Human actually rules
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hitendra Mehta
March 2011
For Members Contest – The Rhyme Inside by Debbie Guzzi
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ground rumbles, ominously, I'm on the steep side of a Mississippi River Bluff, mid-August, gathering bursting crimson red trophies of Staghorn Sumac for my favorite sumac-ade, a spright, invigorating tonic I enjoy this time of year. The smell in the air, forest-sage beginning to dry and ripen, the bitter tang of scattered paper-birch bark chimneys...must keep alert for the origins of the earthly rumble.
The unsettled earth, sweet and bitter smells...mix with my age and I sit down as if in a trance and drift asleep...harkening back to my training as a young man in a Manhattan Bagel Deli, assembling prep-stations for the customer onslaught about to descend. Proofed bagel dough, seeded and rotating in the elevator slate-shelved oven after a frothy malt-bath in the bubbling giant kettle, delectable aromas of fairly vibrating paper-sliced spiced meats and piquant aged cheeses, briny sheets of smoked lox, pots of sweetly acidic capers and luminous heirloom tomatoes...
But I'm much older now, my mind remembers, but my body can't function like it once did, I can't perform the once-easy configurations effortlessly like before.
The rumbling, just my imagination...
I awaken, gather my bunch of fluorescent sumac, which I am still able to concoct, mindful of God's Grace in my spiritual and physical evolution...He
Has Blessed me with.
8-13-20
6:03 am
Cuddling close, near bedside table
a blanket wrapped, cold rainy night.
Mind thrums journey, a book on navel,
playground of words, feelings delight.
As vermicules squirm, sculpted souls spark
lighting white pages, of zillion black letters.
Trailing love, smile, thrill,... adventures dark,
touch of sadness... hostile heartless haters.
Opens Alibaba's cave of jewels and gold
wafting thoughts sail on magic carpet.
World of strangers, imagination unfold
Just can't stop,... reading has started.
Wilderness of books, a grandiose treasure,
a corpus of knowledge, exciting...arcane.
Shelved floor to ceiling, a visual pleasure
drunken in syllables, an addiction insane.
Soft slow caress, of flipping through pages,
book in lap, heavy eyes.. droop to slumber.
Heavenly relation, warms solitude cages,
Bookworms, !!..why we slang?, I often wonder.
12th March 2019
Kai Michael Neumann's Bookworm Contest
Written: August 09, 2023, Why Are We Here Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
______________________________________________________________
I am certain that I have been here as I am now a thousand times before, and I hope to return a thousand times. Quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
In the vast yarn of life, we are but a solitary thread.
A spirit bound to the mortal coil, a life to be led
In a bygone era, our purpose seemed unclear.
Orts of Hokum: with each life, eons disappear,
A truth does, however deep within us, reside.
A flash of awareness, an insight that can't hide.
We, as mortal beings, strive to find purpose in life.
Not only Immortal souls—entangled in earthly strife.
On this avid adventure, our souls embark.
In an unending trail of wisdom—an eternal spark.
We tackle time, relishing the rally of each life anew.
In our quest—from roots to tallies—we pursue
What is the reason for our Aeonian cycle of life?
Struggling with the turmoil of shelved inner rife.
What is the underlying function—this cycle serves?
If, with each birth, our memories veer and swerve,
Maybe it serves as a lesson for a person to grow.
To relinquish the falsehoods we falsely show.
Learn compassion and empathy, understand,
Every soul we cross paths with—is an integral bland.
And as we journey through this cosmic dance,
We realize that life is not just happenstance.
There is a purpose to this eternal quest.
A deeper meaning we must manifest.
As we cross the loops of birth and death, we evolve.
By pondering life's nexus, we nurture our resolve.
Reincarnating across the years—a destiny unknown,
We aim to arise and boost our conscious mind zone.
In this grand adventure, we find our souls are free.
To explore the vast realms of possibility.
And though our memories may fade away,
Our essence remains, guiding us on our way.
In each lifetime, we embark on a cosmic quest.
To experience the full spectrum—a rattling best.
Love and loss, joy and pain—they all intertwine.
Guiding us through this earthly terrain, divine
A choir of rainfall on soft stones
Bookmarked by wistful nature
Sweet melancholy shelved for
Another day in bed with a book
Yet he opens not only his heart
But windows and soulful founts
Pitter patter from musty pages
Chorus of dew mellowed to words
The roof leaks his wallet is empty
As the mind gathers metaphors
A lonesome apostrophe beckons
Dangles caresses cuddles a stanza
The poet has forsaken a world
Of power greed stark domination
Alludes to breaking their mould
Lavender scent creeps into verse
Sensual meaning drops off fragrances
Lights a passionate fire becomes one
With a precious deluge in anticipation
Precipitates tender longing of harmony
24th February 2020
Compressive closeness
Enchanted vision crumpled
In collapsed distance.
Transparent closeness
Masked reality unveiled
In snapped relation.
Demanding closeness
Stifled freedom fragmented
In ego crisis.
Transgressive closeness
Nascent emotions smothered
In timed attraction.
Unscripted closeness
Unfinished story shelved
In dark memory.
December 10, 2017.
.
the wind has died down—
the ground s t r e w n
with nature’s debris—
autumn’s palette
a feast for the eye … a shelved chore
before the
inevitable miasma of dusty decay
teased by wind’s chilling fingers
that’s tasted in the back of the throat –
green and red leaves
scattered side by side—
a conspiritual cosying up
a compelling contrast:
youthful green, aged red—
although red leads the rainbow,
it
follows
in nature …
the beauty of old age
unfolds in the display of fallen leaves—
s c a t t e r e d to the wind
infinitely wiser …
Just a poetic (souper) side note courtesy chief
wordsmith brother unaware ye experienced grief
diagnosed as walking pneumonia please bull lief
yours me, he doth care and breathes sigh of relief.
Gratis the miracle of modern medicine wife
of Richard McGeehan, he offered succor
during serious bout when ye suffered strife
lovingly tendering lifelong counterpart
spelling finis regarding any galavanting nightlife
nurturing mother of their grown son (Brendan),
who immersed her whole self as housewife.
How aware ill luck of the draw
found thee inexplicably stricken
with serious malady against the law
nearly necessitating travois
(maneuvered by Kit Carson)
to transport thee to medical center.
The above stanza unbeknownst to you
analogous to current reading material
myopic eyes of mine view
historical fiction titled
"A Most Desperate Situation"
authored by Walter Cooper,
I just might maintain as keepsake
among various and sundry other books
lined up like soldiers upon shelved queue.
Courtesy perusing selective material
not so much to become boastful
self pedagogical ace,
but merely to expand knowledge base,
whereby latest erudition
preoccupies mindscape with displace
called realm of imagination
allowing, enabling, and providing me
to travel into hyperspace
only welcoming family members
like thee dear sister into myspace
a beloved sibling
thirteen plus months older
glad ye got begat December 1st, 1959
whereby ye got fifty two plus weeks headstart
to join (chance throw of genetic dice)
entrance into human race.
Though Amelie Beth Harris-McGeehan born
more than three score and three years ago
if series of unfortunate events would befall thee,
this sole brother would certainly mourn
and with futility emasculate and scorn
himself until... his own plaque
designating his buried cremains
in lieu of tombstone worn.
What am I looking for, what am I hiding
reunited with my past self, can't help but repent;
did I lose myself or am I still finding,
hoping for my tomorrow just to escape my present.
Masked my troubles with so-called escapisms
denied the truth that was embedded deep within;
thoroughly washed away all my musings,
mastered the art of self-loathin'
Pushed and pulled with a force to reckon
emptied myself into the realms of darkness;
weighed my expectations as a means of life lesson,
heard the pounding of my heart, too scared to witness.
Everything indeed changes, as someone truly said change is the only 'constant'
can I change myself that is the big question, can I truly face myself?
the voices inside keep screaming to join the fragments,
who will tell them that I am not broken but shelved.
I don't need soldering, I need to embrace
my flaws, my mistakes, my regrets, my wants;
The only way to spiral out is to retrace,
to acknowledge the unknown, to evade the haunts.
Where goest thou soul?
have you split again
into your kaleidoscope frame
in the body so vestigial contained
what if there is not one Other
but many that enter inside
waiting to stake claim
Where goest thou poet?
the higher self penned
it seems you have been contracted
to Groundhog Day again and again
Perhaps you are God, and in you the Matrix,
many souls enter your vessel
like a hotel door rotates and it swings
Where goest thou observer?
you stare at a wall, praying
like a wailing wall waits
for its prayers to be called,
head bowed, knocking, knocking, thrice knocking,
the mind opens its humble Shushan Door
where its Eastern side unsealed, shines so much more
and in walks The Stranger
the reading and writing of messages, bled
palms outheld, barefeet marked,
you have inherited the stigmata
all of a sudden you understand
you have been bookmarked,
alike for a while, shelved to be read
when It counts,
at the closing moment
of the main truth, the do and the dare
you are seated as if religiously waiting in Sunday school
passing and failing the tests, and failing again,
The Stranger smiles
as if you are the only one that imagines
The Stranger Is there,
The Stranger notes the notes you are passing back and forward again,
the teacher out front, has their back turned again, unaware
you pass The Stranger a note,
on it is written, “Get me the Hell out of here.”
The Stranger laughs and agrees
I follow The Stranger's lead like a child waits for a Saviour
to save the day, make it cool -
not a word spoken, yet the exchange, clearly heard,
the Door is wide open, and
out in the playground I am
again, throws me the ball,
I take the shot
The Stranger’s no fool
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Shushan/Golden Gate.
POPCORN
White kernels of hot popping yummy flavoring,
Cooked in golden butter drippings, lightly sprinkled
To taste with salty perfections gentle touch,
At the kitchen cooks discretion.
The crunchy and munchy treat, to pass
Around at any family social gatherings
Celebration.
Fill up them empty bowls both large
And small heap them full to the very
Tippy-top, nothing will be left behind,
Trust me, for its POPCORN!!
Bucket me, bag me, but for heaven’s sake
Don’t deny me this mouthwatering feast
To the senses.
The comfort food of the ages, forget those
Old bags of stale potato chips or the dusty shelved
Candy bars, sold at the local quickie mart.
I’ll grab me instead that old fashioned jiffy pop,
Light up that gas stove of wonders, and let it perform
Its delectable miracle.
Slowly it heats up, with a sizzles crack, crackling,
Sliding it back and forth, over the low flame
Of salivating, you can hear each tender morsel
Deliciousness forming, within this silver cone
Of desire.
With anticipations childhood like frenzy,
No adult can resist, as you delicately open
This steaming hot package, of pleasures drooling
Lust, its fragrance fills your raw senses,
Exposing that inner need for what,
Pop, pop, popping corn.
White kernels of hot popping yummy flavoring,
Cooked in golden butter drippings, lightly sprinkled
To taste with salty perfections gentle touch,
At the kitchen cooks discretion.
The crunchy and munchy treat, to pass
Around at any family social gatherings
Celebration.
Fill up them empty bowls both large
And small heap them full to the very
Tippy-top, nothing will be left behind,
Trust me, for its POPCORN!!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN