Best Shriveling Poems
I witness you fading away,
The winds blow frantically
They are against us, as all are
Little fire, rise in my cupped hands
Be it my life I shield from the elements so unfeeling?
Little fire, brighten as I feed you
This moisture receding from my pores must cease
Before I drown this diminishing beauty
I gasp,
Surprised at the howls and retorts of this icy tempest
Nature’s exhalations mean to end what must naturally end
My hands shake
Little fire—my life!
—I must keep you alive!
Grow against all odds
Against the screaming whirlpools of bluster
Against the torrential tears that mean to overcome you
Against the ashes that can only watch the desolation around you,
As you search for more fuel to masticate
My flesh is no treasure to me,
So lick me deep, my flame
Devour these hands that shield you
Rise hastily, as you burn
Ascending up my arms,
Lighting every goosebump, shriveling every hair
Rise till I am all aflame in this wilderness
Boil and evaporate every murderous tear—
The fluids of sorrow that so pulverize purpose
Eat through every sinew, and every tissue,
Every muscle and every bone that has grown
For this moment and this moment only
I give you every piece of me, little fire!
So that my spirit, finally free, shall rise to the heavens
Past the shrieking winds, preceding through the jeers of thunder
I give you my all, blessed fire!
So that these eyes may witness every storm die
And I may laugh at their futility!
7/9/20
"Sickening"
This is sickening
And quickening
Not at all, what I was envisioning
Nobody listening
Most chickening
Fidgeting
And limiting
Themselves to the point of being crippling
The effects rippling
And tripling
On top of it, we've got social distancing
Still dribbling
I've been chiseling
And scribbling
No matter what has been incoming
Pivoting
And occasionally grimacing
The temperature freezing, cold, mild or sizzling
The weather icy, windy, calm, scorching or drizzling
Clowns continue giggling
Petty people are still belittling
Over every little thing
Not all that riveting
It's becoming uninteresting
Sometimes I sip, sometimes I swig
Sometimes I flip the script
Even though sometimes it's rigged
Before opportunities are shriveling
And dwindling
Got to get it quickly
And differently
Meanwhile all senses are tingling
Thick white clouds
Retracing posture
Atop the layers of earth;
Foggy shrouds of white
Overclouded landscape
Clogging the sunlight
In blurry unclearness.
In brown faded bushes
Lies inhalations of dryness,
Catchy like the gasoline
In simple lit strikes
On matchboxes;
Spreading fierce fires
To four cornered angles
On grassy fields.
From silty bits of soil
Hovers clouds of dust,
Distributed casually
By several printed steps
Of slippers and rotating air.
The echoes of the wind
Screams with concurrent whirl,
Stirring up particles
In fiery harsh voices.
Innermost in the terrain
Glares cracking every way,
As the dryness sucks away
Final surviving drops of moist,
From pores of skin surfaces
And wooden doors.
Thence, in customary shrinking
Of shriveling leaves and bushes
Prowls the reptiles, fleeing away
In untiring searches
For cooler comforting abodes,
Resting forevermore
To the swift slashing cutlass
Of the cautious hunter.
So, Artificial Intelligence can now write poetry
(I think I may dislike this)
We have similar thoughts
Its words are lovelier
Rhyme or free verse
hundreds of synonyms.
It can also paint beautifully.
(OK, now I hate it)
colors flow majestically
no trial and error
mixing always perfect
(maybe we should shoot it)
Poets and artists
can we feel our minds shriveling?
like fruit left to die
on a lonely vine.
Because that's what will happen.
Minds not used eventually wither.
Are we going to just sit here
and take it?
For I don't see us co-existing,
Do you?
(We should have shot it)
(By the way, don't give Artificial Intelligence
a gun!)
Withering
shriveling all up
inside, I
cannot tell
how long I'll remain in this
hell of a dry spell
No rainfall
here, except for tears
and sometimes
they go dry
too numb to cry, too tired
to feel inspired
The words crack
crumble in my mouth
before I
get them out
primal screams and shouts silenced
by fear and self-doubt
Soul searching
something worth saving
amid this
gloomy mess
sorting out my worst, my best
while I pray for rain...
___
Yet another Shadorma poem...
Shades of leaves wavering from mauve to ember
colour my lavender spirits in days of November.
When lustrous autumn blankets silently reap,
my glorious desires in ecstasy drench me deep.
A corridor of withering dandelions in dreams
simmers soothing secrets in glistening beams.
Every year I wait for soothing serenade of fall
it wraps my soul in slumber of a Cashmere shawl.
Silver fog shivers to glide with sunlit breeze,
memories melt my heart as snow begins to freeze.
On twirling trumpets of aural leaves I dance,
maple trees orchestrate a proliferous glance.
The hums of wet layered crystals appease dew,
I breathe iridescent aroma of reviving damp hue.
In quietude embossed broken twigs in scarlet rays,
I weave a pattern of opera peeping through haze.
There's an old tree house draped at divine dusk,
I spend my hours inhaling in wind dispersed musk.
My sandcastles of love fly in azure palate of sky,
with echoing wind my embellished petals rise high.
The rivulets under the wooden bridge caress pebbles
longing to strum starry nights as shriveling rebels.
Sequins of crimson in haloed wisps of Autumn tide,
the fir tree shimmers in veils as a stunning bride.
Ah! On starry nights when crystals kiss furling space,
my love blooms in blushing incarnations with grace.
Autumn tiptoes nervously for the forest to be reborn,
a gossamer shield of awakened serenity my cells adorn.
August 17, 2020
Serenity Awakened Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Word Count: 232
The tree's up, yet it’s not looking so prim
its needles all shriveling and dying,
so this Christmas is feeling kinda grim.
The cat destroyed the decorative trim,
she says she didn’t, but I know she’s lying,
the tree's up, yet it’s not looking so prim
The kid’s socks make the house smell like a gym,
the cat fouled the tree and my wife's crying,
so this Christmas is feeling kinda grim.
Cat got the turkey so pickings are slim
she just lays around hacking and sighing,
the tree's up, yet it’s not looking so prim
Wild winter winds are only a prelim
to a coming blizzard with snow flying,
so this Christmas is feeling kinda grim.
I got up to check the lights on a whim
and found the cat chewed cord was near frying.
The tree's up, yet it’s not looking so prim
so this Christmas is feeling kinda grim.
(Villanelle)
11/14/2015
Standing in the wings, on the periphery
of her cultivated world, inhibited only by
station and space, my head slowly spins
into her orbit, my eye lids twitter nervously,
my titillated ears vibrate, my hands tremble,
inner being disassembles, kneeling in deep
contrition, my flattering pose, covered by
plebeian skin, without merit or standing,
not in her purview, goes unnoticed.
Straining to capture a meaningful memento
of her regal essence, if but a quick glance,
token gesture, two or three words spoken
in jest, but, alas, no comely features with
which to attract even a passing stare.
Shriveling in her presence, my net value
laid bare. On my crown, a matted toupee,
a disheveled mound of bristled fibers.
No sterling jewelry to sparkle in her
turquoise eyes. On my wrist, a cheap
sports watch with a plastic band. My
colloquial speech contains no majestic
refrain, her delicate drums to tap, and
no rhythmic cadence, her cochlear bands
to serenade. En-wrapping my taut
form, the trappings of a commoner.
No velvet suit or silk cuffs, her refined
fingers to address; no cashmere
slacks, only a stiff pair of unpleated
Dockers to brush up against her
glimmering, polished legs. But, at
my lowly base, a pair of Dolce &
Gabanna wingtips, exuding a waxy
shine, casting an enthralling glare,
a magical spell with which to cloud
her discerning eyes, and to dissuade
her genteel mind. With one lengthy
stride, I introduce my intentions. Her
condescending eyes now peel away
my pretentious threads, and, with an
outstretched hand, beckons me to
her side, presses me against her
throbbing bosom. The lurid dance
begins, ending only after the darkness
filters the floss of my wingtips from
her dilated eyes.
Gardens cannot thrive in shade
an ill-fated penurious terrain
like love that's made, but made in vain
gardens cannot thrive in shade
As light hides behind the trees
shadows conceal the reverie
this ground, immortal beauty made
yet gardens cannot thrive in shade
Lilly of the Valley, forget me not's
retain some portion of blame
her shades of blue and soft white hue
a fertile mirage for a spectral fool
Gardens cannot thrive in shade
for speck of sun that has no place
everything seems to wither in grey
awakening desires endless strain
Tis not this garden I sought to find
in an age I thought I'd left behind
but now as I gaze upon the grey
Its sure my garden wont thrive in shade
A Forrest floor, that's what you are
a bed of amber promise made
A flowerless fern lovely yet sparse
which seems best loved from afar
How do I tell you
and where do I start?
all of my flowers are shriveling
gradually in the garden of my heart
I comprehend the days when rays do shine and Ra does set
When inner soul and façade connect, 24 hours in one day gave me breathe, that’s 1,440
seconds closer to death rather than oxygen left. Aspire to build that dream shape that
atmosphere, win a Nobel peace prize, become Man of the Year
Build homes in the smog inner city ghettoes, where blocks and countenance of lost souls
decay and rust, maybe spread poetry and love as well as a monumental philanthropist,
raise seeds that spread, root, bud fruit, then trees, then yield juice to saturate the Earth
with only sweet organic humanity
Turn impossible into “Can it be” then push shriveling raisons of doubt into the fathoms
of Davie Jones’s locker, to the depths of no man’s land where oxidation and sea level
pressure crush submarines into aluminum cans, cans where can’t conforms to can,
starve doubt and feed your faith, slow and steady wins the race, but more than
anything,, remember without tree-shaking fear, find that passion and equilibrium, killing
opposition and the antagonizing meniscus, swiftly remember that life through birth is not
a boomeranging discus, life never comes back so dream, execute, relax and become
life’s subtle screenplay until the script and its cast wilt into debris of cremated urns
holding dreams, aspirations, and the well worked remains of me.
What have you done to your eager young sons
where will they hide now from the searing sun
and what Jordan river will wash off their pain
your gods were forgotten in your hurry to aim
and the holiest of places are no longer within reaching
and the hopes of the many are drowned by the foolish
we grow feckless and fearful and can no longer see them
their books are unread and unuttered forever
this infection grows scabs all over our bodies
and the fairest of faces turns a dark ugly pallor
our thoughts are distorted by soulless mad leaders
and our fields are grown weary of growing our bounty
and winds bringing clouds never release their waters
and the dry, warring fields of faraway places
are filled with fresh holes of the people who walked there
and we never once lifted a hand to defend them
and the sand in our faces we'll never inherit
and the righteous bold fruits of the mighty have rotted
their tongues of salvation are shriveling inside them
and the voices of liberty are empty and hollow
may the god of our fathers bring ashes and sorrow
and the end is a welcome change to our blood letting
the rivers that watered and cooled and once fed us
are swirling in angry revenge all around us
a pillar of salt is all that is left standing.
Drained and dried by life then left to die
She lived to love; but oft was left to cry
Counseled to carry on she continues
Shriveling as to She'ol her heart schuss
Holding on to hopes a hazard in her eyes
Immature and imbecilic it implies
Weary from wishing an end to her woe
she shelters her shredded spirit in shadow
Without febrility from festering passions to foil
unavowed feelings wilt under burnt umber soil
As expectation of love's exalted expressions fades
desires deaden; in desperation she no longer wades
03/25/2018
shriveling towers
serpent cheering- mobs rejoice
fisher woman cries
Shriveling corn in late fall fields
Haunts with bleak precedent
My hope; and even tiny blight
On the premise of a grain
Assumes a goal's defect.
Is this a sorrow made of seeing?
Made of faith imposing on recurrence
The promise of my scheme?
And are not sight and faith in promise
Grown within this common ground?
If viruses and I are one,
What makes our contradiction?
Does a blemish travel in the seed?
And should I pray to science's revisions,
Believing god is not immaculate?
Late fall wanes and hesitation
Seeps through bending stalks
And into my inclusion;
And all my host of chemicals
Rage interpretation.
Although she longed, prayed and hoped he wasn’t away
she still couldn’t stand the thought of him being no more
only having known each other for a few weeks
when love at first sight kicked in
they walked together holding hands like inseparable love birds,
talked about anything from life, to love,
and how they would never leave nor forget each other,
moved together in synchrony
and tried so many treats
and almost everything
from piggybacks to mouthy caresses
The rumors of his untimely demise sent her shriveling
from a beautiful rose to a wilting, wrinkled lily
she was eventually lost to the unbearable memories
of her prince charming’s death
Shortly after her passing away,
her prince's survival resurfaced
drowning the untrue rumors
when asked about her
all he could remember
were the images of a damsel
built on nothing else
but
sinking
sand….