Best Shrivelled Poems
Part 3: AT HEAVEN’S GATES
To set Her free from destiny was far from my design,
but, though unplanned, I touched Her hand to give Her peace of mind.
She told me then, and then again, that providence Divine
had cast a curse, and even worse: despised by all mankind,
She walked alone, unseen, unknown, Her soul incarnadine.
To break this spell of living hell, of loneliness enshrined,
and end Her days within the haze, a sole redeeming deed
would give reprieve and maybe leave our destinies entwined -
Her final quest be put to rest if only I agreed,
but no surcease nor perfect peace nor hope if I declined.
The shadows, shawled in silence, crawled, the night Her fate was sealed
as vespers tolled across the wold beneath the muted fog.
The heavens cracked and sorrow slacked as chimes of children pealed
while in the hills (where midnight chills) there wailed a daemon dog -
with no delay I lead the way, the path to Potter’s Field.
Her weathered face was lined with Grace, Her eyes shone emerald green.
With me as guide She stepped inside to grieve and mourn Her loss,
and thereupon, though pale and wan, the night took on a sheen.
With weary eyes as Her disguise, She placed a wooden cross
upon a mound (unhallowed ground) and whispered ‘Sibylline...’.
A falling star flared in the far and burst, a bolide flame -
beneath the light, the Final Rite no longer hid undone.
And kneeling there in silent prayer, we seemed to share the shame
but could atone if left alone, forevermore as one.
Before we both could breathe an oath, I asked Her once Her name.
Through lips, pale red, She simply said ‘Some called me Abigail’,
and neath a birch where white doves perch, I took Her for my bride,
beheld Her smile a little while, but all to no avail...
Her cloak and cape, and shrivelled shape lie empty at my side...
for now She waits at Heaven’s Gates, not far beyond the Pale.
Yer briny whore
akin to boar
wit' mangy hide 'n scurvy-pocked
chomped 'n chewed
me black 'n blue
wit' carnassial chompers as of croc
Be curs'd, yer nit
me ample bits
equated ter yer own be nowt
yerz be carnivorous
scaly 'n scabrous
yer plaque be axed ter beef up grout
Uncomely wench
yer skunky stench
blunted me hook 'n scorched me beard
me peepers stung
me hornpipe hung
shorn ter th' bone 'n shrivelled 'n seared
Comely 'n curvy
riddled wit' scurvy
th' cap'n's whore-maid tooken yer whole
yer rat o' th' sea
holed and *****
yer fired yer cannon in a rottin' port'ole
Blow me down, lover!! I love it when we talk dirty.
(Hahahaha. I see the Soup powers-that-be deleted my word. I swear it's not used as a swearword. The word rhymes with "hussy". lol)
Three men each grew a precious rose
They all had different thoughts
Of how to raise and nurture them
Of the outcomes that they sought.
The first man shirked all effort
Just plunged a hole within the soil
His rose grew, waned then wilted
It suffered from his lack of toil.
The second man possessed great intent
By preparing fertile ground
Purchasing almost everything
Gave his rose all that could be found.
This rose developed entirely spoilt
It flourished better than a weed
Except it too deformed and shrivelled
When he could no longer feed its needs.
Our third man was a pauper
However his heart was like a king
All he had was time and love
But he knew his rose would sing.
He too prepared quite fertile earth
But he never spent a cent
He freed the dirt for solid roots
He knew this rose was heaven sent.
He spent what he could just afford
Although mostly invested time
Talked and fussed and loved his rose
No surprise it grew up really fine
This man finally met his grave
Wilted then died when he grew old
His rose still grows and prospers
It flowers so bright and so bold.
Precious gifts require attention
Only exceptions grow up wild
Treasures need time and care
Imagine each rose could be a child.
It occurred to me
I think more and more like a poet
Thoughts jumbled with imagery
Off in my own colourful world
Small wonder there’s a disconnect
With dusty musty pencil pushers
People whose minds have shrivelled up
Have trouble seeing art and beauty for what they are
Gifts from above
I can’t relate to people
Bent on upward and forward
People with hardened hearts
Their erected walls with tiny doors
Tightly locked with guarded keys
They look down from lofty towers
Baffled and indignant
At meaningless people like you and me
To them we’re satisfied with so very little
We look at the world
Through poet lenses
Yes we appreciate that subtle dimension
That’s invisible to most
Keeping the pathway to the heart open
The channel clear
Seeing that life’s real treasures
Are being offered only
To the receptive soul
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
My island slept for years in the care
Of Tainos, Caribs and Arawak
Their canoes on the sea breast bare
Dreaming of milk from manioc
The swamps unscarred, trees secure
Batos and songs rinsed in the azure.
Then came doom laden caravels came
Prancing with Conquistadores
Their swords to slaughter, then to shame
The Ave Marias slutted by whores
Whose blazing balls of canons denied
The sufficient death of the crucified.
My island was the Mary Magdalene held
For ransome in the frying lust
For gold, the continental wars spelled
A trembling virginity in the dust
A lost of idyllic grace, where bloody men
Sowed the evil inherited again and again.
From Spanish to French, Spanish to British
How callous is all history
A spectre publishing the marginal brutish
Shrivelled glory of identity.
And still my Mary, her alabastor box a gift
This tropic wonder, this lignum vitae of thrift
From empty tomb to broken hearted disciple
Evanglizes the Mahoe dawn
Over the Blue Mountain where peace ripple
On the motto, still the fawn
In the forest brings the stag to court
This island stands ready to file a good report.
Two Rivers
Stark naked she slowly shrivelled her exposed vacant mind
shed dry viscous tears and filled the empty river in vain
Exhausted petrified her and the stream her inner self
bared to rugged contraction with one final squeeze flooded
the truth that she floated on sediment nevertheless
17th November 2016
5 times 14 syllables howmanysyllables.com
A time for werewolves, zombies, bones,
For spiders, vampires, ghosts and bats,
Blood curdling shrieks and chilling moans,
Of walking corpses, witches’ cats,
See scuttling beetles, ghouls and rats.
Old warlocks chant and banshees cry,
The carved out pumpkins light the way,
And broomsticks soar across the sky,
As shrivelled mummies flaunt decay:
It’s Halloween or All Souls’ Day.
As along our long life journey we sail
We all do encounter belied expectations
Feeling of deep hurt results from betrayal
Our shrivelled heart writhing in contractions
The hurt needs healing so we go to a healer
Who examines blotches in our aura field
Looking grave is this wheeler dealer
As his magic wand he does wield
Half who visit healed, the others not
For he simply invokes the placebo effect
Opening up our mind beyond its fearful slots
The faith healer does nothing yet no one suspects
With this comic interlude over with let us examine
The root cause of our pain needing healing
We negate not potency of toxic poison
Simply look at origin of so feeling
The aspect of us hurt is our identity
Plunged into dark gloom owing to its loss
Recognising not that in world of ephemerality
Attachment to fleeting images of pain is the cause
In monk mode detached thus free from pain and sorrow
Lower mind vaporised, we abide in blissful joy
No expectations or desires for the morrow
Mind illumined we recognise ego ploys
Acceptance of others just as they are
Knowing that maya oft causes misalignment
Acts of others be as they may leaves then no scar
We empathise with one and all resting in blissful contentment
We then are our own best faith healer having faith in love divine
Offering no niche within for rancour to anchor onto our being
Knowing that in timeless time with love all souls will align
We nonchalantly breeze through life ever celebrating
29-November-2020
Where the water washes white surfs across
Sand banks porous with green dreams in our hearts
Where the sun surveys the wet desert of loss
The salt thread like blood stitching together our parts
Find me there wandering the wailing shores
I am a new citizen with ancient desires still
Living on the restless rim of of crinkled azures;
Watching history bleach my memory of will.
Here I pine to see my mother whole as I am
Here I pray for justice from the impaled lamb
This Caribbean sea that pens my rage in me
Water where my ancestors footsteps no imprints leave
Of vast voyages now void on the Atlantic lea
This Caribbean sea in modern voice I cannot grieve
My people sundered like a broken ship
Mastless, anchorless, drifting drumless on weed
My people bleeding from tongue lash and whip
And no Cudjoe, Tacky, or Boukman to intercede
I am a citizen of the rim, a place undefined
In the subtle representations where I'm maligned.
Here in this world of diverse languages and shade
Across the bloodless salt of shrivelled water we trade.
Patrick O’Flanagan’s covert shenanigans
Make people ask where he gets to at night
There’s a perception that Patrick O’Flanagan
Visits a door with a glowing red light
What people don’t know about Patrick O’Flanagan
Is he has only one goal
Each night at ten to ten, visits his gran again
She does a dance with a pole
Old Ma O’Flanagan dances for Stan and Ben
Over in County Kildare
The nurses and carers all turn a blind eye
As Stan sticks his pension ‘down there’
Pat’s her announcer, he's also her bouncer
He keeps them old fellas in check
Old Ben can get frisky and that’s a bit risky
Unless he desires a sore neck
These is the rules says Patrick O’Flanagan
That shrivelled todger of yours
Grandma will make that old thing come awake again
And you place hard cash down her drawers
But Ben said those wrinkles don’t pep up our winkles
We only watch her to rehearse
For what we might see on the CCTV
When you nip out back with that nurse
Hands
Stretched out like branches
Reaching for the kiss of sun
An army of hands, brown hands
Stretched out at me
Shrivelled weak hands
Looking for their daily bread.
Hands
With nobody to hold
No star close for them to touch
To shake off the dust and shimmer
Slowly move back to folded arms
Hands that know not how to give
Stretch out to touch the troubled
Hands that serve only his purpose.
Hands
Snatching from the pot
Blind hands grab the rich jasper
To exchange it for some nourishment
Hands that know only to grab from another
Hands that serve only his purpose
Looking for their daily bread.
A Garden rejoices when it envisions colourful exquisite blooms everywhere filling the empty spaces.
Lush green grasses are the attire it adorns and flowers become the embellishers.
Even a sad heart would feel enlightened & placid by visiting flowery garden.
In my heavenly serene garden.. once I sat and admired myriad flowers widely seducing the butterflies and bees through its aromatic succulent nectar and pollens..
They were all enjoying their appetizing feast.
At the same time..
I also noticed a pink hibiscus bud curled like a baby not wanting to bloom,preferring to remain a virgin..!!
I keenly observed as the butterflies were trying to kiss the petals and black bees constantly humming tunes to arouse it.
The mother hibiscus did not bother
Instead kept preparing herself to wither as her time was over.
The tiny bud wrapped the petals tight, covered her face and thoroughly weeped cogitating about losing her mom shortly and simultaneously scared by her predators who were competing around to conquer her heart.
Witnessing the struggle there climbs a saviour ant with his warrior team to save her from the trouble.He reaches to stimulate the tip & guarantee her that she will be safe and consoled her to stop worrying unnecessarily.
In few minutes competitors flew away and the bud was free from fear.
Visitor ants said "cheers" and left .
Mother flower bid good "bye" and shrivelled..
As the little one slowly unwrapped her petals to look at her world ..
A tear drop, up from the sky fell upon finally to deflower her.
She being fragile, now bloomed to be the most attractive flower in the garden.
I stood up went closer ,smiled at the blossom captured a picture and conveyed my first good "Hi."
28-7-2020
Second place in the contest.
Note:Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies!
Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Silent One.
Today one more page is shorn off from the book of my life.
On this day of humble rejoicing, my heart brims with gratitude,
For I am granted one more year and the priceless gift of life,
When many young ones are destined to drop off from life unexpected.
Under the shroud of darkness while many falter and flounder,
God has been guiding me all along, never letting me down with,
Hardships I can’t tide over or challenges I can’t confront.
Besides, the love of my family and dear ones keeps me in good stead.
God has been my strength and my guide through all these years.
Though grown older now, He fills me with the fuel to move on
He keeps my cup full with his grace that I enjoy a serene peace
And each new morning to me is a fresh awakening.
I have lost the sheen of my eyes and the suppleness of my limbs.
My brittle bones ache, I can’t move as brisk as before.
But beneath the shell of my withering body and wrinkling skin
I still have a heart that sings, young as ever, not yet shrivelled.
With my sweet family and children around and the lovely people,
With whom I share my life, immensely blessed is how I feel.
I wish to move on in life sharing the gifts of my heart and mind,
Making myself convinced that I haven’t lived my life in vain.
Dark clouds part
Spring sun warms land
Sleepy tree opens wardrobe
Fresh green cloak covers naked frame
Squirrel gymnastics performed against vibrant backdrop
Ignored by blackbirds busy building
Summer arrives
Leaf’s heyday
Flutters in warm breeze
Veins pump life into dainty form
Nature’s simplistic beauty
Too soon chill spreads across land
Winds gust challenging life
Leaf resists but colour changes
Green tinged with brown
Tree draws inward
Leaf’s lifeblood turned off
Brown vista prevails
Then airborne in autumn sky
Dark clouds draw in
Bleak winter arrives
Grounded, shrivelled, still
Life leaves leaf
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art much more shrivelled and much more cold
Rough winds shake the withered leaves of today.
And your stomach hath too many a fold.
Sometimes too hot your sister shines,
And often is your grey complexion dimmed;
And you always smell like my uncle’s swine
Except your upper lip is less well trimmed.
Thy eternal summer did long since fade
And lost possession of that fair thou ow'st;
And Satan brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives death to eyes.