Best Shrivels Poems
My heart shrivels dry, blackened rose in bitter anguish, ...
Do you feel my pain?
Why must the flame of day dwindle dim?
O' fortune, like the moon, changeable, waxing and waning
Oppressing me, first with power's soothing stroke
To take it all away!
Poverty of my spirit lies in love's immortal wake
Why fate of fortune, cruel regard, forsaken me?
Vain, and shadowed, I waver between the balance
Such agony is mine!
Day and night, everything defies me?
Great is my grief!
One cure, escape me from the throes of my misery !!
I beg, the Gods... hear my wail, hear my plea
Would fate be cured by kiss, one look, one sign, devotion? !
This wretchedness is black, I taste bitter ash!
Keep dark night hidden in the depth of your heart, o' moon !!
I am like a leaf, played with by the wind
I am like a light hovering bird, chains cannot bind me !!
Salvation comes with desire, one touch
Do not turn the eyes away...!
I cannot be shamed!
Torment me not, o' heartless moon!!
Wheel of fortune spins my heart...I beg to win love's prize !!
Without it, I will bemoan the wounds of fortune with weeping eyes
.... and I am cursed as I fall from the peak of glory....
into the depths of the valley of despair !!
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protogothic entry: for Amy's Contest:
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Inspired by the classical music, "Carmina Burana"
A cantata, written between l935-36 by German composer Carl Orff.
This passionate work was based on ancient poems hand-scribed in Latin...these parchment
manuscripts discovered in a Bavarian monastery in l803. They were believed to have been
written by students of the clergy (monks) sometime during the 11-13th century.
This familiar music has been used in numerous film scores..quite dramatic and powerful
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
The grove within the forest leads to a river,
Where sings the frogs, dragonflies, and birds
And there they die away, quietly, welcomed by their young
Decomposing in the ground, their smells lost within others
The lily, drenched in dew, dries slowly in the sun
Near the water, soft, sweet-scented, true
She dries more and more, till dawn gifts her gloss
And again, she has beyond what she needs
Dripping, crying, the darkness cannot consume her elegance
Even in dying days, she shrivels with eternal fragrance
"...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track." C. G. Jung
"The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal." Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don’t mean what they see
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3, 1997[Revised May 2003] -from longhand notes: a binding of poems. 1997
A firestorm of fleeing grace,
A holy aria from its base,
Its mem'ry will not be erased
From you.
The shifting shards of fate and chance,
The phosphorescent great expanse,
It all together seems to dance
For you.
A dream that stood a hundred years,
That, when it died appeared in tears,
And exiled all your joys and fears
Through you.
And when the dawn shrivels, subsides,
The queen of grievance stays your bride,
Though crying, all the dreaming tides,
They flew.
Augment your misery with gloom,
Let loneliness become your tomb,
Instead of watching flowers bloom
In you.
Now if you think you can and care,
That you will swear, that you will dare,
Then dream and it will take you there,
The mew.
You shall not ever justify,
The reasons we would all deny,
That in your life you'll never fly
It's true.
But love it smiles and beckons you
To strive and smile and linger too,
To bid the shame that flows through you
Adieu.
Who knew
That life could be so...
Sky blue!
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !
a ghost haunts the country of Laos
sieving through jungles
crackling twigs because
it has not yet died
beware of it
the one who drags one foot
while the other rots 20 feet away
shoes made of cast metal
footprints ever so present
in night fall
imprints of bomb shells in mud fields
a phantom roams
plains in Laos
hide your children
its breath reeks of agent orange
its shouts
dynamite flames that dusts away human bones
and bamboo baskets
a stench of wheezing willing to fold
curl
leaves and skins of families who
who hide in forest
till their flesh shrivels
like the lungs of many dead soldiers
the fissures of its face
exposes land mines
crooning a song of torment
through throats of civilians fleeing
on the hair of this
wicket phantom
its hair droops the length
of the Ho Chi Minh trail
hear its whispers
it also cries
moans of a past that begs
to be remembered
clawing trees to spell out its name
the ghost wails pain
filters itself everywhere
whimpering
peeling steal and lead
by the millions
what remains become chains
that burrow into earth
by cluster bombs
big bombs
B-52 bombers dropping
in its tons of U.S. congress approval
in ink
an old friend still alive and well
and under moonlight
refugees run
only to meet more trouble
in camps
they desire to break away
from this ghost and its name
and no one recalls its name
of this
ghoul who rages through
the country of
Laos
melting tendons and flesh
this ghost hungers
for humans
screeching napalm gas on
palms of
guerilla soldiers
american soldiers
and vietcong alike
death does not even remember its name
beware but
tell your children
light the candles and the
incense
the ghost drifts because
no one wants to
know about its name
The Secret War
put this crying soul
of secret history
to rest
recognize
its name
bless this curse
that wants to
name
all the people
it claims
and they too
will remain alive
like mines beneath the soil
seeds of calamity
The sea beckons.
The air is heavy with heat,
the sun fries the streets
shrivels up trees
and I feel parched.
Tired I trudge towards the waterfront.
Still the sea beckons.
Sweat runs down my face,
wets my unshaved face,
dampens my collar,
as I plod towards
the pebble lined sea shore.
The small waves glimmer,
winking in hot rays,
inviting me to cool myself.
Insistently the sea beckons.
Summer is at its worst.
I hobble down
towards the beach,
pull down my clothes
and stand in the sun's emissions
wearing my swimsuit.
Constantly the sea beckons.
I trudge towards the water's edge,
jump in and then
come out quickly, yelping.
I feel a jelly fish sting,
it burns red across my thigh.
Disillusioned I tramp back home.
The sea beckons no more.
21 August 2021
until every blade of grass shrivels into eternal sand;
until blue waters hollow dry and hippos disappear;
until moon-gloss turns sky-gone, the sun already vanished,
replaced by the heat of risen souls.
By force alone will I let go my corporal life;
by force alone venture toward questions unresolved;
by force alone enter the realm of frightening mystery
never to doubt return?
Will I see the questioners and the faithful mingle?
Will I see them flung into the Church of The Divinely Revealed?
Will I see the Rev. Dr. Know-it-All who always has?
Will I see?
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
May 10, 2013
The Circle --- A Painting By Frida Kahlo
~~~
Caught between one life and another
my pain lengthens like a shadow of the moon
I am crumbling into fragments
like a fragile leaf, played with by the wind
O' dark angel of the night
You've slashed your talons across my life
You have pounced, without a care...
declaring my flesh and bone your own
I only hear you in the silence of despair....
My world is now this moment that does not move
O furtuna, sternit fortem
O furtuna, rota tu volubillis
Never was my life my own, never could it bend
A circle, round, I cannot be........but just a line that ends
Quod per sortem .... Sternit fortem,
A leaf, no longer, on the tree
Reflecting then, upon a sky
I reach a hand upon my crown
and I feel of death instead
My heart shrivels dry, a blackened rose, ...
Do you feel my pain?
Why must the flame of life grow dim?
With hope you soothe me in your whim
To take it all away?
This wretchedness is black as tar,
I taste the bitter blood!
There's darkness hidden in the depth
of who I used to be
I am like a leaf, played with by the wind
Do not turn eyes away...!
Torment me not, with heartless lust....
as flesh turns into dust!
______________________________________________________________
Based on the Painting 'THE CIRCLE'
For Cyndi's Contest: "Women Who Paint --Frida Kahlo"
8/19/13
http://www.fridakahlofans.com/c0611.html The Circle
Translation
O furtuna, (O' fortune) Rota tu volubilis, (you whirling wheel)
Sternit fortem, (strikes down the string)
Quod per sortem (since fate)
Finished vines
waving limply in the wind,
tangled streaks across the hillside.
The Autumn Earth
conceals eternal motion
under a carpet of many colors;
a fluid carpet that flutters and shifts
beneath my feet;
a noisy carpet telling the story
of my presence.
Frost-bitten flowers
broken by my passing touch
salt their pollen on the wind;
a gooseberry shrivels
against the bark of a naked bush.
The black bear and the coons steal
each other's dens,
and bees, lethargic,
cuddle on the combs.
But why?
I know why---
scientifically, astronomically--
the earth and sun fly elliptically
and space dilutes the energy.
But still i cling
to the burnt orange leaves,
savor the last unsquashed berry,
dreading the day
when my worn winter jacket is not warm enough
and my breath freezes
and my legs hurt where my boots rub.
The frozen rain clings in crystals
to tired trees; snow glitters like shattered glass
and cold sunlight assaults my eyes.
I close my eyes against the glare
and listen to the moaning wind,
and dream of a world
where Autumn gives birth
to Spring.
The lone starfish writhes,
Forgotten by the vast sea-
It shrivels like skin.
She flickers in the borderland
In the mirror and the marsh
Sparkling like the morning dew
On a grateful corpse
In the bog her murmuring
The echo of a cry
Travels on the plaintive wind
Like a phantom sigh
The merest of a semblance
Shadowed by the moon
In the murk appears to flirt
Behind the sinking dunes
Like an orphan of the sea
Or a widow of the sands
She shrivels in the noon day sun
Glimmering in strands
Written by © Raven Drake
Shadows almost swift
Beyond learning's reflection
Quivered from the eaves
I thought thatch did smell
Strange upon the nose urban
And made words polite
Hanging on child's eye
Though the myth dead came to life
And blood shrivels still
What song when they're gone
Shall spread my relief like stars?
Bats drove black the sun.
DEADLY SIN- LIE
SALIGIA,
Or the seven deadly Sins,
Covers all the probabilities
Of peccadilloes,
That could be committed by the HUMANITY.
Lust
glows up within a man
It is like a sentiment
that can not be brought under control
It can make a rich man a refugee,
Because this sin deprives him of his mores and morals,
And makes him do all the wrongs,
Just to fulfill his desires.
Pride
We all have two faces,
We cover our real image, cover our wounds
Not admitting the pockmarks in our character,
We always keep our real emotions incarcerated
And show the world a conceited face,
Forgetting our hard days.
We assassinate out fears,
And show as if we are the winners of all the races.
Greed
IT develops like a voracious thirst
It creeps like a climber,
Ingests all our emotions
demolishing us from the inside
The want seems to be endless,
Just like wanting a sunrise during a sunset.
Envy
It is like a bane that shrivels us
IT is like a sweet poison that never makes us start the race,
We keep our focus on some other person,
Diminishing our own soul
When we put every thought under rest,
It is too late,
And we never can achieve the wanted position.
Gluttony
Its intake seems endless,
Makes our mind more materialistic,
When we suffer from it,
Everything seems fantastic,
When we realize that
What it has really done to us,
NO one but we are dejected.
Sloth
The body throws out all the energy,
The anesthetizing decline
Converts into redundancy,
That leads us to reverie,
We never try to uplift our position,
Rather we choose to mix ourselves with the ground,
To become a person never ever to be found.
Anger
It rises slowly in our body,
Bubbling our minds
Most of the time the reason is
Incomprehensible
Emotions gone with the wind,
Control converted into ash and dust,
We lose hope, life has no reason
We are into disloyalty and sheer treason.
But then,
All of this consists of one common
Misdemeanor,
That is – Lie and false hood,
It is more than these 7 sins,
It is above all the wrongdoings,
It leads to one sin, to another,
Leading a man to decay
And sentiments to be smothered.