Best Songless Poems
FRAGILE
I watched my mother
Beautiful, petite, smart
Widowed at 28 with three small children
And people said, "Be extra good, your mother is fragile."
A blonde Jackie Kennedy,
Right down to the pill-box hat
The early 60s when women were pretty, songless birds
Protected in their husbands' split-level cages.
Remarry was the only way, "they" said
As she ran for public office, favored to win.
But he wouldn't have a wife that worked
Unless ironing his shorts three times to get it "right."
Glass is fragile. I found that out
As I heard him smashing it when he beat her at night.
Bones are fragile. I found that out
When mommy had broken fingers and toes after loud nights.
My mother was many things.
A victim. A woman. But fragile?
Mommy bird sang a song of invincibility
As she escaped her cage with five children in tow.
I have two girls of my own. Smart.
Beautiful. Compassionate. I am proud.
They know that fragile means breakable
And that women in our family are more steel than glass.
Fragile is for collectibles we buy and sell.
My mother taught me we cannot be owned.
Fragile is for birds without a voice.
But my mother sang, even if in a different key.
My mother was the strongest woman I ever knew.
I hope she looks down on her female descendants
And sees that one Jackie-like woman in a pill box hat
Inspired generations of decidedly non-fragile women.
January 26, 2017
Where defeat
must be chewed
in several rounds
swallowed with
yesterday's raindrops
Where truth
blinds your vision
awakened the echo of anger
demons lurking
thunder rolls
Where evil dwells
haunts the brain
in songless praise
broken rib
red swirl spirals
Where the heart beats
altar of the soul
heavenly peace subdued
the breeze's shy caress
embers of the sun
I perch on a rock
by white teal-roofed bungalows,
resting after my journey.
Autumn's early bloom
is a choir of falling leaves
by a quiet rippling stream.
The silence deafens
as bright notes waft like snowflakes
to earth in Fall's madrigal.
I, a songless bird,
rejoice in observation.
The rippling stream chimes for me.
Tears bring the eyes its shivering spangle of stars
In liquid pools dilating light
The firmament spiraled to bandage time’s scars
Shining in empty bowls night
And sometimes the common carbon of the air
In soul deep fires like butterflies
Becomes the diamonds from our despair
Uncut by innocence to prudent eyes.
And you from your shining White House saw
The fluid dreams of frigid seasons
Bent to touch us, and in your warmth to thaw
The icy conducts of pride’s false reasons
We had only eyes to tell the luster of our glee
Muted with wonder at your love
Bridging the callous constellations of history
To dent the songless cages for each dove
How shall we thank you for feathering our dreams
To vault the pole-less blue of sky
Dear First Lady, the joy that in us stuttering gleams
Make us the jewels of your eye
You bring us hope, you shining tiara of the sultry past
You jeweller setting us to shine
Against rabid scorn of white winters' withering blast
No cheap rubble again, the stones you leave behind.
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
_________________________________
Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
I teeter on the edge
Of a crumbling cliff, beneath me
Is nothing but cloud and indistinct shape,
A bird or two, laughing at my wingless back,
My songless throat. I spread my arms
As if they had feathers, and taste the wind,
But my feet are planted on shifting gravel.
Behind me, another wall, pushing closer,
Impenetrable force, I have nowhere to go
But out and down, down, down.
Toes at the edge, dry mouth, nothing to swallow.
He said he’d be a swallow, if he were an animal.
Focus. The horizon spreads wide enough
To swallow me whole, to inhale
My tiny universe. Hands trembling, I think of home,
But where is home? Is it the desert,
Where tumbleweeds chase you down the road,
Or is it the pendulum- deathly winter one minute,
Blossoming paradise the next?
My breath catches in my throat. The wind
Dries my eyes of tears, and always that wall.
I am stalling, and everyone knows it.
I consider jumping. I consider it for a long, long time,
But I can’t see the ground through the clouds,
And I am still not a bird. Pebbles roll and fall
Off the edge, pushed by the force that threatens me.
I do not hear them clatter on the ground.
Maybe there is no ground, and if I jump,
I’ll fall until I die of old age.
What a joke for the fates to play on us.
I think and I muse for too long; the wall at my back
Leaps forward and I am thrown headfirst
Into the abyss.
I
Euphonious today is the tone
And though tomorrow is shrouded , unknown,
I trust it holds a blissful opaline pod
And to this repose a prayer to our Lord and God.
II
Some court are songless and dark
Some have lost their Eden park
But I saw a songbird over your window sill
And you sat cushy on Croesus seal
Away, away from fears,away from tears.
III
Your place is among the stars
Where the twelve streams of Elysus
Flow; God has made you
A salt to this nation,
The candelabra of the world!
Choice birthday greetings to you.
L-innets flock songless on a bough of love.
O-ur vows are sherds and my heart is a
V-oid that no sweet words can ever fill.
E-very beginnings have ends but ends are new beginnings.
I-n the kepler of her heart, I live; she hopes that
S-omeday the moon will give back light to the sun.
W-rongs are rights only done wrong
A-nd apologies seek to make wrongs rights.
R-iptides run but matters of the heart crawl.
19/06/2017
On the ground, stark still
The child immobile stared, saw
Its dead broken will
*
Songless feathers cold
Limping back from shivered tears
The bird speechless too
*
One bird flies no more
Death disshevelled to it clings
Like a silent heart
*
Each dying makes dust
Dust the silence of the song
Dust, death of a bird
*
No post mortem whys
Knowledge sorrows has no cure
Death cloud us with sighs
*
One tear glistened then
The mother tugged her away
Heart beating like wings
*
Dead before the church
In coldness, nothing flies now
In the silent skies
*
Hangs still the clod cloud
Air in air, a frozen will
Like a dead bird - falls
*
Inexorable
The mortal thread dangling dust
To featherless wings
*
A bird's desire fled
To this feathered crumbled heap
Shall I trust to sleep?
Visions comes and Visions goes
Deep within my soul lies the reflections of an aging soul
A distance murmured cry was heard
From the echoes of a songless wind
Singing of a song long forgotten
I cannot say that I dont care
Cause I am aware that they are everywhere
The cautios wolf cannot be seen as a coward
His' simply aware constantly knows whats going on
That the wheel of life turns on and it wont hold on
Wish I'd be a bird of prey,Pure and blessed
A hawk who could ease the pain
But then again,that just a pleasent dream
The sun sets at the horizons
Briging the night on its way,
Moon and stars-The jewels of the NIght Sky
Feelings things,The werewolf ways
Pain grows and hurting endured
Emotions building up ,slowly turning into a rush
Senses grow and gifts formed
From the forms newel,A werewolf is born
Amongs the shadows,I shall walked
Forever seeking and searching...
Dont look back to tell me,It is where you belong
We're the last decendants,In the line of valiant soldiers
We're mistreated angels,We are the blackbird nation
We're the chosen ones,We're the last decendants
We're a tribe of unsung glory,We're the Lycans!
There is not the slightest doubt it all-Not at all
When the time is right,You shall be on my side
Hate will grow like a foul cancer
To find a foe seems to be the answer...
Dont be a fool and never yeild
They've stained the holy ground.
Hopefully they sadly admits
There's no here, no place to hide
Tjere si no shelter to the storm
The maddened wolf will spread terror
But I know bitterly they will stumble
It's you who has said there's no tommrow
It's surely built in sadness
But the sadness sure to go by
So we all know the answer
The answer's within...Its in your mind...
Blaze Shadowmoon
In the mazy thicket of thoughts I search
With the fork of foresight on cloudy march
I pick meaningless pebbles from eerie plane
Meaning hisses at the futile chase of fussy lane
All doorsteps lintel-ling and leading to the most sought clue
none is rock and rilled across anthers of the age-long hue
Yet, life minstrels museless must trudge through the parks
Crowded by thorough thronging noisome marks
I must search for missing meaning along this boulevard
Of naked plumes wishing, waiting for the rush-roller yard.
ii
In the mazy marble of thoughts we search
With the fork of foresight on clueless march
We pick meaningless pebbles from eerie plane
Meaning hisses at the futile chase of limpid lane
All doorsteps lintel-ling and leading to the most sought clue
None is rock and riled through thronging of the age-long hue
Yet, life minstrels museless must trudge through the parks
Crowded by thorough darting noisome marks
We must search for missing meaning along this boulevard
Of naked plumes wishing, waiting for the rush-hour yard
Waiting all along
Tilling for a songless song
Let's take a walk together maybe have a songless dance.
Have a wordless conversation only letting our eyes speak.
Make whispers with our hearts of feelings that run deep.
Show our happiness with a touch and our love with one soft kiss.
Share our friendship with a glance. Share the same unspoken wish.
As we walk hand in hand together our silence becomes
a roar, the roar of a man and woman who are friends and
so much more. So let's take a walk together and have a songless
dance a wordless conversation and show our love with one soft kiss.
Another day has slipped away,
the Sun has come and gone.
And in the night I hope I might,
enjoy a new day's dawn.
The month of May has slipped away,
the Moon has come and gone.
Though having fun in the Summer Sun,
for another Spring I long.
Yet robins sing and children dream,
as the Sun begins to rise.
One life ends, while another begins,
and the fledgling finally flies.
Then one day they flew away,
no more robins sing.
Now songless trees lose their leaves,
'till robins return in Spring.
It's been a year since we last past here
as Earth orbits the Sun.
'Twas a year with cheers and occasional tears,
but another Spring has come.
Now robins sing and plants grow green
and humming birds grace the sky.
Most Winter kill will surely heal
and fledglings soon will fly.
A breast of rocks and woods with no song
Four hundred miles of pines that endure
And a path of chocolate sand with only hoof-prints.
Cherries are red but no one comes to pick them
And grass here takes long to brown.
Shoving my boots, I walk through the country that leads to your heart.
I come with a palm of nine white primroses
And nine crimson candles whose stems sat in ancient esters.
I come not to seek heaven underneath your landscapes
But prey the serpents that keep your mountains songless.
I'm here to pluck the devil off your back and ask for a dance,
For linnets, waxwings and finches will sing
A bounteous record that gives itself to a needle.
O Lady, allow this heart of youth that comes
In the company of compass and tongue to explore our world.
Let me pick from your wild dreams, cherries and lotus flowers
And make you a salad with nine hearts of ham.
I want to sit across the table and watch you eat,
As the river of stars flowing in the black of your eyes,
Burn with a lust hidden from the universe.
Share with me those things of your secret inner life
Let me sit with you in those theatres that run in my head
And paddle my inquisitive fingers through the kinks of your afro.
I have a chest of rubber to give rest to your head
But be wary most of my cunning lips
That drool to steal sweet-minty little kisses.
Should your forts not give me pass,
Seasons will crawl, oceans will dry, tears will burn and skin will wrinkle
But this bonded heart will wait on you.
16/06/2017
Sky-clad, you are going
to meet the nemesis,
digging the street to?
find the nails. Do not fret.
Nails had burrowed deep in the
flesh of unknown. When you have
nothing to say, what are you
going to say ?
My heart misses a beat. Takes
a pause to look at the
spring of songless birds. I watch
myself ruined amid the legless run.
Soon they will be coming to wash
the stones with tears.
Do you smell the pungent smoke
rising from the no name tragedy.
Tonight the gas will not burn
in the kitchen. The beds will
remain unslept.
Satish Verma