Best Spectacled Poems
Shh…..!
Don’t scare them away!
Let us watch this macabre dance
and enjoy the art in rivalry!
A battle between
two champions.
both in the arena,
armed with nothing
but
teeth and fangs,
stationed immobile
face to face,
eyes emitting sparks of ire.
A cobra
with spectacled hood wide
hissing and shrieking,
spitting fire and fume
and a mongoose
with bushy tail up.
Who would win
this murderous combat?
Yet to see!
Golly… gosh!
ONCE UPON A TIME
I felt bold, placing an Ad in New York's Village Voice; see
I needed a friend, a guide, a conscientious lover of my choice
But as I read and read, one unusual two page letter
Stated that they'd be my slave, and loyal house sitter
That was start and end of that; but meanwhile,
I met a lonely young woman wanting to commit suicide
I showed her warmth, serenity, and rest; then I went to work
Leaving her with view of Hudson River, and lush trees in the park
That summer, I introduced her to her very own cozy space
Next door. Lo and behold, she found and looked like grace
One afternoon, as I hurried to fetch my usual subway train
This once lonely girl stopped to model her gold engagement ring
She stood hand in hand, with a spectacled gentleman I'd seen, so
I simply smiled, said farewell, and played back tapes of old scenes.
*
cold rock, who's gnashing teeth
beget torn lips and tidy legs
loveless creature clothed in rind
future queen would nary pine
fondleproof my guest
gentle curls no effect
your veinous tarmac brings organasms arrest
abandoned crusades confer pontiffregrets
what! the spectacled porpoise awakens!
the breeze suffocates
the sun withdraws
now must I greet your desire and drain your ample limits
“I open the door and cross the threshold of imagination”
Time past, like a grandma’s tale
Has a moral to tell.
Time present, busy, full and bursting
Save me, my Lord.
Time future, O God, It’s but a dream
Time hangs heavy hereabouts, at this bus stop,
Called the market stop, where folks wait bleary-eyed,
But not for this spectacled, haggard, wiry girl
At this bookstore opposite in conversation
With a rough- looking guy for forty minutes now
The bus comes, I squeeze myself in , but eyes strain
To find if that butterfly, book in hand, a last minute arrival
Had fluttered on to this bus; yes, she had..
Time suddenly grows a butterfly’s wings and flies.
Out there, time, the prancing horse, is a non-stop myth, ,
The ageless do not get time-worn,
Again, there, air, space and all its gadgetry
Free Of all traps and waits and longings
Having time, not human-clock-bound,
Locked up in stellar boxes, pressed into black holes
Waiting for an explosion..the end…timeless end.
Form used: All the three are in Free verse form
Contest: `Three Gems` of Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet~
BY : S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Date written: Written years back, but slightly compressed for this post
04 aug 2011
~La Gala Grandeur~
Revived from mine mortality,I adopt my rebirth
Through neonate eyes,the world now glows ethereal
As my resplendence arouses,death is relinquished dormant
Though newly formed,I step unteeteringly unafraid
Motlique auras,encompass my fellow scions
The firmament above,an wombous spectrum pletharic
Engrossed of adolescence,I become exhilarantly aware
My lineant precursors,swarm samely for my embracing
Free from fragility,I am no longer appraisal's prey
No less nor more than another,we abide incorruptable
Orchestras of saints and psalmists,exact an spectacled sonata
Devout and divinely,we dance dutifully for mercy's grace
This revel illimitable,is always available
Admittance thou art assured,whether or not of invitation
With none boundary of era,we know ye will attend
It is but a matter my friend,of just when...
...is then
~Azaza~ June 19th,2010
Love And Its Irony by Sumisha Chandan
With love right around the corner,
a checkered pink pant
fitted well with a manly mink
has its own alibi.
With a pink pant and the trinket down its part,
no one loves love for a while.
Loneliness takes you to the same corner
this time it is a white and a blue collar,
with black checkered pants.
You run into love this time
to find, it wearing a fine dress
around its corner.
You want it to come your way
but the ways have changed.
The distance is enough,
for a retake of the pink pant and the two piece collar.
You run towards the same corner
You find love waiting with its red dress,
waiting to be kissed & hugged.
You realize it's a mistake you make,
to think love comes in beautiful ways.
The next time you see a purple faced pant
don't forget to carry it home,
to stitch it well with pink.
'Cause it hurts
the love who could be yours,
sitting on the same corner
begging for someone
who could be you
A spectacled disaster!!!
Alice and Chains screeches the dissonance of deep thought..
I’m transformed to cigarette chains.
Curling grass brushes me through imitation iron.
Not as good as dry humping in grass fields behind rehab.
Wait Wait, my forearm is pasted to star bucks aluminum.
The procession of pumpkin spice smiles tempo the day.
Rapid wing birds fight the grey sky, triplets dive bombing a Toyota, synchronized.
I used to love sleeping arms free, now I clutch a pillow between my legs.
Pushing so many hands away definitely isn’t consolation.
Fantasy has to rush my mind again, past junkie tales.
A cracked wood railing and six ashtrays. Is that a girl,
Brushing he hair with smoke.
I don’t know her, but am positive she hates me.
Her face doesn’t measure happiness, way too cool for model thin.
I’m armed with blunt smoke and a ****ing pedestal.
Begging for a glimpse behind her skin, I wanna devour the “salt of her fear”
Chewing her cotton armor with crafted syllables.
Sporting burnt orange and sketching brain eating rabbits.
Damn she’s gonna melt me.
My eloquent rap rushing without conviction
Penance for believing my shared needles were forgotten in stead of pitied.
Damn, my tainted infected deadly blood even shivers fantasy…
I’m just gonna burn out in one of those ashtrays
a hollow black mark melted in plastic spectacled with grey ashes.
"Amid the jagged shadows of mossy
leafless boughs;"
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Earth Rips different
Not like cloth
tearing, sharp, painful sounds
Thicker cloth nêe bursts
baritone harshness
Ripping from earth, done
solemnly, knowing greater
calamitous unearthing is
certain, feels like bursting
Buttons, brief Eyelash
Flash of shock, something
missing, phantom pain some
Describe
My drying herbs, roots and all
Gave up this way, by my hand
As the 70' Norway Spruce Pine
in front of 30 Rock NYC
Slowly weeps tears of sweet sap
Squeezed from constricting veins
Machines surprising vast
Vascular networks of life below
Ground
Forced abscission really
Slowly dying, withering, shackled
In stantions for all to admire in
Spectacled holiday lights
Politicians virtue-signal righteous
Uses for its sublimated limbs
Sticks of assorted stature for
Sordid assignments...
I'll spice my curries
with my hand-pulled
Herbs
November
2019
It was time....
The clock stopped ticking...
Hummed in bliss, a few dwarfs
And sprites.... somewhere....
Droopy leaves glistening in late-night dew
He slipped into the blanket of ink-blue sky
Comfortably snugged
In the pillow of pink clouds
I conjoured upon him
With a gentle kiss, wrapping him
In dreams woven by my lullaby
And I whispered....
" Sweet Night! My White Goblin"
The stars that spectacled
Marvelled subconsciously
At the thing called 'Love'
And burnt and vanished
In their own envy...
He leaves last
For he knows how hard it is
To let him go
And ere my eyes could open
He kissed 'em gently
And whispered
"Goodbye! My Sweet Champagne"
And I knew then that
It was time.......
A written account (that incorporates some
self directed hyperbole) of this veritable stranger
now appears before your screen. Soon
after reading this message, the neighbors
might discern a blood curdling series
of (hyena-like) shrieking screams.
No worry. That would be the mating call
of the hairy Harris mama bear.
Ready! Set! Click!
A scary reflection greets me whenever
I summon up enough steely courage to take
a sneak peek into the mirror. Before
spider lines start to appear across the
shiny surface and subsequent cracks
and fissures dissolve the glassy surface
these deux hazel colored, myopic be
spectacled eyes quickly absorb a most
frightful countenance and visage.
That near legendary and trademark feature
of longish, wavy and brown straggly hair
seems to fill the entire view. Hidden among
avant garde rhapsodic bohemian, Cro-Magnon,
Neolithic, non-every-man style of un-styled
non dread full locks (interspersed with silver follicles
indicative of acquired worry fighting off
garden variety prehistoric creature) can be discerned
a brutish, nasty and short proto-human with
high forehead, which allows, enables and provides
more skin surface to bang against wall when frustrated.
I’ll never forget what’s her name;
That teacher who bored us to tears
Whose voice seemed to drone on and on
And lessons appeared to last years.
Her minuscule lacklustre eyes
Peered over a spectacled nose
No glimmer of passion in sight
No colourful facts to expose.
She reeled off the kings and the queens
The plight of Marie Antoinette,
Victorians, Tudors and wars
And all with a face firmly set.
I’ll never forget what’s her name
Oh how I was left uninspired.
It’s rumoured her smile first appeared
The day when at last she retired.
16.09.19
'I'll never forget what's her name contest' : sponsored by John Lawless
I would just like to say
that it is my impression
that longer hair
and other flamboyant affectations
are male dominant immersions
from sadly dull camouflage
into the birthright
and left
of his trans-pangenderal sex.
And I would also like to say
that it is my impression
That wars
and bombs
and other ballistic
bad depressions
are far more likely
as our fast paced race
toward mass extinctions
are killing Earth's
healthiest climate pace.
And I would further
not like to say
that it is my impression
While predative parasites inhabit
and colonize our landmass
we're also trash dumping
our oceans
swamping our warnings wasted
polluting our breath
about rabid tendencies
to eat our own young
with sick competitions
in militaristic fun.
And I would just like to say
that it is my sad impression
Apartheid is shunning
and rabidity is plumbing
as life losing EarthTribes
continue succumbing
to Mutually Assured
RightWing Destruction,
MAD rabid bullies blaming
and judging
and shaming
while throwing away care
for all those Others
not part of We,
most supremely
straight white patriarchal
Me.
I would just like to say
that it is my mad impression
Grown in a sacrileged perspiring image
of JehovahGodYahweh's
avenging AllahWe
maybe shouldn't die off
quite so quietly
when Earth's Great Rapture
smells like ecocide
rabid unraveling decidedly
What Gaia would just like to say
health is Her wealthiest impression
That wars
and bombs
and rabidity
are humanity's
own RightBrain repressing
LeftBrain dominant depressing
historically hysterical
degenerative stupidity
Lack of whole-sum
bi-spectacled fluidity
I would justly love to say
and sing
and dance
for less degenerative
climatic morbidity.
All my mortgage years
This featherless gosling flightless
Kept chickens for peers
Suffering gravity's wretched pain
While dreaming of the southland
Coded in my bones
Like a chicken I circled
The pond of tears, while the lake
Brimmed with spectacled
Difference of salt ambition
O how the memory hibiscus
Withering seared my heart!
I did not know I did not have to pay
For home if I let it go again
To the bankers that count day's
In piles of cents, I shed
The modern chain and fled the shed
Of tumbling debt to joy.
I shed her savage memory
That held like a cyclops
Gripped my fledgling history
And all the goats there
Were too starved to carry whom I am
Protege of the risen lamb
Traffic circle sloshing;
pedestrians pressing up
against tensile city regulations,
flashing horns and sweat,
university student afternoon,
wiping off iced coffee condensation.
I am a dedicated historian of
lunchtime stories and
park bench vignettes—
a spectacled lesbian runs her pinky
through her lover’s curly purple hair,
as she looks on at the cyclist, filled with regret,
stumbling to avoid the picnicking workers—
together by convenience and ambition—
who pity the down-on-their-luck in their dehydration,
trying to find a pillow on the steps of the fountain.
The rims of my glasses eliminate the peripheral,
underlining the weight of disjointed conversations:
a chuckle, a skipped step to avoid a puddle
sweeping the storefront, eroding the road,
I remain, trying to separate scenes from the bustling.
The circle never exists the same again.
What does it mean if I dream about you?
What does it means when I see your face in nothing…
MY FATHERS BEDSIDE GOODBYE..
His Legacy 6/24/2022
Standing on lifes fragile ledge,
I gaze
wonderingly
into your brown orbs.
Windows into a house built
By your large hands
Hands That I would now inherit.
Deep and cavernous..
oh the stories they tell.
Rooms filled with comings and going’s..
The good, and the bad..
The all encompassing Rolodex of filed away emotions.
Like a campfire burnt through the night, that turns to coals..
that light now
Dims.
And yet, the shadows we cast into this life wildly dancing
whilst your fire burnt hot,
Are seared forever into folds of gray..
Painted on a canvas
Of
Leathery past.
Your skilled artists stroke of the brush, breathing life into this color blind grey world we inhabit.
Lifetimes of adventuring..
Built upon solid foundations.
Laughter at the ready, like that of bows
drawn.
And arrows Release..taking
Flight
through the air, embedded into its mark.
Like a Cupid of life’s happenings.
Touching and seeing.
We have together, lived..
We have Loved,
We have Laughed.
Oh, how we have laughed.
We have ALL laughed.
I have heard a story, but laughter..
Your laughter..
Reaches higher than any other.
Your love language was laughter.
My life is framed,
picture worthy,
eloquently streaked with shades of infectious laughter.
We have grown older together..
Lines in the sand washed by time
Becoming that of more permanent folds in
Stone.
But I am at ease..
In troubled breaths release you slide deeper into a forever only you will truly know
until we see one another again.
Thank you for the labor of love..
The lifetime of laughters edge.
The support given to artists poundings..
Tickling of the keys,
Treading the boards of a theatre,
Lines drawn to paper.
Visionary..
you share life seen through a shifted lens.
Thank you for sharing spectacled views.
Spectacular views.
Fatherly views.
I love you, Dad..
Always..
And Forever.