Best Spiritless Poems
I forgot myself today
as melancholic melodies
overwhelm each beat
of my wandering heart.
The sanctimonious sun deceives
as a bitter breeze breathes
against sullen silent surfaces.
Recycled emotions penetrate
with a repetition of deep sighs.
My spiritless soul strays, but is
happy to be lost in lyrical lament.
As the Nightingale chants its
continuous regretful resonance,
the tip of my tongue aches
to whisper your amorous name, but
holds back knowing you can't hear.
Without your enchanted vision,
neglected eyes perish.
Without your perfumed presence,
senses remain scentless.
Without your tender touch,
fragile petals won't blossom.
As a cascade of sandcastle emotions
infiltrate stubborn sierra barriers.
Violent tears erupt,
demolishing hardened walls.
What used to be bitter breaths and
spiteful sighs are now regretful cries.
Your silent goodbye still haunts
as the lips grieve for one last kiss.
I forgot myself today,
but have not forgotten your love.
The Silent One
Simple Musing
29 November 2017
(Fiction)
His scarlet head droops
towards his soulless emerald chest.
Perched upon a fruitless branch,
his spiritless eyes stare
at the emptiness of freedom.
Above, streaks of ruby hints
flow among coral flamingo shades,
as golden streaks swim through
crystallised kaleidoscopic skies -
but he feels no enthusiasm to fly.
What he thought would set him free,
has left his heart a companion-less hostage.
A lovebird without a purpose,
he is unable to warble a melody,
nor whistle for the love he left behind.
Raindrops splash his forlorn feathers,
he is too scared stiff to spread his wings.
His heart thumps like thunder,
as flashbacks of sitting, singing and locking beaks,
with feasts of berries, apples and seeds,
are regretful reminders of his misjudgement.
As he falls,
his last thoughts -
maybe freedom is not all that it seems..
Silent One
22 September 2019
I’m listless as a lazy river
barely lapping at the shore.
I wanted once to find the ocean,
but I don’t care any more.
Would I even make a ripple
if a stone were tossed my way?
Even with the frogs and fishies
I no longer wish to play.
I’ve lost my course and lie inert
inside my riverbed.
Had I legs to help me run,
I think they’d be as lead.
So spiritless and dull am I.
I’m like the kite I see
motionless each breeze-less day,
stuck and hanging from a tree.
Languor sure did overtake me,
for this humid, hot July
sucked out all my energy.
I think perhaps I’ll simply die.
Posted Aug. 3, 2022
For Hilo Poet's Simile Poetry Contest
Submitted Jan. 31, 2023 for Julia Ward's
Your Favourite Rhyming Poem From The Second Half Of 2022 Poetry Contest
Beyond her veil;
eyes induced by secretive stars
became drawn to a path illuminated by
flickering, shimmering pale moonlight.
Each spirited step led to the
revelation of her secret garden.
But
upon arrival at her doorstep;
disbelief disabled my soul's delight.
Through the mist all I saw were
rotten leaves among crushed rose petals -
wilting.
In shame,
a naked cherry blossom tree
stood in silence, immersed in a puddle of
soaked blushing buds -
drowning.
So I collected every bud, gently
placing them in an empty fountain.
Patiently I sat, embracing her;
waiting for the winds to blow and
take all her imperfect petals with them.
But all they brought was a
spiritless stench, haunting the air.
As the mist cleared, a crow cried,
perched upon a tree stump whose
rotten roots lay amongst its
once magnificent torso.
So I placed all her branches
into a barren river, hoping the rain
would wash them away.
But no rain fell.
Now lost,
I followed confused caterpillars
crawling along a trail of blood.
Upon journeys end;
a breathless butterfly lay in slumber,
So I placed my lips onto hers,
but could not breathe life into her.
To soothe her decaying wings,
I built a cocoon, but only the
caterpillars accepted sanctuary.
Cracks crumbled her wings,
preventing her from healing.
Silent saffron sun awoke blackbirds,
whose chorus of chants guided my mind
away from the valley of misconception.
So I left. Weeping.
Unable to save her once
magnificent garden from ruin.
Poetry is like medication, in each release of expression,
there is healing - Poet.
In the realms of lost childhoods,
where demons prey upon the defenceless -
no one hears your screams.
I wandered spiritless,
like an abdicated soul,
renouncing my existence.
But the pain kept me alive.
I was an unknown vagabond,
forgotten and begotten,
within an eerie mist of misunderstanding.
Sly shadows with crimson eyes
tracked my silent sighs of sorrow,
so I suppressed sincere secrets -
too embarrassed to express.
Until I fell upon verses from dead rhapsodists,
which taught me to become that poem.
With blessings from pseudonym poets,
wounded words began to burn in metaphors.
Ink engulfed in sizzling lava dripped
in impulsive poetic allusions -
expression led to a catharsis of clarity.
I found an abode in decorative alliteration,
a perfect province in personified prose,
where each stanza became my sanctuary.
Under the shelter of fervent free verse,
I collected every shard of hope,
and placed them in my heart.
Sonnets of sentimental dwellings,
revealed syllables of an untold narrative.
The curse of Iambic pentameter
could not prevent bleeding blisters from healing.
My quill is now a silent juxtaposition
of deafening poetic onomatopoeia.
A marionette to the mind,
Whispering fading schematics,
Deluging the heart and soul, in a
Juxtaposition of good and evil,
Betwixt Heaven and hell, amidst
Snowdrifts that swirl before my eyes, while
Spiritless shadows restlessly carouse;
Discordantly, far from reach,
Vagrantly ambling across
Deadened Arcadias, glimpsing
Floating embers, in wake of
Vivid firestorms, swallowing me whole,
Faltering with every step I take,
Decelerating towards the escape I seek,
As it rhythmically scars my timorous nature,
Awakening the monsters hidden deep within-seeing red-
Bleeding out miasmic toxins, as noxious
Spores erupt, immersed in a haze of austerity,
While it seeps and saturates, throughout
Malignant wounds exposed, undulating between
The storms of push and pull, as daunting
Tasks, of rippling sequences, splits my
Chasmic core.
Soulless footprints are all that remain, as
Moon tides wash ashore, ebbing away
Towards dystopian depths.
I close my eyes
So I can see you
That I'm still in your heart
I clench my hands
So I can feel you
That I'm still inside of you
I rub my heart
To ponder... that you still care for me
I call my soul
To wonder... you're my home in me
You opened my eyes,
Covered and blinded
Under the dark skies
You softened my hands,
Rough and burnt
Under the sun that dries
You revived my restless body
And lifted up my spiritless life
You brought back
The smile in me
And laughter, long buried
Inside of me
You are my home
My heart and my soul
Wherever I am
I carry you with me
I walk in your footsteps
Holding my heart with your forceps
My strength in my biceps
My shield above my triceps
Your shoulder
Is my armor
Tempered with ardor
Your heart is my home
My heart that dwells in chrome
Trillions of suns, my mind is awed
Distances as unfathomable as the face of God
In sense living, and sense divine
To lose myself, I find other minds
It’s not insignificance, the growing feeling
But connectedness leaves my soul reeling
Not random chemistry on a spiritless grid
But divinity that is no longer hid
4/20/16
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” Rumi
Life can be an incomplete glossary,
speech a haunting ghost,
in search of a perspicuous poem -
to express unspoken thoughts.
I remember when she said,
"Cue me poetry"
So, I became her perpetual poet,
engraving sweet soulful words
upon her bitter spiritless lips.
Fate had turned her into the Queen of Darkness,
but my heart glows in the dark.
Together we illuminated like a trillion twinkling stars,
outshining the enigmatic effervescent moon.
Her essence infused a refreshing presence,
like morning sunshine after a night of rain.
Slowly she became a pilgrim of my poetry,
and I, a sojourner lost within her soul.
As I wandered through her secret chapters,
my word weaving revealed her book of scars,
each drop of ink resembling her tepid tears.
Each vexatious verse purified through
a catalyst of catharsis, healed her wounds.
We are like quill and scribe,
vowels complimenting consonants,
completing an impeccable vocabulary -
without her there is no muse.
My poor heart aches as my mind cogitates
upon the deep desires of my dark soul,
and searching for profound truths that can be
expressed in mystic subtle syllables.
Alas such thoughts come at the worst of times.
I dream of them, elusive to extreme.
I wake and these abstractions spiral up
into nothingness of infinity,
ethereal concepts lost into space,
misty spectral reveries, brown studies
of doubtful natures, devious musings
of negligible earthly happenings.
All lost, unattainable conceptions,
leaving me spiritless limp and listless,
a ramekin of moronic despair,
riding a foamy crest of frustration.
Until my looking glass is tinted rose,
the black clouds break and faith is reassured.
Then I shall take up my pen and paper
and scribble all my endless worthless thoughts.
Alas that holy day is still to be.
Bereft and alone since love was lost,
she sits in deep shadows
humming the same song
sipping claret from a Lismore goblet
Day and night, in silence she dwells
Time no longer sifts through an hourglass.
Heartache has cast a wicked spell
cursing her into a void of loneliness
She's drawn the drapes,
praying an eclipse will fill the abyss
into which she's fallen
Hoping it will swallow moonlight's glow
keeping it hidden from sight
Entombed as though in a sepulcher,
her insipid soul sits spiritless
on this night, cold and bleak
No spark of life can be roused
in her vacant eyes
as if blood no longer flows in her heart
Naught but darkness does she seek
Only that and to be left alone
away from pitiable stares
She sits in deep shadows
humming the same song
sipping claret from a Lismore goblet
Nighttime falls shrouded dark and spiritless,
Wavering fire a glaze dying cinder.
In grim silence tears ebb and flow aimless,
Lips quake angry filled breath growing dimmer.
Loneliness devours inch by inch loves amber,
Left raw to feel the flesh stretch. Brittle crust
Steady smoldering embers, numb anger,
Solace grieving soul filled volcanic dust.
It worsens with the tick-tock of the clock.
None can replace time, not a second in
A day hidden beneath insensate lock.
Days overwhelming calamities sin.
Loneliness niggles as the mind wanders
Bound by loves suffering also ponders.
1/14/2020
Written by Gail DeBole
and included in PS: It's Poetry
A PoetrySoup.com anthology published in 2020
Note: Grendel was the monster in the old English Heroic poem titled Beowolf written by an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet. John Gardner wrote a related book titled Grendel in the 1970's that told the same story from the monster's point of view. Soon after reading Grendel, I wrote this poem from the point of view of Unferth.
"My God, Grendel! Are you Godless?
You hold heads that drip with hate-deeds!
All your fury 'voids compassion.
Are you spiritless? Don't eat me!
I see eyeballs in your teeth-sneers.
Faded lips you chew with ease.
You are laughing - yet I've cry-tears.
Here's a toothpick. Now let me be!
I, leathery, bony, meatless;
Old gruff meat that breaks your teeth.
Unferth's ready, willing, fearless.
For you, I'll fetch younger meat.
Backed up now, your breathing eats me.
Close as bricks glued back to back.
Grendel, hear me! I will save you!
I will give you what you lack!
Name the fortune that you'd like.
I have charts of riches hid.
Under soil, far from man-sight.
I will give you what you bid.
Or think of mothers. You have one.
They're forsaken without sons.
And my mother's just the same.
For her sorrow, you'll take blame!
Grendel! Grendel! Let me go!
I am old, but I will fight.
Why, you vile, formless, foe!
I will tell you where"...
As I am lying down in bed alone
my spiritless body rolls in bed and
once again I reach out to my smartphone
I click an app and see someone blond.
On busy schedule, I always
check Instagram on a daily basis.
And I always see your face every day
Your posts fantasizes like an oasis.
I wonder if you look at my pictures
and hesitate on liking my photos
I wonder if you see me in features
My heart broke down when I changed my bio
I'm always drowning in a square ocean.
In your Instagram with emotion.
I lived in a rural area until I was twenty years old. My home was adjacent to a farm where corn was grown and locally sold. Maples and pine trees clustered across from the uneven country road. I can still remember fragrance of flowers and pine that smelled so softy pretty. This pastoral scene was not far from the city. Only a few houses were near. Occasionally was spotted a rabbit or deer. A small number of cars passed. In the evening, their lights, amidst pitch darkness were cast. Unforgettable was the sight of fire flies blinking with their evening light.
A stream ran along a group of trees; a place forbidden, but as you know, that is exactly where children go. It was a few yards from the only childhood home I’ve known. My brother placed a board across the stream below. I was coaxed to go; moving cautiously slow. I trusted him; that is why, I still try. Not too far away was a little general store. The size did not matter, for there were candies and goodies galore. My sister and I engaged in all sorts of talk, as we took this freeing countryside walk. The threesome could sometimes be found playfully leaped around, and picked blackberries when seasonally found.
The house was quite small in size, and of three bedrooms comprised; my parents’, the one shared by my sister and me, and the other, for my brother. The dwelling still lives in my unconscious mind; I’m still there in dreams, where reality is blind. Arguments blemished the space, with memories stuck fast in place. There are also glimpses strong, where laughter belonged. That was the place where a dog named, Brownie, was born and lived thirteen years. My sister, older brother and I, with the saddest of tears, placed his large white tin bowl over his memory site. His name on the bottom; I was assigned to write. About two decades ago, the house was taken down without glory; part of my bitter- sweet childhood story. A spiritless group of professional offices now stand, on grounds, that once was my family's home and land.
09-04-15