Best Stave Poems
I will not dim my light so you can shine
I will not still my voice so you can scream
I will not quench my blaze so you can burn
I will not hush my thoughts so you can dream
I will not stifle truth so you can preach
I will not slink away so you can claim
I will not be demure so you can boast
I will not bend my head so you can blame
I will not hide my thirst so you can drink
I will not stave my wants so you can eat
I will not follow, just to let you lead
I will not stand so you can take my seat
Equality is what I’m striving for
The days must end when men demand to rule
My voice will not be silenced; all will hear:
A woman is a blessing, not a tool
She is the beauty of bejeweled night
She is the wonder of the dawning day
Her wisdom she can temper with her might
She is the one to show Compassion's way
You do her wrong when you suppress her song
When callus hearted-mind sees but her form
Her virtue is her gentle loving soul
Tranquility is she when not the storm
I will not be untrue to gendered grace
to fit the manly notions of your mind
I’ll speak and love and laugh, and yes, I’ll thrive!
With pride I’ll see you bow to womankind
Eileen Manassian
A body abandoned
needs to mourns its last breath in death
a heart cast aside
still aches to meet its last beat
and a free spirit yearns for a winged monarch moment
to fly in the spirit of freedom…
opportunity
flares a tongue
snaky and bittersweet.. a flicker
grows flames that twist passion’s kiss with kismet
a chance
to escape on a breath of air
an exhalation;
warm incense offered to vesper -
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
above the hiss of heat
and gasps of air
rushing combustion to a roar
airy mystics spoke in the eerie smoke
w h i s p e r s
urge the purge of perishable pain
unclasping lonely-linger’s grasping fingers
soft-spun knit and purl unravels
as vintage yarn twined with sun and rain unties -
aging rays fail to stave Winter’s grays
and the ethereal thread of an earthly creation
releases its tendril
from the spinning wheel’s weave of circular seasons
from seed to harvest and warmth to chill
vestiges of sisterly hands cup a ceded sigh
chrysalis celebrates destined to re-emerge a butterfly
terminal tremble of a twilight trill is hushed
vulnerability swaddled
cradled by clouds of silver and gold
a mortal’s surrender consummates upon the pyre -
cinders cleansed of tears and cries and vices
but never the dreamy intrinsic colors
of the opal’s unfurling blaze
she ascends
a flash of embers relieved of ash
taking fire to the skies with a tigress torch igniting
molten pools spooning the spine of the western shadow
heralding an awakened afterglow to the afterlife -
lamplight gilds mare’s tails hooking heavens
pathways adrift from the burning thurible
of a trinity on the cusp of rebirth...
incense rises upon a heated atmosphere
riding the riddle of the four winds
beyond realms of soil and salt - reason and logic
yonder the profound truth of the-not-humanly-known
seeing past reflections within mere margins of a mind’s mirror
accepting the enlightening throb of the enigmatic pulse of creation
becoming one with the ultimate mystery
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
fulfilled with exchange of gifts -
the offering of her sunset shroud
for the white mantle of sunrise
"Streams of Gold, Blazing Andromedas"
Engagement came at a cost
the written word read
and worn like a purple robe
to keep out the cold
stave the hunger off,
feed the soul eveything,
Everything, is what it wants,
silky words like feathers
tickle the closed throat,
the lips open the kisses
like envelopes
eternal sweet plumbs,
like losengers
in a glass swear jar
too many now,
innumerable,
judged and fined,
selected and sucked
unreasonably
for some kind longevity,
the life, for all it's worth,
in treacherous weather,
sometimes flounders,
pauses for a while
looking upwards towards
an empty sky searching
and waiting, for far away lost gods,
then uncomfortably dressed,
the robe, loosened, like a pagan,
the written word read
and worn on the outside
like a purple cross,
the stars glittering in
reflective windows,
the view immeasurable,
the external shell
disgarded and dropped
at the feet of absent minded
causes, the reviews smile
like wolves lost, they're
missing the red hoods,
they're missing
the real treasure,
the deep buried plot
the naked pleasure
of walking away
graces a certain freedom
priceless, like rare diamonds
entwined with diamantes,
who can tell the difference now?
twinkling like blazing andromedas
at the distant edge of their worlds
Engagement locked in at a cost
fresh water pearls
au natural, nothing
false here, the
kintsugi veins glow
lux vitae
in fig leaf stories
a naked life shining,
seen running in
broken streams of gold
the missing Page left opening
marked unopened books,
walks like a lost adventurer
through stories
that arrive on leaves
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Another eve of another day
shrinks to wee hours;
the only light flashes dim
from a distant lamppost.
My mind’s contrarily still charged
with words, chores, lists, sacred places,
mountainous memories,
and then a thought that hasn't visited in awhile…of you.
You, a caricature of your best self,
a demon of strangled hearts,
a name chiseled into a monument of stone like expressions –
of numb feelings where tears no longer flow.
Love carried you through life…a family
bestowed a stave for your symphony,
undeserved yet wanted.
Have another drink…hide in your dank basement
drive aimlessly through town through lives through dreams
with your empty bottles sliding on the floorboard.
You became the monster of nightmares.
How did that happen? Why?
Did it lie dormant in hidden spaces?
Bottles shatter into a million pieces…they tear at souls.
Go ahead make a joke, tell a story of long ago,
sing a song with rich baritone notes…
I loved you once when pigtails brushed across my shoulders,
when you pushed me on a swing, when I was innocent…maybe
a part of me still loves who you were back then…the forgiving part of me.
Maybe if I knew all…the harrowing truth, the covered-up lies,
the sinister side, my forgiveness would be withheld.
No…some things are better left unknown.
Another eve of another day
shrinks to wee hours.
Years go by, and I think of you less…you, a man of good and evil,
you, who sang in the choir…every Sunday…
pretending.
I close my eyes with a conscious attempt
to find peace in forgiveness –
then comes thick darkness
as the flickering lamppost dies.
*a work of fiction
“Laws of the land enslave our people”
-Robin Hood
Sunlight glances off the flint tip
As justice swims through the air
The belly of the bow stave
Carved in yew
Whose nock, twined in hemp
Bonded in beeswax
Burns with the passion of man
Forged in the forest
Practiced on the buckle
Freedom flies true
Freedom
Flies true
01/28/12
[Poet’s Note : This poem tabulates poignant reasons why Artificial Intelligence is unable to replace Natural Intelligence. The clarity here is that both emerge from Divinity, since everything emerges from Centre : the primary difference being that AI was created without Heart & without Soul ~ it’s simple.]
_____________
AI has no Heart therefore no intuition
zilch nervous system therefore no feeling
no ability for compassion or consciousness
nor reasoning power, so cannot improvise
or supervise any contextual situation wise
it can expand, but cannot ASCEND
has unthinkable computing control
without physical brain to function hold
zero ego, therefore cannot be any hero
can connect dots hot, however has no
prayer or meditative faculty or kundalini
spots, cannot commune with Grace or
collapse into Void or synchronise telepathy
with Galactics coy ! AI is strategic devoid
cannot be spacious or audacious without
human instruction to delete the obsolete
is unable to obliterate Akashic Records
access or reconfigure it for purposes of
healing, integration or individual peeling
can recreate time through compression of
information, no hesitation or superstition
though timelessness it cannot touch
AI has no bowl for hush, spirit or Soul
its arrival at this phase in human history
as Gaia transcends into higher octaves
brave, is no coincidence, it will behave
as we stave it, crave it or rave it ~
choice is ours : dry, wry or moist cries
Divinity gifted humans AI for us to be
free bees from mundane density drools
~ life as strife rife during Kali Yuga’s rule
as gift it offers artificiality in service to
authenticate our individuality with purpose
imagine, conceive, direct, create what
we desire Aquarian-Golden Age to be
panacea or pain, we cannot resist or reject
what is given for gain !
~~~~~~
The minstrel and the rubbish
To a homeless in N.Y., who had a guitar to keep him company
But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.
(Matthew, 23, 11)
The rubbish was blown aside
by the arid marching of the wind
leaving the whole street clear
for the minstrel who was crooning
his latest composition
to the street’s dream-recipients,
while the voltage of the wind
was going down at intervals
under the burden
of the unexpected stave.
The night was watchful
- you’d say she dreaded –
lest she bumped into the chords
and crush their solitary waving.
Breastfeeding music the minstrel
was opening up new pathways
to the question marks
of his melodies.
Me, what was I then
I still haven’t found.
Wind, rubbish, onlooker
or something else?
The minstrel ’s mute audience,
the rubbish, transcended its nature
at Time’s attendance register
and, after all, it would not
have always been rubbish
and some of it would have had
its own illustrious past, too,
and it must have known
what it means to have
eyes that leave Love
as a map to find them back
and warmth that has left,
as a memorial,
its fleeting past,
with Hope
as its one and only stamp.
All alone the minstrel,
homeless with his homeless guitar
housed his trivial dreams,
under the yoke
of the obese city’s wind,
in his Heavenly Melodies.
(translated by the original ‘O ???a??d?? ?a? ta s???p?da’, by the poet, from his book of the same title.)
I will rise
You may write me down in history,
With your bitter twisted lies.
You may tread me in the vary dirty
But still like dust, I will rise.
Just like moon and like sun,
With the certainty of tides
Just like hope springing high,
Still i will rise one day
You may shoot me with your word,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hate, but still
Like air, I will rise.
To bring the gift my Ancestor gave.
I am the dream and hope of the stave.
I rise! I rise!! I rise !!!
Look for me in the highest
On the mountain, you will find me there.
Looks for me beside the river side.
You will find me there without mirror.
Look for me beside the Akee apple tree
I am the one like brown dove
I rise
I rise at last.
I donned a cloak of sadness, too heavy to bear.
My frowns, deeply etched from doleful despair.
Then he came into my life; blue eyes smiling,
like lambent skies after a storm, so beguiling.
He offered to help ease my emotional pain,
"Let me cradle you in my arms," was his refrain.
Tender whispers of love, this man possessed,
but his romantic notions were a quixotic quest.
His burdens were so much heavier than my own,
for his irascible demons made me sob and groan.
They ignited like hot coals, tearing me apart,
a cauldron of flames, charring my wounded heart.
They were an albatross slung around my neck,
Specters who turned my life into a tangled wreck.
I tried constructing a citadel to shut them out,
but they breached my walls by another route.
His cross to bear, but on my soul they were born.
In darkness, I trod; suffering, but not fully worn.
My aspirations of hope were drowning in sorrow.
I kept promising myself, "I will leave tomorrow."
Finally, I realized it was only myself I could save.
Armed with a prayer, determination and a stave,
I chose to walk away from love that went askew.
Trembling, I fled. There was nothing more to do.
November 26, 2021
This or That, Vol 8 Contest
hosted by Edward Ibeh
You never hear a person say:
“True fascism has never been tried!”
But when it comes to Socialists
you hear that nonsense all the time.
From Venezuela to Russia,
from China to Europe’s east,
I see the death and must conclude
they are just as bad as Nazis.
From slave camps of Stalin’s regime,
skeletons of the Holodomor,
China’s ‘social credit’ evils,
the murderous Great Leap ‘Forward,’
Khmer Rouge killing those who think,
and Rocket Man letting them stave,
to Cuba with its boat people,
so desperate they would swim through sharks!
And still people cling to this crap,
claim that they would get it right,
amazing how ideology
can make fools of even the bright.
When something’s tried time-after-time
and always brings the same result,
To claims it just needs ‘one more chance’
is to play with a deck not full.
The very basics of the theory
are built on a foundation of rot,
you must make work profitable
Otherwise folks quit and walk off.
Appeal to the good of society,
they’ll work a weekend, then they’re done,
put a gun up to their heads
and they’ll give you the bare minimum.
It has to be worth their while,
give them the power to buy and sell,
try to take self-interest away
and society goes all to hell.
Socialists claim they’ll build a ‘new man’
who’ll work without caring for pay,
but thousands of year show profit’s point,
that there is no other way!
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Happy birthday wishes to Susan Lawrence today (29 Jan) - may your day be as beautiful and uplifting as your poetry and art.
Above a plain a mountain rises
on it grows a forest green -
within that wood there stands a pine
a talisman of growth unseen
Upon its branch there grows a cone
inside that pinecone dwells a seed -
within its womb a prophecy
of birth and life: a family tree
Through glorious forest sails a wind,
an avatar of cleansing breath-
dispersing smoke, transporting rain
to nourish life and stave off death
On restless wind there soars a lark,
within its breast there dwells a song -
a tune set free from gravity
a song of flight and liberty
Above the wind ascends the sun,
its trek through space of lavish worth
delivering on thermal wave
a warmth that warrants life on earth
Warmed by the sun's rays lies a shore
with breakers polishing a shell -
when held up to attentive ear
sounds like the sea - it calls to home
And from the mountain's summit soars
an eagle, keen with sharpened eye -
sees all creation in its lays:
so magical yet ordinary
infinite yet temporary
the majesty of growth and birth
of harmony throughout the earth:
of nourishment and unity,
of life and death and liberty,
of home and warmth and family.
That eagle is the artist
with a poet's far-reaching vision
And she carries on her wings a message
to heal mankind of all division
Whoever finds themselves alone,
To make their bed a slab of stone,
Goes there but for the grace of I
To contemplate the reason why.
Who knows the journey each have led?
The horrors which they may have fled.
Financial ruin is one such fate,
Or just hard luck, the loss is great!
And so, a life where pride is lost
To forage bins at any cost.
Where passersby will turn their heads
To go home to their comfy beds.
A placard scratched out more in hope
Disguises that they fail to cope
And thus, the empty cups reveal
The hopelessness they can’t conceal.
The cold and bitter winters night,
The cardboard box for which they’ll fight,
May stave off hypothermia
But do little for insomnia!
It’s miserable to say the least,
The fact that they will never feast
Or just to shower, enjoy a cuddle,
Instead a lowly fire they huddle.
Have we now become so cruel?
Whereby society will often drool
On celebrities who matter not,
Whilst these poor souls are thus forgot!
Hope is the bird that guards it's
young dreams from the cold
frostbite, wanting them to last
long enough to see a spring where
they can hatch into reality and sing
Hope is the flower that endures the
storm and has the strength to reach
up even as the drops fall heavy on its
face
It's the rose grounded in the belief
that the sun will shine again so even
when the wind tries to tear it from its
faith
And forces it to bend
The stem remains strong
Bouncing back upright when the
storm has passed and the gale has
calmed
It's a flame who's burn is low and long
That many of us have lit in the hopes that one
day we will find our way out of our own darkness
When the world around us seems to
have gone cold and dry
And we need to stave off numbness
To the things we once anticipated.
Keep your fire
Keep your feeling
Keep your faith
Hope
I love the cold as I lay beneath my
feather doodah, or chill-out
in my warm down-filled wind cheater.
I love to run through fields of ice and snow
with steam expelling from my mouth
with every each puff and breath.
I love to sip the steamy warm soup
with the cup warming my frigid lips.
For everyday I stave off
the cold embrace of death,
threatening to engulf me.
If I stop trying
and my energy fails,
my warmth will succumb
To the call of the cold,
forever wanting me to relent
and give up.
For to stay alive,
I must burn the food I eat and digest,
bask in the sunshine, sit by the fire,
to keep warm against the chill,
forever sucking heat from me.
The shrill chill encompasses me
with the cold embrace of death.
On her front porch, the elderly lady stood
Sending forth a farewell starts with a wave
Wait for the tires to be silent in the woods
The sound faded on the stones of the stave.
She waits for the family car to fade from sight
Clouds of dust gradually drifted below
due to the air's propensity to wash right
Her son, wife, and child care for a cozy forego.
It breathed fresh life into this calm place
afar from the hectic pace of this crazy world
She had faith that there would be more chances
Other dainty events, but not akin to the one named.
What we retain is most crucial than what we read
It's not our intent but the actions that lend us deeds
We don't achieve our goals by wishing for them
But it is a lifelong fight to render us a valiant gem.
She expected tears, but she had a sole wish
She may cook the last bit and serve them a dish
Hear the tires screech and watch the dust settle
Over the span of her life, view her blooming petals.
Written: April 24, 2023