Best Torpor Poems
“Activity makes my life colorful. To be quiescent is relaxing, but when it prolongs, I feel I am dead.” – By Poet
Day after day passes
With rarely a purpose to fulfill
Thoughts after thoughts flit,
With nothing to hold in memory.
I am stuck on the lonely highway of life.
No addendum!
Up the long path of life,
From joy to pain,
And from pain to joy,
I have been oscillating all these years.
Now my mind is empty.
No exhilarating emotions.
No vexing thoughts
No nagging concerns
No convulsing tidal swaying
Like a placid lake with no ripples
Like a sponge with water squeezed out
Like a kite refusing to soar high,
I am now a bough on a sturdy stem,
Resisting to be touched by the wind!
You might think I have learned,
To look at life with a level brow
And enjoy the stillness of my mind,
When the mad scramble in me dies.
Perhaps you are right.
But I detest this mental hiatus,
This numbing languorousness,
This sickening emotional torpor!
Am I becoming a log over the moving currents?
From this quiescent state, I look for a release.
birds of a quill, or a feather
flock together at odd times
from all four corners
of thinking creative
to jostle with keyboards,
pens and sharp pencils
fingers fidget, tap-tapping
frantic scribbling down
in notebook's lined pages
screens and keyboards
prepare for posting
all that flutters in skulls
staring blank-eyed into spaces
behind temples hot throbbing
turns tensile to tactile
steely minds become strings
unhinged yet synaptic
as typists happily fly
out of the window
out doing much undoing
with words, concrete stacks
of thoughts buried in letters
homing in on ideas is noted
by fraught-filled grey matters
e-motions will ruffle, jostle, shuffle
trying to find their feet
on narrow high perches
no one cooped up again
in confounded wired places
safety in numbers protects
from eagle-eyed predation
teeming teams have no trepidation
preening each other
pecking order in order
while who's who is related
faithful fair friends love being updated
lovebirds are word-cooing
with beak-kissing nibbles
some of us like darkness
it brings poets together
winter hibernation in torpor
taking wing in springing up ether
fancy that take off?
it's what we are made of....
all that really matters
when feathers start flying
is the daylight between them
caused not by division
but the tight act of trying
to avoid mid-air collision!
13/10/2018
Poets need poets....enough "space" for all of us!
"He who looks outside, dreams. He who looks inside, awakens."
Carl Gustave Jung
Be not manacled, bound or tightly tethered
to a paradigm that appears to be status quo
Being mired in quicksand made of torpor
will observe you drowning in an undertow
Look inside yourself to become a flowing river
willing to accept waters of many tributaries
those that offer new elements of enrichment
Awaken your mind to the 'what ifs' of estuaries
Don't wallow or flounder about in muck and silt
Widen your banks until they expand without edge
Let your thoughts become ripples on your surface
then follow them to seek wisdom and knowledge
Do battle with the stagnation of complacency
It's a human fault we often label, "satisfaction"
but if truth be told, it should be called "passivity"
Always push one step further by taking action
Escape from entrapment in dungeons of darkness
Brush away the leaden clouds from your vision
that may be guilty of having obscured your insight
Make a breakthrough by creating a simple revision
Delusions and blurred illusions will soon fade away
You don't have to leap building of soaring height
You're not Super Man, but don't allow your apathy
and laidback demeanor to become your kryptonite
Every dream in my heart is a hope for the future
Tied to my wishes by bundles of rhyme
Sewn to your life by a poetry suture
Dreams are reality stretched out of time
Lying in bed when I ought to be sleeping
Dreaming of dreaming is madness I know
When I succumb to the torpor that's creeping
Take me to paradise where love's on show
Now I can whisper with fingers to tease you
Inside my head you are ready for me
Lips join the fight as I struggle to please you
Tell me you love me and set my heart free
Why do I wake when in sleep we're together
Holding you close is the reason for dreams
Now I can feel you as soft as a feather
Being in love is as sweet as it seems
Dream me some happiness weave me an ending
Find me tonight in some dreams of your own
Drink in a glass of the love I am sending
You're in the World so I'm never alone
My head has known a thousand rests;
it has floated on feathered softness,
and silk curlicued with a silken tress;
been prickled by the grass of a meadow,
under a hung menagerie of clouds.
Into rumpled sheets of sand it has pressed,
and the sleepy valleys of maidens’ breasts.
On cold concrete pavement it has lain,
my senses by a drunken torpor slain.
It has been stood up by sleep,
on origami pillows made with coats,
the rugged terrains of sofa arms,
on bony cushions fashioned with my palms,
and gold threads needled into coats of arms.
My head has known a thousand rests,
but never the rapture of a dreamless nap,
till I laid it in the sweetness of your lap.
Cold winds, the assassins of startled vegetation,
blow in with late autumn. Snow arrives
to cover the terrain with blankets
of white, pristine feathery snow; meanwhile,
some bodies of water turn into ice.
As the sun hangs low in vales of shadows,
December silently creeps in.
Skunks, raccoons, squirrels and other small mammals
also have crept in silence . . .
to hide inside secluded spaces against the cold’s encroachment.
Their breathing, heart rate, and metabolism slow down.
Waking periodically from their torpor,
they feed and then go back to sleep.
As cold-blooded as the enveloping snow,
snakes slither instinctively into crevices of rocks
as turtles and frogs burrow into mud.
Bears, having feasted in the fall,
now hide in their dens in a state of deep slumber.
How silent and tranquil is the realm of nature’s creatures
hidden from the prying eyes of us humans.
Some of us become almost as sluggish as the animals
squirreled away in their nests of twigs and leaves.
We feast like the pre-hibernating bears.
In a festive mood or perhaps feeling sadly forlorn,
we are more likely than in any of the other seasons
to hide away inside our own abodes,
especially when soft pearls twirl from twilight’s sky
and winter lays down a thick quilt of snow
beneath a canopy of sparkling stars.
We waken, at times like this, to our world abloom with snow,
grumbling at times about having to shovel our driveways
or to travel on roads slick with ice or snow.
Like the hibernating bear, I prefer in winter
the tranquility of comfortable slumber.
Nights in winter stay dark longer.
Our heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure drop low
as drifting into the deep of dreamy sleep we go.
Ah, winter, let me sleep in your quietude
as though I were being buried in the wondrous snow
of your slumber land.
Written: September 07, 2023
______________________________________________________________
I can't sleep at night, so I stay alive.
I am awake, and I search and strive.
I'm no warrior, just a bumbling scrambler.
Restless nights render me a rambler.
I crave a paladin, a light to guide my way.
Yet, gloom reigns, and all hope wanes away.
Into a cloud of tedium and torpor of a tongue.
I long for silence, for optimism to be wrung.
Capsized in an abyss of frustration,
For solace, a catalyst in this desolation.
My gloom clings to such a symbiote spawn.
Snarled metastatic root quotum-dot drawn.
Hush, my tired soul, and let illusions fade.
In this darkness, all that is a masquerade.
Seek not the light, for it is only a gleam.
Rather, apply the recess to deem it a dream.
In the gloom, where shadows dance and play.
It is a quiet oasis where anxiety withers away.
I need faith, resilience, and perseverance.
To explore this squalid earth sans inherence.
The female who
inhabited her
that night bare
outside and inside
the truths of the male
that entered without shame ...
She was allowed to walk
to the human wall,
with the tongue
thirsty for love ...
Received the balm
from that other mouth
with torpor ...
Thr lover flowed
all holy sap
that she received with joy
and made him come ... and came ...
Her pleasure so expanded
that her wound has sutured ...
The pleasure so scheduled
finally confirmed ...
If there is joy and pleasure
in love ... never again
She wanted to live away
of this lov
The 'Beloved Community'
by
Rick Folker
One beloved community
in God's world
Where each soul honors
the Image of God in the other
Where neither Jew nor Greek
Woman nor Man
Delivers the 'manifest destiny'
From Sinai's peak
Where all are called to Isaiah's mountain
Eunuchs and lepers
Publicans and saints
Lips humbly muttering prayers
they cannot speak
Where all observe Jesus from afar
On lonely Gethsemane
Sweating blood
For the sleeping, satisfied, selfish crowd
The torpor of disciples, deaf to the
Impending flood
One beloved community, Or...
Some fairy tale kingdom struggling
To become a living thing or tossed in the trash
Or the mountains where "used-to-be"
crumble from sorrow
into a mournful ash
And well-meaning Christians hurry
For shelter, cowering in sack cloth
As the complacent sleepers of Gethsemane
creep back
Into the darkness, covering their ears lest they
AWAKE! to the night that is far gone
And hear of light and justice
Escaping the righteous rebuke of
WRONG! Wrong! Wrong
One beloved community
That Martin gave his soul and his life for;
A King who was prophet and priest
Whose dream was smothered in the still-born birth
in a would be manger in some slum in Montgomery
Where no sun rises in a forgotten, hopeless east
'Move to the front please'
One beloved community
shattered and now praised
for its greatness, its whiteness, its bravado
and hubris in soul-grinding waves
Ignoring the please of the blacks and the browns
and the braves
One beloved community that exists
in a dream
And one loveless community that ends
in a scream with a lone,frightened individual
Praying to be redeemed
Famed gold crepuscular rays angling down
Knifing in between, through volcanic haze
Hualalai and Mauna Loa’s crowns
Fire Goddess Pele greets fresh island day
Fuchsia blooms explode, steal attention
Pollens mingle on zephyr coastal breeze
Hallowed entry, this tropic dimension
Surf thunder backdrop, soundtrack of the sea
Running shoes crunching the roadside lava
Kaleidoscopic blooms, soon to transmute
Mango, papaya, lilikoi, guava
Untended harvest of paradise fruit
Slow tempo set to the island perfume
Soul dances in the fragrant sensation
Unbridled speed would be this journey’s doom
Not to give in to the exultation
Entering town, the cast of characters
Pungent whiffs of spoiled fish atop stale rice
Green Shangri-La’s dingy inheritors
Tropical Bukowski's frayed paradise
Amphetamine native, drawn skin and bones
Wincing eyes, loose grasp, cigarette homespun
Tribal markings long burnt, faded blue tones
Completed journey, dark side of the sun
Manicured denizens clutter the way
Fair guests at the Royal Lik’a’Heini
Young surf seekers grimace to greet the day
Pakalolo Hostel, skunk-and-briny
Volta at the pier, Triathlon’s temple
Hallowed asphalt, footfalls of history
World’s smartest man living life so simple
Broom pushing, tune whistling, smiling at me
I should run faster; it's Ali’i Drive
Temple of Ironman’s Marathon pride
Vainglorious dreams have boiled alive
Burgeoning pace, a seaside suicide
Fair breeze has halted, sharp rays now reigning
Blanket of torpor fights progress forward
Through fragrant pillow, all fight is draining
A ballistic migraine arcing southward
Demons exorcised, sultry purgation,
Epic journey ends in clear sacred brine
Feet dive in wet sand, a bless’t sensation
Gaia’s ocean of sweat swallowing mine
4/28/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Apathy’s Remedy
by Odin Roark
Some acknowledge it,
Few reject it,
Many succumb to it.
Such is the torpor
Surrounding too much of today’s pressing reality,
That adopted indifference and ennui by the masses,
Making tomorrow uninviting.
Yet…
Even as the sink hole of soul
Quivers and bellows its voracious seduction,
The echoing essence of being human
Seeks to be heard.
And…
Like Beethoven’s Ode To Joy
One’s many tomorrows to come
Can be imagined as layers of unbridled choruses
Merely waiting to be heeded and embraced.
For like the masters of creative imagination,
Eradicating such dulling of the mind
Calls upon tenacity of will,
That exquisite quality of reason
Innately inherent in all,
The quintessential detoxifier,
Whose purging exorcism
Leaves apathy struggling against its demise,
Knowing rational determination
Will make dispassion but a lexiconic reference
In the many conquests of mind.
The torpor soon ends
Vibrant life begins anew-
Spring expectations~!
Young generation ardor from sculpted hero borrows
Older generation, torpor to graft peaceful tomorrows
Can young eyes through steely sheath glimpse marrow
O'er from dried paint, the blood stains that do burrow
From pursed lips, do the painful strains bellow
O'er from silent gun, percussive waves billow
Youthful glint on glimmering memorial glows
From aged lens, vicarious tears solemnly flow
Lad's fawning beams on chivalric statue strew
Elder's sorrowful squints the mediated surface furrow
Young mind each, savory fold does swallow
Aged intellect each corroded line does follow
On gilded bust, youth's prating eyes wallow
Gaunt septuagenarian mourns core now hollow
Around girth, innocent lids embrace time's fleeting shadow
Experienced hearts scorn clones strung from future gallows
New hopes, dreams cover the base now fallow
New doubts, fears sweep sodded ground, now sallow
I do not know
Whose excitement was the greater
My dad’s or mine
As we boarded the bus
To a long-lost dream
Of verdant fields
Rich with the fruit of native soil
Of crystal clear streams
Where laughing youth
Was spent in carefree
Abandonment.
My dad’s eyes gleamed
As they spoke of glowing hearths
Clustered around with pots and pans
With music of bubbling broth
And the sweet smell
Of meat
As the fat simmered and sizzled
Stirring the rumbles
Of those gathered around
Listening to great grandma tales.
Sweet were his words
As scenes of pastoral joy
Rolled off his tongue
With vividness imbued
With longing
For years gone past
These two score and ten.
Come, lad, he said
With wistful smile
And a soft ache in his heart
You’ll meet ole Gran
And Uncles and Aunts
And Cousins in droves.
The bus droned through the night
And at crack of dawn
We alighted
At a ramshackle stand
With nary a soul
But a lone
Wizened man
Who had seen better times.
With a quaver of despair
My dad fearfully asked
Of such-and-such
Great clans once there
Of streets and of temples
Of markets and yards
Of fields and their tillers
Only to be met with
Stony silent stare.
There was a rise in the wind
As dust-devils danced
The torpor was mounting
Till the man finally spake
The families you seek
Have moved on
To the beyond
Ten years or so
There was a quake and a storm
Now there only be ghosts.
Now we awaited
The bus
To take us back home
Saddened son
And a ghost of a dad.
~19 Jul 2016~
Semi-fictional
Contest: Long lost family
I Slept with a Female Mosquito
(part III)
Honorable Adjudicators.
How did she enter? Anopheles!
Oblivious, she trailed me?
To my chamber, stalker – to my bed, bawdy
Sneaked in my quilt
Skirting –
The radar of my eye
The aerials of my ear
And the tax of my hand
So, she, at the dead of the hour
Far from the clock
Infesting, invest in –
My ears, my lip, my neck, what pleasure!
How did she? I long – how long did I entertain her.
In my still time, comatose slumber; torpor.
I scrutinize the net; intact – tight, that night.
Edge to edge, head to head, end to end
There were no moles. The net, bridal new.
Anopheles! And you think I will let you go?
Scot free! Unpunished! Shame!
Part of my bloody pint in her.
A Permanent Secretary