Best Transients Poems
"Dark clouds are transients in the sky"
©2015Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Dec. 6, 2015 10.15am
Third Place
Contest: One Liner #2
Judged: 12/6/15
Sponsor: Poet Silent One
An open umbrella
blankets
two sleeping transients
Scorned coquette
perched so solemnly
upon your death stool,
claw deep the fresh flesh of victors
bearing armfuls of decaying flowers
stolen from your mother’s grave.
A diverse parade -
clairvoyants and gigolos
tyrants and schizophrenics
junkies and Jesus freaks;
you seem to attract
an unending assembly line
of tarnished beggars
you’ve at one time
longingly called
“lover.”
Tainted transients -
now live as smudged chalk marks
upon the mammoth gray blackboard -
hanging askew
upon your barren bedroom wall.
Precocious sorceress
perched atop your fragile Hepplewhite
feigning the airs of a barfly madam -
look a bit closer
at the species of insects you entrap.
You’re not a spider woman by trade –
Nor was your mother a queen bee.
Understand…
burning security blankets
during one’s wonder years
may now be considered
a latter day memorial service.
Bedouin to the barstool
wrap once more
the quilt you crocheted,
from momma’s discarded doilies,
around your sleek white shoulders.
Remove the scratched liquor labels
that live underneath
your pillow cases
and look.
He’s out there, precious -
somewhere
behind the mist in Glasgow
or hidden 'neath
the sands of the Gobi –
Somewhere…hiding,
lurking
ready to erase away
faded white chalk marks.
His minted breath
will burn
your cold, gray
slate.
Before it’s too late
Distant bells clatter on cloud fed weathered skies where
darkness creeps past low light vestibules, faded beams flicker
Short skirts wave in a winter wind, breezy attributes
revealing fishnet thighs calling to the next hidden passenger,
batting lashes and blowing bubbles of stale gum placed under
crushed velvet seats worn in places, stained deliberately
for bragging rights and handkerchief blotting
A ghostly mist lingers as lips are touched up, bright red, crimson,
shades of desire, occupational decisions, advertisements leaking
into sewers and hopscotch squares spread along the avenue
Silhouettes in porch lanterns, whistling…so unladylike, ducking
constables with nightsticks swinging like the clapper in those damn bells
waking the unsuspecting and spooking the transients offering
a few coins for a ten dollar dream
Swine wallows in last week’s gossip, slimy little beings
fat on sausage and biscuits, cursing the rats pushing their way in
below curtains and kitchen windows framing inquisitive eyes,
watching cash change hands and satisfied smirks
on the faces of those wiping feet on mats,
greeting the family in disguise, shirt un-tucked,
long day rewards and dinner on the table
Yesterday’s newspaper tumbles down the walk,
clinging to sign posts, featuring headlines of death, a warning in bold print,
still at large, a menace to society in a grey overcoat,
double breasted and fancy shoeprints in the fresh mud
No further traces except the body, contorted and frozen, smeared faces
littering cobblestone gutters, frightening children and pets,
as passersby look to second floor balconies, oblivious
Midnight calls, staggering drunkards exit Chauncey’s,
hard up and spent, slurred laughter, boisterous to hide worries
and tomorrow’s jobs, time clock lies and penciled in wishes
Iron fence posts rust at the gateway as they glance to the headstones
of friends long past and recent memories, sensing the urge,
seeing the painted nails and low cut blouses, thinking…
before it’s too late
While from a secluded archway…
For Palmyra in her eternal home
Your feminist smell,
Your purple dress,
And all what engaged of history,
Transients with psalms war..
Brobos and Oorljnos
And the night that saturate wine from
White pearls of your lips.
And to Palmyra in her flares,
Planets vocals,
Rumble bees into vintage Zajos,
Dunked bread into holy Ishtar oil,
And your galloping voice ..
Above the domes of Rome with
Thousand and thousands of star
Chanted when your glamorous eyes
Tracing like Lioness the door of the den.
Calling in her uniqueness
I am Zaba:
If i raised the sword,
I shook the hearts like a storms,
And burned the kings wheat.
THE TRANSIENTS OF MY YOUTH
Old and wrinkly, whiffs of cigarettes and whiskey; his sparkling blues tell me there is bubble gum and a surprise; I check the long pockets finding smiles and candy, feeling loved and dandy.
Southern Antebellum, with manicures of rouge; kind but broken, drinking fermented raspberries and booze; her man is gone, a war still on; hopefully some funds will help move her on.
Irish and grumpy, redheaded and rockin’; football with silence, movies of canned violence; double features and fries, we have a good time; he buys me a watch, a keepsake.
German Muslim sister and stressed; Turkish dancing at night, in memories blessed; chocolates swirl round, but starving she falls down; night
Burly and bearded, stinking of failure; he is noisy and imposing, promising messy favors; overweight and hungry, despite Nordictrack endeavors; addicted to cookies, a humongous bummer.
THE ULTIMATE FREEDOM
Walking the life up the steep hill path,
the prying eyes glued to the sparkling rocks
that conceals some pristine crystals of diamond,
I spend all my time to search, unearth and possess.
On the top of the blue hill a palace I see,
its beauty allures me with its golden shine.
The soaring wings of desire grows indomitably,
take me flying there craving to enter and occupy.
Through the enticing portals I fly inside,
the palace instantly turns into a golden cage,
and I lose the expanse of the open sky I adore,
as my freedom fades away to the mirage of nothing.
In the waterfront nearby, from behind the bars
I see raindrops on the cradle of the lotus leaves,
glistening in joy as they dance free in the breeze,
unattached to the embrace of the beguiling green.
As I take an introspective flight deep within me
the bird called desire morphs to detached dew drops,
happily shimmering on the petals of the serene soul,
the golden cage disappears with the melted mirage.
In dark abyss of obsessive chase for the transients
the journey ends, and as the unsighted light appears,
a new voyage begins from nothing to something ecstatic,
and from something to nirvana, the ultimate freedom.
March 30, 2019
Yes, I remember…
I’ve a sonnet of us, rhyming
silently, across the vast blue sky
in waiting, eagerly
for sweet November rain.
We knew, we both
have the need to feel
what’s good to be touched…
the truth was, by the way,
I enjoyed the beat.
We danced, whilst the noon birds warbled,
with unchained melodies, as the passing wind
gently rippled the field’s golden hair, till we
settled, ourselves, into a naked ritual, exaggerating much
the vers libre it was leading us, before
finally, we wrestled the night, with an adieu kiss.
Yes, I remember…
I’ve a sonnet of us, for
sweet November rain to cleanse and freshen
the wrinkles we left on a golden field, of tares,
…for its next transients!
I am flung against the drab ashen phonon sky, weighted with ghostly iron clad jaws of bitter winter's grip, biting the feather-flared Doves gravid with fatigue from the ill-laden onerous air. The rough-coated dog with ice-tipped ears had surrendered to the corridor of gutters in the toilsome cold, a fugitive of neglect of his own demise. In this empiric city, a shrine of humankind, vespers of frozen conflict rose up from its bowels, like sweat from otherworldly gargoyle watchmen of stone and mortar atop the surrounding spires of fortune. Beneath the steeples of holy crosses and frozen muted lights, faceless, heavily cloaked phantom transients trudged through half stacked drifts of dirty snow moving farther away from hazard, blinded in their apathy. The grimy yellow cab bedraggled on its mucky, viscous boulevard strained and bellowed as a labored oxen. Desperate, surreal sirens blaring from a distant byway echoed and purged from the back alley resort of homeless, despondent souls, laying like pale-blue corpses in garbage bins that sheltered their weakness - interred in their obscure tombs chasing their fate in a bottle of booze. And I stood frozen in the moment, displaced with the cold reality in my icebound, paralytic soul, shuddering with hurt.
ice laments silence
cloaked in bitter winter's grip
trapped in bitter spires
December 17, 2019
December or January Haibun Poetry Contest
Moments of Reflection - Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Malabika Ray Choudhury
...the transcription of a dream.
A youngster, eight years old,
doesn't even have a name,
lives in the wild woods.
Cruel to animals, he kicks
dogs and burns birds and insects.
Filthy with neglect he lives alone,
nobody can get near him.
His family are transients
with no reason for refinement,
violence in their nature and
hatred in their eyes. They rape
their sons and daughters and
beat them senseless if they ever
cry or answer back.
From this ugly, hateful mess
he was kicked out like a jackal
with an appetite
for cruelty and destruction, consumed
with fear and anger just dying to get out.
He was blamed for every beating,
broken windows, broken bones,
so he never showed his face.
He didn't beat up on those kids, he
just warned them to stay away.
He had one passion, one glimmer
of affection for a old pig name of Arnie.
Arnie made him feel a strange contentment,
and his rage just disappeared. He could talk
to the pig and the pig would listen.
Oppugnant and invert,
are the faces of consciousness,
so systematically permuted,
are the intergalactic fences.
When talking to nature,
walking the trails of great explorers,
while taking a troll around,
and submerging in those dances.
Distinct is the face of nature,
For the man, machine and transients,
A play it is, of the heavenly pieces,
of perfect music, what are the chances?
The musings of nature, so calm, quiet, divine,
An art is it all about, a collection of strange instances.
. for public domain
We are well into December,
each birdbath crests a mound of snow,
new flakes creep down Winter's sky.
I draw a slow breath. The air bites cold.
Security lights illuminate
the lawn trees white crusted bare branches,
alleyways are free of traffic,
no steps lead to vagrant ranches.
On this three AM Monday morning,
time passes peaceful and fair.
Birds and transients will pipe with dawn,
enduring a cold day to bare.
Skid row bums
Dress for no occasion,
Refuse raiders
Need no reservations.
Drug-addicted tenants
Beg for coins and candy,
Deadbeat derelicts
Reside at Hotel Alley.
Gutter renters
Lounge against brick walls,
Vagrant paupers
Rise to no wake-up calls.
Psychotic transients
Cruise dim lit corners
Wayward sons
Fight without honor.
Form:
...the transcription of a dream.
A youngster, eight years old,
doesn't even have a name,
lives in the wild woods.
Cruel to animals, he kicks
dogs and burns birds and insects.
Filthy with neglect he lives alone,
nobody can get near him.
His family are transients
with no reason for refinement,
violence in their nature and
hatred in their eyes. They rape
their sons and daughters and
beat them senseless if they ever
cry or answer back.
From this ugly, hateful mess
he was kicked out just like a jackal
with an appetite
for cruelty and destruction, consumed
with fear and anger just dying to get out.
He was blamed for every beating,
broken windows, broken bones,
so he never showed his face.
He didn't beat up on those kids, he
just warned them to stay away.
He had one passion, one glimmer
of affection for a old pig name of Arnie.
Arnie made him feel a strange contentment,
and his rage just disappeared. He could talk
to the pig and the pig would listen.
“Messages,
trapped in the wind
Words,
burrow deeply within
Voices,
emerge from the past
Memories,
and dreams overcast”
Leaves fall,
branches reach for the sky
Winter clouds gather,
snow starts to fly
Furloughed—the seeds
march distant and free
The season long,
its transients flee
Vision impaired,
past futures to fade
Acceptance—rejection,
a choice to be made
The first Nightingale sings,
its call from beyond
A feeling unfreezes,
old words to a song
The hills begin thawing,
new tracks to reveal
Salvation once promised,
no longer concealed
Winds from the west,
bring rebirth and enthrall
The sun melting lies,
—and winter recalled
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)