Best Turgid Poems
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters; turning
Amid my spindrift Soul wherein loves tumult rages....
Crashing through this pulsing heart that knowingly craves her ~
Aneath these turquoise tides, which tear burnt pages?!
Washed upon the shore to feed the pyramids pyre
Torn from destined books carving ancient time....
Spirits chanting dreams while dancing in the fire
Captured by the flames of oranges burning; loves sublime ~
Sunrise, now gathering blue horizons to kiss the wrested nights
Waning heavens waving a million reflections left, glittering deep inside....
Astringent embers touching tranquility while as floating through the rougish sky
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters still, only to subside!?
Torn from destined books carving ancient time; this
My own Aphrodite....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...."My, Beautiful *Star Light" ~
This February will not usher spring,
wisteria like grapes hung on their roods;
more pewter shadows does the season bring.
Now I've misplaced all the beatitudes
to lambent grasses flocking on the mount
as spring green creepers tendril up the posts,
the lilac blossoms teeming like a fount
of amulets to stay the latent ghosts
that haunt as far as April with their rime.
As Puxatawny Phil goes under ground
I've six more weeks of gelid hush to mime
the turgid verses of this numbing round.
I rummage blessings as the winter girds,
yet somehow can't remember any words.
The voices of my present state and feelings echo
down into my mother’s sympathetic ears,
They resonate…in no barriers, she decodes
with her warm understanding and great love overflow.
She hears my footsteps on trails of joy and contentment,
giving me her smiles with supporting hands to go ahead;
She hears my footsteps on path of desolation or in tacit sadness,
Offering her breast and shoulder to lean on,
her loving pieces of advice uplift my spirit, wipe my tears and give me breath.
My fragile emotion easily restores and mends,
Oh, mother dear, your listening ears are your heart’s aesthete!
A rich tapestry of comfort, love and affection,
where all my sighs , fears and sentiments will be laid.
No child’s turgid words in my mother’s loving ears,
regardless of distance, she listens, embraces and cares,
With her sensitive radar system, she knows all my needs
like Tannoys - so loud, supersonic, she hears them all vibrate.
Her ears synch well with her loving heart
Amazingly entwine, they are twosome…
Oh, mother dear, may I touch lovingly your ears with my both hands,
may I touch your angelic aging face as I thank you so much,
This poem is especially for you, I’m sending it with a SWALK
Sealed With my Loving Kiss on this sweet Mother’s Day card.
*Tannoy s- systems of loudspeakers for making announcements
Written: May 9, 2015 10.40pm
-This poem is a loving dedication to my ever dearest mom who is here with me right now. She loves poetry so much. She was my first teacher in reciting poetry. I was inspired to write a free verse poem for her. This is my Mother’s Day gift for her along with my humble art works/ paints, Mother’s Day t-shirt and card.
May I also dedicate this poem to all mothers all over the world. More power and blessings to you all! HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY! MANY HUGS FROM ME!
First Place
Contest: Mother's Ears
Judged: 5/18/2015
Poet Sponsor: Craig Cornish
A Mother's Love, Tributes of Love for Mother's Day
Contest Judged: 5/3/2022 7:00:00 PM
Sponsored by: BJ Legros Kelley
Place 1
The Curse of the Dead Sea
Dark ghosts traveling through the chilled air mist
where rare rough rivers, eddied and revolved, in
twists around into a violent, furious funnel offshore,
as this turbulent salt sea of iniquity opens up its storied,
salted bowels with its turgid moving fluids drowning
into a space of predestined bedded death—for all who
unknowingly venture into the embrace of the Dead Sea.
For knoweth that Poseidon, the ancient god of the sea,
may not be there in time to spare thy life that be in the
fatal grip of this salted deadly destiny, and its jeopardy,
as it’s written in the “riddle of sands” that remain blowing
as this earthly desert speaks to thee, spiced by the coldest
of raindrops carried on winds held deep within, as dark
clouds escape with their droplets running down into the
mountain “waters of life” that feed and form an evil river
that pulsates through the deep veins of existence, as drums
inside heartbeats play to a harmonious harp filled with a
mystic music dancing to visions of a salted angel who lives
deep within the Dead Sea.
Falling throughout the depths of time in the history of this
ancient sea of sure death, are grains of sand and pure white
salt which hold misted gems that speak to each and every
human footprint, leaving an imprinted, indelible image true,
behind the frame left crowned in the deep well of a forlorn,
shimmering pond that presciently knoweth that this ancient
Dead Sea, with its “salt of the sand” shall explain to you,
in kind, of the dangers that lurketh within the waters of its
salted, deadly grip, if thou chooseth unwisely to venture in
knowingly or unknowingly.
For Poseidon shall not be there in this “modern age” to
saveth thee and thy immortal soul!
Amen.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – December 16, 2018
(Narrative)
The River
The river sings its sweet lament
in ancient voice softly lowing,
vibrant melodies subtly meant
to plumb the depths of our knowing.
Around each bend it curves, flowing
onward toward its fated reunion
with unkempt sea, wild and blowing;
embracing briney communion.
Its serpentine course scars the land
in undulant brown profusion;
shimmering gold in twilight's hand,
a gift of nature's effusion.
Pregnant spring plies it, unleashing
tempest's turgid downpour to slake
the lusty spate's thirst unceasing,
leaving ravaged marl in its wake.
Torrid summer's breath chars the soil
and saps the river of its strength,
but cool and sweet, the river's toil
paints a green ribbon down its length.
Demon winter glazes the earth,
garbs the river in frigid gown,
draws a pane of ice over its girth
but fails to stay its flowing down.
Since time out of mind, the river
has carved canyons from stubborn stone
and sought naught but to deliver
its lifeblood back to heaven's home.
Crackle into morning.
Hasten your fear astray.
Outside blue doves are catching fire.
Bacon, make bacon, and live the normal light.
The strain and bob of countless decisions,
Turgid and taut along the fence
Of the girlfriend's backyard.
Fear the father call while,
Dear old mother is sprawled
Covering and smothering
The floor of your conscience:
The monster bearing the unwanted gifts:
It has no name.
Relieve crying, shame, and torment of their duty.
Catch the lighted spirit
From the quiver of telephone poles,
The flutter of crows,
The boundaries of the bows
Bound to the presents that have no receiver.
Be the believer. Be our Redeemer.
Be the sound in the deepest night,
The glow of the darkest cave,
The fly of butter that flew off the frozen animal
of our sorry, sodden, and surrendered inner landscape.
Be our Redeemer,
melt grace from our cheers.
Pour it over the dead water
We bathe, drink, and splash in.
Give our wall a name.
Push it over, and walk across.
We will follow, crackling,
Into Morning.
03/05/11
The world, a place dreamt perfect, orderly and friendly
Graced and paced, hospitable to both brave and cowardly
The timid forced turgid, the brave at times feeble and shake
At the forces from the four poles, leaving their lives at stake
The tell tale of the noble as the only capable to cope forces all
To quickly mutate into beings that can conquer and hell in stroll
You and I, apostles stemmed on great doctrine that constitutes
Making the world better and better, indorsing the ancient platitudes
We`re awed and perplexed by perspective of the world depending
On the side that we fall, the pessimist or unrelenting
With every rise of the sun, a chance to choreography
And perfect authentic living, whether it ends in tidings or catastrophe
As the light dims every day, conscience deems us gutless or valiant
Therefore with every breathe, comes an effort for a man to prove gallant
Open my eyes on a bloodshot morning
The champion strains his leash
He's howling in pain, but he's howling in vain
The lights on Love Street are red
Tension mounts in my flesh
The rigidity of perplexed anguish
Turgid in my purple soldier's head
Veins popping, striated muscle pink and warm
I whip him, three times a day
Offer him a hand out of spite
I'll be frank: I spank and I spank
This thing's bigger than the both of us
Winter scatters moth bones.
For a while,
it refreshes the turgid and lax.
Then the chill legs of small dancers
pirouette over warm bodies.
Flesh recoils, lungs curl around
each breath.
Hedgerows offer their huddled masses,
to the underground and hidden.
The light is going color blind,
Wind-crones whip rabbit hair
into wickiups
for the newly dying.
Aint nothing in life so weak and parasitic
As the smug self-delusional heckling critic
Sick with repressed envy and a manner most vile
He slithers to his seat to vent his acrid bile
Bereft of any talent to do anything himself
Can't wait to put the boot into everybody else
Can't act, can't dance, can't sing, can't play
Wouldn't have the nuts to get up on stage anyway
Sad man, sad man, silly little sad man.
Really rates himself as a man who knows his stuff
Mouthing well-used insults (too dumb for off-the-cuff)
When you're up there playing he'll inevitably try
To portray mock disdain if you ever catch his eye
So pay no mind to this impotent imbecile
Who follows his calling with unrelenting zeal
No wit, no style, no clout, no class
The turgid remains of a charisma bypass
Sad man, sad man, pity for the sad man.
Like a keyboard warrior, an internet troll
Loves it when his barbs hit an unsuspecting goal
And if you ever flinch, he's got you mind and soul
Thinks this master of the moment the ninja in control
Next time I'm performing I pray that he will show
I'll come on all guns blazing, and hope he has a go
This piteous mug who'll dismiss me with a sneer
Chuckling with his cronies at how bad I've been up here
On social media you can bet he'll go to town
Spewing forth his venom as he tries to put me down
No joy, no smile, no love, no praise
A pitiful indictment of his hollow darklit days.
Sad man, sad man, silly little sad man.
Bill (in) Hillary? A turgid question.
Monica eased prostatic congestion.
His Altoids improved the taste,
while her dress absorbed the waste.
Her mother kept the prized possession!
*For the “Political Woes” contest. You can’t make this stuff up.
"Novitiate"
Wading through
turgid mainstream
Novitiate makes her
way to the bottom rungs
of the Clean Team
Where dreams are
captured a.m. p.m. .
on the run with
weeping neutered minds
zero sublime
same old, same old
Asks herself,
“Where’s the substance?
Am I gormless too?”
rewards are Molasses,
Sugar Plums and
Glory, if that's you
It’s like dipping your spoon
in Alphabet Soup
re-arranging letters.
Shirley Temples with
no flaming
Bombe Alaska clue
pour the brandy,
light the flame.
Ignite something,
heart, mind or soul
covert intelligence
wonderful electric
minds pollinating
intellectual beehives,
"where's all the dripping
honey?"
Novitiate dreams
Go punch a hole in the sky
block all emotional rissoles
it’s not a question of
do or die
the Game is called
take-the-ride, at all times
avoid blood-sucking Vampires
Strict insects in an
ultra strict machine
watching their wings
flutter pretty, all beat
in time bang against
a silent wall
koutou three times
It aint about numbers baby
nor who’s who in the Zoo
it’s about writing your story
lock, stock and smoking barrel
keeping it true
Cover all mirrors
old is dead
born is new
Mornings rise with Sun
Fold your cards,
Hearts are trumps
Win-Win
what's done is done
time to de-robe and run, run, run
You're a novitiate skating
daily in your black
Nun's habit, it's way way
tragique, it's all a bit,
"La députée a raconté
une histoire très tragique",
find a new Boo.
Passports,
TRANSIT LOUNGE
Airport
Escape the Zoo.
Time to Do-the-Do
Novitiate throw
off your Black habit
Perfume
Rouge lipstick
New shoes
Yeah, put on your
Kavorka
New You
Double Deluxe Choc Chip
take the double cream
and cherry too.
Escaping the Zoo
True Romance.
OUR STORY
Me and You
(Lovejoy-Burton/2018 Jan)
"Temple of Love"/Johnny Hollow
https://youtu.be/p64wbdRBzjk
"NEMESIS"
“Where do Angels go in their dreams?
They go where wolves go to catch foxes,
venturing forth out of small caged boxes
to the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods”
NEMESIS
is watching her
from his dreams
prowling soft Silver fur
hear his soft-wolf tread,
Nemesis has left his comfortable bed
he is onto her, he is tracking her Heavenly scent
She is Light Angel
spreading luminous wings
shining it all around,
she thinks of escaping
barefoot from this sullied ground;
her skin is cold to the touch,
no longer standing sentry
she's lost in the murky
Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods,
Black Tulips abound
Wolf is stalking her,
her scent makes him wild;
lurking, nearer, ever nearer
invading her dreams of better
neighbourhoods and childish things
simple and clearer, she is
spreading brand new wings to freedom,
away from Black Dogs in their prisons
those kicked out of Heaven,
barking their ignored plea bargains
of rushed stolen innocence, begging -
all of their pardons are lost, 'tis a given,
her hot angel tears turn to frost
Nemesis soft-footed paw,
back arching, he snarls, bares his fangs
then he grins, he's closer much closer
he can feel her in the skin under his fur,
he’s hunting Her down,
breathes his turgid breath
all over "The Lost",
the hidden creatures running quietly wild,
in the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods;
beckoning her, his low growl ever nearer,
ever never, his hot breath on the prowl
reaching out for her
he’s raging to roar -
in her sees his mirror
There are stories, she hears,
of a Wolf on the loose from his cage in
the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods -
she forgets the real reason she came,
calmly brings her wings down by her side,
she continues to shine her light all around,
she can feel him
Burning hot breath on her neck,
he growls ever so softly, so clear in her ear,
“Don’t Run Sweet Thing, Don’t Run,
You are found, I am here.”
Black Tulips abound
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
For those absent.
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKiI4RvEyDk
Slow drawn, steeping tea bags, in an etched glass pitcher,
Lazily infuse its Oriental musk into the sun warmed brew.
My ice crackles along with the thunder over the great Mississippi
As the ewers’ spout releases the torrents of Southern comfort
Into the tall, foggy, frost laden glass; I await my fill.
A frigid sip chafes my lips and briefly deadens my longing,
Only momentarily, as the turgid air, again, envelops my throat.
The chills grip my spine, even in this oppressive heat.
Sauntering droplets roam slowly down my bare skinned back
And puddle where my hips widen at the curve of my waist.
Hope is lost for those of us who float through purgatory.
The weight of two centuries of sorrow hangs heavily on our skin.
The burden is at its worst to bear just before autumn,
When slave ships broken by storms washed up on the river.
Airlessness provides no clemency for those gasping for pardon.
Sorrow lies heavily in the lungs of the poor souls of August.
Heat, fetid and damp, feverishly enables man’s basest passion,
To be disguised as music, that wails from the saloons in the Quarter.
Deep, boiling, fermented tales of sorrow are turned into song,
Melodic tales spun of sorcery, savagery blue and untethered souls,
Forged metals and the scat of primitive voices, break the fugue.
Echoes of blasphemy wrought suffocating havoc and destruction,
As hot jazz blows cool through the streets of the Ninth Ward.
To the legendary teacher I pay tribute
For imparting live voices to the mute
You paid gratitude
To the multitude
On the mountain top you stood
And all the heads understood
You never said ‘Never’
As admired in Geneva;
Tremendous work for real
Remains in me a thrill!
You explored the world
Left in me a living word
Instilled sight onto my mind
In place of being blind.
Domesticated me where I went wild
I lost you – I remain worried
Your education
Was a dedication
For my emancipation
Through marked participation
Hot springs of wits gush out of turgid mazards
Thus; unleashing veracity poses no hazards
From the famous profit and loss account
To how elasticity of demand is paramount
The art of blending species of flora in the gardens,
Merging ideas to console those carrying burdens
Powders mixed to thwart the woes of gout
For chemical blending of dust into ceramic tiles and grout
Artistic laying of tiles with no doubt,
Farmers add granules of compounds to combat drought
Mixing small grains into carling draught
Or into flour and oil for palatable dishes and crust
Spinning of the ginnery, linen craft
Crafting aprons which the chefs trust
Perpendicular tors of triumph echo from Arithmetic
Beneficiaries seducing lasses with cosmetics.
Rhyming rhythms of iambic pentameter;
With 13 amps flowing – records the ammeter,
Or 6 000 amps of the high voltage arc
Fusing rival elements into the Ark
Compelling hard cores of high resistance
Leaving them for complete ‘non-existence’.
We had signed the Teacher concession;
Of study, participation and concentration,
That was the ‘Moyo Treaty’.
Though the exam is always tricky
Finally we dilute the concentrate
Textbook to notes - our carbohydrate.
I recalled my teacher through secondary
That he knew no boundary
He taught to set apart
What had been one part
He taught negative effects of Mainstay,
But God has the main stay
That death has a long stay!
Water is enough to stay!
In that his last essay
He scribbled a lot I can’t say
Keys of wisdom I surrender
We can’t be put asunder
Teacher – pupil
Your words I fulfill
I can now feel
A gap I can’t fill!
Zorora murugare, Lala ngokuthula!