Best Unfeasible Poems
To be immortal. How would THAT work out?
To keep a youthful look forevermore
I think would be incredible – no doubt!
Would all the chronic pain that I deplore
become unfeasible? That would be swell!
To outlive history! How would that be?
I’d know the follies of mankind so well
but probably have no ability
to stop the madness! Finally, what of
relationships when all of my own kin
I would outlive? How could I look for love;
watch them die over and over again?
I think it’s better to face death one day.
The spirit is eternal anyway!
An oldie
Submitted currently for Anoucheka Gangabissoon's If I Were Immortal Contest
Word-painting, they say; or painting with words,
In charm, it's charmer than most charming birds;
Feeling, for many, is its first foundation,
Expression, in words, brings affirmation;
Sentiment and muse must fondly marry,
Verses should flow-grand rhymes and rhythms carry...!
Does my work, yet, picture of life portray?
Do all colors intertwine, like sun-ray?
Do joys evade the scene when pains flourish?
Does bliss its jubilant psyche nourish?
Do feelings of fear, anger and surprise,
Find: it's impossible to compromise...?
What's the inner-flow of my florid words?
Are they merely beautiful flocks of birds?
Flimsy butterflies that flutter around?
Cats, rats, geese, cattle and horrible hound?
Do beasts of the woods and reptiles well-blend?
With their hitting and killing stories end...?
Do they paint pictures of human struggle?
Or stop just with some selected snuggle...!
The deaf, dumb, blind and the lame, who, in calm,
Add, to this futile life, tremendous charm...?
Young, and old who're, forever, deserted,
In my poems, with honor, inserted...?
Composing poetry, is not mere fun,
A divine mission, with this, is inter-spun;
Painting of actual facts should pave way,
Toward opening of a small headway;
Life without struggles is unfeasible,
Dissensions, yet, could be made peaceable...!
26 April 2022
POEM ON POETRY MUSE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
Phoenix Defrosted
Given by the Sun God the good of the moon and some lucky stars
he sits full of fortune love and still in miraculous amazement under
the bright rays of southern soil soaking unbelievable kindness and
mutual compassion granted by soul searching and Higher Power
Love had been made before from a different fabric and the colours had
quietly faded to screaming silence frozen into glaciers’ clefts of darkness
Chances lead the way and permafrost was not forever when the mask
came off with all its distortions mangled ice melting into novel beginnings
It took him searching of feeling thought desire and some meeting of minds
revisiting gently rigorously what had appeared to be the only prospect
one of soundless demise and shattering unfeasible stagnant arrest in the
prison of domination wilted marred marriage depression and torment
Agony struck and it however ignited a passion unknown a mating and union
conjoined at hips and above for always and in all ways a heartfelt dance with
the Universe high and below inside and within a mango grooved delta of
Venus hot soothing lava engulfing new lovers’ poetic trees in poetry’s motion
Considering failure in cause and success in effect of landslides misfortune
bad luck and bad choices he is fortuitously graced now to thank destiny
constellation of karma kismet pure hard worked for chances where one thing
leads to another when the ashes are reshuffled and second fire is sublime
06th September 2016
My face tiled in rubbles
make my troubles visible,
result of my lamed fights,
became my life unfeasible.
Don't talk about my mojo,
if you don't like it,
it will chase you all the time,
if you don't stop it.
Child soldier Ishmael Beah,
who jumped to peace,
who let go the bullets,
to embrace world of man free.
I seek a place that leaves no trace
Of venomous blood and tainted heart
I seek a place that holds only grace
Of righteous hearts and caring thoughts
I seek a place that broods not on hate
But of a tranquilized soul and an intellectual eye
I seek a place that is haven to a guilt-filled heart
Let it not, Oh! Wretched Passionate heart!!
Let me not succumb to such ardency
Let me not, dear god! Yield in to such tyranny
To extract such murky ardor is all I ask
I dine with seething lassitude brought forth by such a task
Dear nature where has it gone, my obliged gratitude
From you, I have averted a heart
That comes to you now seeking! Asking! Groveling! For pardon
Almighty nature, which once has soothed a brute within me
Please! Dear god! I beg thee do not forsake
I come to you humbly meekly seeking an unfeasible amnesty
For I drown in to the abyss of thirst of farfetched enlightenment
And only now I know“how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how
much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who
aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.”
*Inspired by Frankenstein’s tormented conscious *
~M.M.M
I don't believe in hell, it seems
Unfeasible and frankly odd
A myth of old medieval dreams
And bad publicity for God
Unfair to fickle lovers, fools
And sorry sinners most contrite
Too heavy on the fossil fuels
Too scary for the kids at night
But Ian Brady died today
Who caused so many lights to dim
And suddenly, I have to say
I hope there is a hell for him
© Gail Foster 15th May 2017
He was growing old and senile and his hair began to fall,
And he perched on a stool to tell accounts of the past,
Of how he’d fought for his country and of his manifold valiant deeds,
Speaking of patriotic comrades who’d long returned to dust.
His neighbors sometimes thought that his stories were a joke
But elders who had understanding of the past
Knew his honesty and the truthfulness with which he spoke;
But we don’t hear his tales today for the old Musyoka passed way.
Not many mourned him, perhaps only his children and wife,
For he led an ordinary uneventful lifestyle;
He had a part-time job and a family, calmly heading his way;
The world did not know when death took his nationalistic smile.
When thievish politicians die of eating too much
Their sinful corpses honorably lie in state
While spoon-fed sycophants give crammed eulogies,
But a freedom soldier quietly succumbs to his unfortunate fate.
It seems the greatest contribution to the wellbeing of our republic
Is to lie to the people and severally break your unfeasible promises,
But the patriotic soldier who lays down his life for the country,
Goes unnoticed to his grave without the minutest of praises.
The earnings of a politician are more than their service,
But a patriotic soldier gives up his life to protect his countrymen,
Yet his pension is small and old age and disease the only rewards,
And an ordinary death awaits him at three score and ten.
It is easy to forget old Musyokas for they live no more,
Even disregard that such heroes ever went to the battlefield,
But I hear heart-rending cries from forgotten graves yonder,
Where old Musyokas and their devoted mates restlessly lie.
They cry, “sons and daughters, we died like common folks,
Yet we are the reason why you enjoy the peace you have,
We lost our arms and legs and most of us died cheap as a fox;
Will you deny us a simple and costless thing such as honor?”
I loathe hearing the fallen old Musyoka and mates haunt me so
But I’m not the commander-in-chief of the land,
Nor am I some legislator in the August House,
I can’t honor a fly, but old Musyoka won’t understand.
Letters, words, and phrases
Once piled, filed in my brain
Dumped went all the drawers
Words went all askew
Files, unsorted, scattered
Mixed messages now astrew
To this scene I now awaken
Into this dreadful dream
Perplexed and puzzled
Tears now stream
Reasonable realignment
Unfeasible, Unworkable,
Words washed away
Impossible to reach
Imprisoned within
Words from others
Echo in my ears
“Sufferered stroke,” “healing hospital”
Only fuel fears.
Familiar faces
Names don’t know
Smiles and tears
Both do flow
Days now pass
I try to speak
It’s hard to find
The words I seek.
I find only
a
massive
mountain of
tangled terms from
which to pick and choose.
I strain to say the sounds and work the words.
Those around me puzzled, don’t quite understand.
I know ‘things’ and ‘objects,’ on much more
I can’t expand.
Frustrated, Unfulfilled
Feeling strained and stumped
Searching for simple syllables
In massive mounds where they were dumped.
[My husband suffered a stroke on November 15, 2012. His therapist tried to explain to me what aphasia was. As frustrating as it is for the victim to make himself understood, it can be equally frustrating for the caregiver who wants to understand. This poem is my effort to have others understand.]
The fruit tree.
Twilight, soon it will be dark, sparrows are flying back, god knows
where they have been. A flock meet in my plum tree, there is livid
arguing, who is going sit where. My tree doesn’t bear crops, yet
it is a fruit tree, my neighbour says so. I’m a plum tree too grew
up tall and stylish women flocked around me, I married five times
... and not a bloody plum. Grey trunk, limp leaves and when dusk
comes no one sits on my twigs; I have to invent stories of plums
I never had. Fine plums, juicy plums all of them females that never
matured and left me alone to fend for myself in time of solitude.
Night, and in my heart there a is longing for the unfeasible.
You made me feel special
You made me feel loved
You made me feel important
But now all that is left in me...
A tired heart
A broken soul
A blurry face
And teary eyes
I once was the man
I once was your man
But now I'm just a man
My legs are clumsy
My lips are numb
My mind is empty
My tears are like the rain
Impossible to count
Unfeasible to predict
Unable to cease
Would one want to attempt to claim
The land atop these mountains?
Or just enjoy the view from afar
And play in the lakes and fountains?
Although some would agree
That is not worth the time and patience
But who are they to decide one’s fate?
They are not your masters or agents
Climb that treacherous mountain chain
And never look back down the cliffs
For all that will become of that
Are the repeating ‘Buts’ and ‘Ifs’
If you begin to lose your hope
Do not let go of the dream
Use your heart to guide your strength
The climb is not as unfeasible as it seems
Once you reach that highest peak
Look back at the world and smile
For the mountain you have claimed as yours
Could be wanting you to stay forever in a while
the coasts are the skin of bodies
that hold secrets like a thousand year-old book--
a language unknown;
lustful and ethereal,
yet earthly all the same.
sunken treasures
and treasures from its womb
will never emerge--
only sparkle for kilometers
and glisten for years
under a thick layer of dust
known as the ocean we know.
it sometimes gifts long-lost rings and dolls,
and it sometimes can't hold back
hostile teeth and dismembered guts.
it is afraid of us and itself,
but we will never be scared
and never be impatient
as the drift along the never-ending sea
is horrendously long
and horrendously arcane, intriguing, and breath-taking.
there aren't always storms,
but the waves sometimes kiss the boat
and the lightning sometimes peeks at the fog below,
wishing it could touch it.
but anything is and will be possible
in something never-ceasing,
because without an end,
there is only a journey
through every feasible thing you could plan,
and every unfeasible thing you can create.
The darkness consumes my soul like an eerie black wooded green
The smug, moist air masks my senses
The chirping, mischievous sounds prick my ears
The dark sky eludes me from the truth, but most of all
The silence is what draws it near.
Similar to an unwelcome companion,
I cannot ride myself of this shadow
When I find myself alone it becomes thorny to control.
It knows how to navigate its way through the depths of my soul,
blackening my insides
The silence is what draws it near.
At that very moment my thoughts no longer reside as my own
I lose all ambition, and perspective on the promises I have made
I become engrossed in the past and the impurity of myself
My mind is a desolate forest with no sign of vivacity or time
The silence is what draws it near.
I ponder over disrupting the silence
Destroying it once and for all
No somber emotions would be unveiled
Like the leaf of dying tree I will be forgotten,
and soon after another will take my place
My purpose is uncertain, unattainable,
and unfeasible as these thoughts
relentlessly stab my mind.
My hollow existence has destroyed what once could have been,
and the silence has forever taken over.
Can a person be preached to death?
My burned-out ears answer "yes."
Some church speakers use every breath
To berate those they suppose they bless.
They describe "don'ts" three pews long.
Congregants find it all but unfeasible
To live without doing something wrong.
Shouldn't preachers aim to be reasonable?
Three hours, four hours—they preach on.
Old men are nodding off, children crying.
Isn't it time for the choir to sing a song?
This must be worse than hell and dying.
The stained-glass windows are darkening.
The preachers have preached too long.
But to the late hour they aren't harkening—
And they're prepared to carry on 'til dawn.
So, the glistening aim noticeably passes by,
So, the dangerous motion formidably goes by,
So, the unknown one remains unknown for the time being,
So, one is ahead of the petty singing.
The one and only is good-natured and well-behaved,
He is favoured and well-blessed.
Though the great Guide is sacrificed, done and dusted,
The honest being is fit, fine, and well-crafted.
The physical existence is going to be dealt with,
The mirrored organizations are going to vote for the myth.
The glass is going to be blurred by its connotations,
The pure man is defined by his situations.
The window is becoming larger day by day,
The commentators are solitary soldiers in their own way.
The perception is becoming blinded,
The light is the only lie that is provided.
Here, the perfect human is the representative of his species,
Here, he has grown up with his lengthy speeches.
Here, he is no longer unknown or unfeasible to catch,
And therefore, he has everything else to match.