Best Vicissitudes Poems
"Vicissitudes into Light"
You are another world
away from me
stretching far from
his insanity
Diving into a new
Light
Dimensions that
are the truest You
From the dark deep
Ocean of sinking blue
Reach on the wave
in my wake
I gift to You
You are stronger
than all of his
bluest blues
broken egg shells
ladders in stockings
hyena in the corner little
Jack now crying
in his new freedom zoo
no ladder required
transparent
You have grown
wings to fly
Open Sky
for You
Little sister
Vicissitudes into Light
Open Sky
for You
Into day
Escape dark night
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
gvlm
https://youtu.be/mYbZw04ba78
bjork: tabula raisa
Raindrops sprinkle spent dogwood petals on the lawn
While tiny bluebirds perch in nearby mulberry, stalling,
Awaiting the drizzle’s end, fussing at a week-old fawn
Who grazes unaware sharp crystal droplets are falling,
Raining down like tiny sharp fragments of shrapnel.
Afternoon planting, too, must wait ‘til morrow’s dawning
Lest fragile seedlings, soaked through, hear death’s knell,
Rotting from the roots, fall over, their life withdrawing
The vicissitudes of spring promise both life and death:
The mingling of joy and sorrow, reflected in nature here
On my lawn, in my garden; mirroring life’s fragile breath,
Proper Mother Nature making her message indelibly clear.
Ranked 54th in Poetry Soup's 100 Top Poems
I relax and sip my martini cruising at 40000 feet.
If only my bags arrive with me, all will be complete
I arrive in Tokyo and watch the carousel go 'round and 'round.
Although it made many circuits, my luggage could not be found!
Here I sit forlorn in the terminal in Tokyo, Japan.
Alas, my shirts and drawers ended up in Kyrgyzstan!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
I was born in the odds,
I lived through it,
dotted the lines on my path
I was born among hyenas,
these scrambling to stiffen the last breath,
Amidst hurts and hate first from home,
A lot cast in mirage and fantasies,
Hope too soon cut short,
Survival, a struggle,
Unexplainable Fratricidal warfare,
The closer in blood, the more bloodier,
A race without consent
A badge of calumny,
Shot on the heels like Achilles,
Bore cruelty from innocence to adulthood,
Unending miasma, the debacles of a short existence,
Abandoned, secluded,
for reaction occasioned by their own bile,
Childhood stolen,
set on a slippery path as they watch a peradventure slide to my ill.
From ambuscade, they drew their swords,
Their arrows bathed in blood unabated,
Aiming at my marrows,
I groan and mourn in the dark,
Enemies as friends monitoring,
Friends as enemies watching.
This path not by Choice.
I lived through it,
A thousand bands of beasts assaulting,
Into this war, enlisted.
I was born there, buoyed by troubadour,
Somewhere in Africa,
My right are taken away from me,
Where laws are drafted by criminals,
Where the police pay themselves on the streets,
Where certificate are mere papers with payments,
I was born there ,
Where criminals are protected and sanity deemed madness,
Somewhere in West Africa
where compassion is extinct
The survival of the fittest,
Street boys kills to survive,
Scholars abandon politics to simpleton,
Where the brightest are critics and cadres prevents the ambitious
I live there,
Where certificate is a document to escape,
Lawyers now charge and bail for survival,
Doctors protesting like urchins
Poets selling cosmetics,
bankers riding "Okada",
Amongst drug peddlers,
Amongst cultist,
Where clergymen induce the gullible,
In this cage we call country.
I was born there.
Standing at the bow of the rugged ship,
Blistering tears cue up in the wrinkles
Of faces worn weary with anguish;
Uncertainty becoming a bleeding wound.
The raging storm swells with tormenting waves
Splashing on the shores of human dignity and honor;
Leaving the despotism of doubt and fettering fear
Frothing in the humidity of the politico-sands of time.
Yet, despite the toil and fatigue of the hour,
Hope remains on the horizon--rising with the sun;
And the searchlight of truth will dissipate the cloud of deceit
With its enlightening rays emancipating lost, stiff-necked souls
Seeking stillness of peace in the coming raging winds of change.
Quiet vicissitudes on a lonely shore.
Memories fading with age as the family home crumbles.
It sits alone, abandoned, on it's now private island as the ocean continually encroaches with time.
Nothing left but photographs to prove to the world it was here as a storm crashes overhead.
With one final gulp a once happy home relinquishes itself to the watery abyss.
Ponder life's vicissitudes
with gentle tears of solicitude
Our lot, to comfort and pray
the Lord will have the final say
My dearest friend,you have left me
standing all alone
My body is numb with sorrow
I have no way to home.
I am depressed and even frightened
because you made such a bad decision
But nonetheless you left me,
without caring about my condition.
Our friendship was like a plant that could
not be uprooted by any storm,
but today after leaving me ,
you proved it to be all wrong.
What i heard was:
A true friend is the one who stands by you in all times,
good or bad and walks life's path hand in hand.
But again i would repeat the same thing:
you proved it wrong by moving on and hereby left me
with the sternly storm............
Affliction with comprehension,
now plain as day
predisposition to experience
(particularly abstract) cognitive
acquisition assailed at bay
posits me to suspect mental
deficiency within gray
matter of yours truly, whose
academic track record lay
in abyssal ruins, and
as three score orbitz round
the sun, yours truly doth pay
a hefty emotional price oy vey,
the voluminous, onerous,
horrendous, and analogous
moribund Atlas I cannot pray
tell shrug off from me
mental jackknifed fountainhead,
especially asper today
mainly cuz this figurative
albatross doth weigh
heavily (increasing unbearable
suffocating burden) greater quay
king pronounced effort particularly
with every passing birthday
concomitant impossibility atoll
reef used breakaway
ramping up emotional agony
willpower to live doth decay
dichotomy crashes against livingsocial
Manichean struggle pronouncedly
evincing increased dark shadowed dismay
overarching edge of night evokes doomsday
seeping into every neurological estuary
paralyzing ability to function hamstrung
hidebound hundredfold salvation faraway
sinking me deeper within troubles
steeply suffocating restricting headway,
wherein convoluted corral like gray
matter signals distress call, sans mayday
with futility, whereby
this buoy anchored away
long since being marooned,
mired, and moored since screenplay
starring yours truly launch debut,
asper this lamentable genetic craft
bereft, forlorn, and luckless fey
e'er bulwark permanently
stationed at sickbay!
An evil warlock changed my vicissitudes on this horrible mean day.
It only took seconds, but he took all my power and confidence away.
I went from a woman to a purple dragon with red stripes you see.
He was in cahoots with an ogre who has always hated little ole me.
They transmuted me with abnormally joyful anticipation and jubilation.
I heard them cackling like old hen women, in fantastical celebration.
I was angry as hops, ready to do whatever damage I could do.
But they also gave me a loving heart, before they were through.
No matter how mean they were, I had to smile and be nice.
It was not easy for me to hate them, or fill my heart with ice.
I can do it Trixie yelled, ready to be whoever I wanted her to be.
She said we should throw the word vicissitudes back to Tennessee.
So Hank, this poem is for you, since you gave me that word.
I have written this poem twice, which was insanely absurd.
But the first time it disappeared from my computer, making me mad.
But thanks to this metamorphosis, I can neither get even or bad.
Does the dead not walk?
I woke up in the middle of last night drained,
In my castle built in the stark blank,
I was like the vulture beaten by wild rain storm.
Does the dead not walk?
The fragrance which pefumed from my body was alluring,
But it stunk on the people's nostrils,
In that I know I have been to a place.
Does the dead not walk?
I stood up from my burial mat, throttled on my right limb and staggered,
I throttled on my left and fell,
Just like in the space,
The altitude told my heaves.
Does the dead not walk?
Men took to heels and I hollered,
Poor rat, stinking poor rat,
Living a dead man's life.
Does the dead not walk?
My stomach was slate clean,
As I yawned my last pint of vigor,
Three strings of saline fluids streamed to my cheeks,
And my tongue called for more.
Does the dead not walk?
I am a walking dead in the human world.
Invisible to the naked eye
traumatization (courtesy
chastising and reproaching -
by fellow classmates
and later in life
birth parents and inlaws
dealt hefty figurative jab)
tremendously impacted yours truly
analogous to him moving bajillion miles away
compounded by his withdrawn demeanor
diagnosed when he reached middle adulthood
as schizoid personality disorder,
thus exhibiting obvious developmental delay
bullied courtesy nasty brutes,
who scapegoated and rejoiced
with hip hip hurray,
meanwhile I experienced
terrible psychological melee
escaping to safe confines of bedroom,
where I wanted to stay
for mine remaining years of life.
Retrospective review
now approaching my doddering old age
constituted more'n one cruel (cheap) trick
played on super tramping urchin,
who traipes across virtual global stage
ensnared within whorled webbed wide
spending his hard earned itty bitty wage
spinning one strand after another.
And
in the end
I sandbag
my life
as much
as I can.
Ever since mine boyhood
I experienced abhorrence
toward yours truly,
an extremely introverted kid,
whose parents nor siblings
(one younger and older sister) could
not arouse him out of his emotional torpor
akin being on par with
Peter Peter pumpkin eater...
whereby he (meaning
author who wrote this poem)
kept himself isolated, quarantined, and xed out
within self made shell.
Me mum mollycoddled her only son
bathed him in maternal love
omnipotent motherliness
figuratively guillotined
(unwittingly) healthy maturation,
thus development sabotaged
courtesy figurative apron strings.
No matter his filial relationship woeful
(to thee woman who birthed him),
he registered sentimental value
regarding keepsakes bequeathed,
he still keeps cherished mementoes
redolent when she lived.
Call him a mama's happy go lucky boy
whose later ambivalent feelings
tarnished, undermined and vitiated
short lived tender loving care,
which brief vouchsafed cocooned wellbeing
regarding idyllic rapport between parents,
got staind, suppurated, sundered, sullied...
in later years by incrimination
against being gainfully unemployed.
February twenty eighth ninety sixty eight
marked a tectonic seismic shift as moving vans
transported our household freight
to (at that time) R(ural) D(elivery) 2,
Level Road Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426,
a ramshackle (summer) mansion named Glen Elm
plus whittled down fraction
of original Hundred Acre plus wood.
Relocation with Lower Providence School District,
approximately half dozen mile distance
between former and latter home(s),
nevertheless psyche of mine
property of extremely introverted kid
severely hi-jacked.
Very true about change, it is a must
In one place for so long, that beats the worst
Causing several tastes, forward, one must thrust
Increase is good but should also be just
Segments of the road can come with disgust
In the end, life finally makes us trust
Travel not straight, involving changing costs
Under some extremes, to shrink or to burst
Decisions of love sometimes start from lust
End point so vivid may come from grave rust
Several bends for one to always adjust