Best Visionless Poems
I am a Wandering bird
with broken wings
looking for true love again
I have flaws
my eyes are weary
sleepless
dreamless
visionless
my tears are lost
drained
dried
my words are ransacked
speechless
empty
my body is battered
bruised
wounded
and mutilated
my soul is shattered
scarred
and broken
I am a walking pain
shapeless
odorless
non-infectious
unfelt
unseen
untouchable
cause soul and pain are my guardians
I am a wandering bird
with half body
but whole soul
will you accept me?
the way I am.
Look at you
Oh so fashionably accessorised
In a demi-couture package
In your environmentally conscious style
Playing out ecological homage.
But bright red plastic buttons tinge your dress
iPhone resplendent in its fluoro yellow cover
Television screen sized sunglasses
Your hair infused with streaks of amber.
Revolutionary or is it maybe avant-garde?
Your visionless voice on sustainable ecology.
Little chance dirt would have graced your nails
Nouveau magazines guiding your ideologies.
The empowerment that must come with driving
Urban tractor, fuel efficiency rating and bling
Billowing air-conditioning making it bearable
Jingling bangles as you swap CD’s to sing.
Small pity the organic shop is across town
But the drive is so definitely bearable.
Cling filmed ethical food on polystyrene
The Emperors clothes so plausibly venerable.
You disdain the smog of a wood fuelled fire
Preferring the heat that occurs from a pump
Oblivious appliances are fed by a coal powered station
Comfortable the broken hair dryer goes to the dump.
But I’ll always admire your self-serving tenacity
Because with candid conviction you’re the first to judge me.
* A wee dabble and play
Being an American in Australia isn’t easy,
but I’m trying to integrate;
I’m trying to fit in.
Just one of the boys with all the right expressions
under my belt, like:
pasty glut
cosmetic spring roll rut
five o’clock shadow cigarette butt.
I mean, I’m trying to integrate;
I’m trying to fit in.
I try to talk about the good ol’ U.S. of A.,
and I’ve never mentioned Uncle Sam once,
except to suspect he lives inside Colonel Sanders
who also gives me a big pain in the ass
with his mysterious suppository herbs & spices;
cos I’m trying to fit in, see?
I’m trying to integrate.
Okay, I can get nervous about women,
and cover it up under muscle and toughness, O.K.!
Say: “All sheilas are made fer ****in’!”
while dreaming:
leather cock thrust
beer lubrication
violet steak lips!
Say: “All poets are poofs!” and
beat my balls around fields of green
with wooden sticks so stiff and clean, screaming
semen icing power
spread on scones of breasts!
Bloody hell! Can’t ya see?
I’m trying to integrate,
trying to fit in.
Like wearing high-heeled snow-shoes
and roller-skater shirts;
doing al the expected things, even tho’
my Balinese sarong trips me up occasionally.
I’ve got a sun-tanned *******,
and I’m keeping me nose to the ground,
no bloody fear! I’m integrating, ya see?
Trying to sit in.
I’m a tough-fisted slow-sauntering grog-pissing
knife balling tit watching ***** hating self-deceiving
regular visionless mate of no matter:
Swallowed by deserts
and the fear of ******s;
Tortured by sun
and the freeze of lost passion;
Murdered in business;
resurrected in wages!
Enslaved in the cities and
imprisoned by FACTS
that stretch from my body
in steel rails of tracks I ride on,
I hide on:
I’ve lost where I’ve been.
But I’m integrating
(yeah, INTEGRATING!)
I’m just fitting in.
BREAK THE WALL
The wall of differences that tore us apart,
Keeps standing in words of sightless and visionless minds.
As thick as the wall of our differences; resist the voice of colours.
roofs are leaking;
The wall of greed that invented our differences;
When broken, new wall of patriotism, will spiral- bound nations.
The walls of ancient values are falling and depreciating.
The wall between the rich and the poor gradually closing its gap,
As the roof leaked reports.
Break the walls, break the inequalities of colors on the walls,
All colors on the wall, spin story on eyes.
Break the wall of currency and build lasting wall of economy;
Break the wall of titles and retain honor.
Break the wall of rich and the poor; then, the economy will spin round quickly.
Erecting the wall of victimization; civilization stands no value.
Hands and voices are waiting to break the wall of ethnic divisions;
Wall of religion differences that spiral out tension and blood;
That makes our salubrious world horror of horrors.
Who dare to break the wall?
Either they that erected it or those that will never forget the pains.
The hands of the incarcerated and those who bore scars of marginalization are relentlessness.
The wall must be broken; either in peace or in blood.
Written by:
Pastor Omojevwe Emmanuel Brown
Immorality conquered the mind of youth
Devil in disguise they called it fun
God's word and devotees consider boring
Motivation from insanity
A generation living on the knife-edge of reality and a twisted fantasy
Choosing visionless minds their leaders
Brainwashed by a society of advertent incorrectness
*********** an entertainment for teenagers
Prison the home of future leaders
Drug abuse and illicit sex the prerequisite for street credibility
Talents and creative minds extinct by narcotic
Non-inspirational music of crime and violence surmount the beauty of poetry
Curse by Freedom and Human Rights
Immorality conveyed the acme of youthfulness
Invading and subjugating the moralization creed
Hopeful voices of effulgence nonviable
Gone is the doctrine of life
Terrorism a religion and sapless words an ism
Where are the minds of enlightenment
A sad day for mother Earth
Her most precious jade gone rogue
There's no safety in her sphere
Animal species on the brink of defunctness
Great invention (nuclear weapons) made for the human race
God's creation happily worship idols
Life a prison
Typification of the devil like a threads in a suit
Blind to the dark
circles full moon
watches in orbit
Aimless rotation
choice or direction
revolves around pattern
Leathery wings
visionless radar
faceless intuition
Howls in a distant
barbarian expanse
alert olive eyes
Kindly conjunction
shared perception
silent awareness
***
Triversen,
June 10, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Though I was child,
Yet had no fears,
Soon I grew adult,
Heart busted into tears.
Restless sleep, painful dreams
Always keeping up brew,
Malignant desires knocked at
Brain, to be practically true.
I wish me humble aged!
When lesser power avoids violence,
It is best age for rest,
As goes bald every sense,
Bloody youth is an evil abode,
So I loath my youth.
Wish shaky Skeleton groggy legs,
Even mouth having no tooth,
How a wonderful bed will be,
Quite silent and quadruped ,
Lucky person is might full,
Of dusty pillow under head.
Face covered in white lash.
Visionless eyes behind spectacles.
Ramshackle hand counting bead.
"Burden" other hand crook tackles.
For righteous and crafty,
Old is heaven and hell.
It is a life result,
Quite impossible to repel.
I will anxiously wait,
For taking last bath,
Will be embalmed in soil,
New destination, new path.
zaeem yousaf
Blind to reality beyond close surroundings
the servants of focus, no task to assign
agents of creativity align in the shelter of idleness
then grind the stones leading to the top
acting so foolish and unkind to self
condemning an unproductive mind to full blown darkness
with immediate remedy, difficult to find.
There’s hope if this situation is benign
just change all the signs my friend
and for once nurture a vision.
It’s Tuesday again.
It always rains on Tuesday.
I can’t beat time to the stairwell before it snatches my arm and pulls me back to sleep, a sleep that only haunts me, you know. When I don’t rest, I hold an old lantern up to a dirty mirror, to see my reflection with a rustic taste. I always cherished rustic things; they reminded me of autumn’s disposition. But when autumn comes, I feel sad. I bite the darkness, and cast my emotions to the night – like shadows.
If I yell loud enough, someone will hear me, someone with a gentle voice. Autumn – curse thee! I stab another page, to see if it will weep or if the splattering ink WILL FORM a constellation. Maybe I should write more – or maybe I shouldn’t – maybe I should remain still. An eye is visionless to an empty world.
I study karma with a kaleidoscope, friction with human agency. I was always shrewd with syntax. But too quick with words that when I fumbled my weapon, I’d either shoot my eyes out, or leave a disparate hole in the ceiling – perhaps one to crawl through and join the stars in quiet discussion.
My negative adjectives get mistaken for pessimism; nobody knows that I smile when the sun dies. Sometimes I laugh at its diligence – feral audacity, as its fleeing orange fingers release the horizon. Maybe I think about death too much - or not enough, for it made the greatest poetry. Sometimes my thoughts are unsafe.
Convincing myself I’m real is always the most difficult part: skeleton, muscle tissue; I pinch my skin when I forget. But I don’t forget as much as I used to. I wish I could remember in dreams - maybe they wouldn’t be so scary.
THERE IS NO OTHER WAY
The wings spread wide apart
I fly aimless in the turbulent air
Over the faded shadow you don’t define.
I fly in the embrace of gathering storm clouds
The silver lines disappear in the grey trail
Where I see the birth of rain drops
In the shattered sky that falls
Like tears in the dark night.
My tired wings become heavy
Can’t flutter any more
I drift like destemmed dry leaf
In the gale of the surging storm
Get sucked in the centre of its eye
Makes my eyes visionless opaque
Can't see though time and space
I spin in the storm vortex
Get lost in the depth of depression
Dreams break, hopes splinter
The shards of wrecked mind are blown away
In agony I close my wings
The gust takes me to the horizon of no return.
That is when after the storm-torn night
The dawn breaks in colored splendor
I see the sun rise with my God
The shine enters my soul with bliss
I find my wings unfold
And in the freedom of inner sky I fly again
Now toward the singularity sun
Transmitting the warmth of eternal peace
I fly within to lie on the arms of God
For there is no other way
For this is the only way
To fly in life.
(Om Shanti, Om Shanti)
Written : February 4, 2018
Contest : Brian's Choice 9, Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand
I assumed we would be together
That’s what you falsely led me to believe
But now I’m left here with heartache
Betrayed, dishonored and deceived
I must admit, I was convinced, because you talk a good game
But now that I need you the most, you’ve turned your back and walked away
I let my guard down too soon, and opened up to you
So determined to make you happy that I played the fool
I unknowingly surrendered myself and gave you the right
I submitted to you so completely, that I gave you control of my life.
You were so visionless to the fact that I gave you my heart
My most precious gift and you tore it apart.
It seems that you’ve remained unwounded
And I’m left here lonely and baring the scars
Scars that were cause by the lies that you’ve told
Now you’ve found another and I’m left out in the cold
And yet I often wonder, if you tell her what you told me
Or if you’ve unlocked you heart and let your love run free
The same love that you promised, to me and only me
I guess the signs were all there, but I was too blind to see
But still it’s not easy to pick up and move on
Because for your lying words and deceiving touch, I often still long
I gave you all I had to give, and still it wasn’t enough
Maybe time heals all wounds
But never again will I trust
Who are they?
They are “free gods”,
formed with the blood of “three God’s”,
and molded with steel rods.
They never flood,
because they sin and win with free ‘spirit.
They never walk straight, bend or backwards.
They walk and work with freethinking and free ‘speech.
And they free’ throw their boldness into the hell of anointment.
They operate with freshness, amongst the finest,
and enslave the formidable god of poverty.
This makes the swine’s of wretchedness blind.
They also free’ pass into the heaven of stardom,
and redecorate the history of wishes and riches.
They are, the god of gold,
The rod of hopes,
and they lead the lord of light.
They see the sun in the veins of the dark,
and they dine with coast of codes and Queen of Queens.
They wine with the vision of lightening and lightning,
and they use thunder as garment of boldness.
While angels, are their savants.
They freehold the great gift of “grave visions”,
beheading demoniacal downfall and visionless gods, without death warrants.
They don’t fear “God”,
but they respect God,
and reject odd.
Paving way and dealing directly with the “high moon” of glory.
They are blessed and dressed up with multiple successes.
And they never fall or sink,
but they die,
and the demon’s of their diamonds never rust or die with them.
Who are they?
They are, “the Freemason’s”, “Free Person's”.
Just one look.
Transparent,
is what you see.
A visionless visionary
with numerous, countless dreams.
That is who I am,
what I am,
I can only be me!!!
Even if the rest of the world,
doesn't believe,
or simply cannot see.
Form:
The procession crawls off hesitantly
On willing shoulders, the casket floats
Wooden and heavy on hefty shoulders
In his train, in dirgy whispers
The countless mourners trudge along
Behind my love's eternal hide-away
Just then I saw her amidst the straddlers
Unaffected and with no wreath for his tomb
Suddenly, the re-occuring echoes again
The echoes of the sobbering past
Wading through the water, I could see him again
Swimming against the tide towards her
The perishing, wherever she came from
Gasping for breath and wallowing for help
She is not to be blamed, I am
I shouldn't ve left his side while he snored
Lost in visionless rest and quietude
He wouldn't have gone impulsively for her
Mistaking her for me, his heart beat
My heart pounded guiltily and mercilessly
As he went and never came back
She came and his remains came too
The redeemer and the redeemed, they made news
He became the drowned and she, the heroine
How unfair life is between longing hearts
How unfair she acts between us - the wombs
Yes, there she is again amidst the straddlers
Chattering noisily, unlike the funereal atmophere
Beaming remorselessly against the encompassing mood
Although the celebrated waste, he is my hero
The redeemer, and not the redeemed is the icon
He may have saved another, for me, he died
I must tell the ingrate, I am most grateful
Because for my life, he wasted his life
He saved her but for me, he gave his life
wondrous stuff is happening
awash within a silent bay
a cell appears, divides
and life reflected in its mother home,
a tender hydra will eschew its rest
and for a moment
infant man will stand in awe
a billion years beyond
how many oceans, galaxies away
would/could replicate
or yet enhance the theme?
what shapes a final product
sniveling in its own completeness?
and where is that impatient mind
that will not ponder limits
to a diadem?
what even pushes us to question
what we cannot know?
Is life the ultimate creation--
for we bear within, an innate prejudice
and then the path of danger when
without is unapproached.
what is it to advance?
Is there desire to force our own mutation?
or will we lie fallow
letting change progress,
rising with the wind to follow joy?
ignoring metamorphosis beyond?
the choice is entropy.
forsight will always shine
upon a new division
where it lurks
beyond a footprint.
one obstreperous fork
to madden every zealous heart
and closeup looks reveal infinity
within/without
while chaos is the cause
for celebration.
who or what may limit
man's imagining?
and who will portion out
the better from the best?
it is an awesome choice
and history seduces
with its virtue and its folly.
but we are history as well,
etching our wisdom in encapsulated time,
ignoring deadlines' visionless decrees.
and where but from within
will stir that motivating force
that most of us call god?
~