Best Waxen Poems
Harken...those hollowing drums
Over cold vales so beat,
Exhorting a multitude of glistening
Star-tipped spears,
As marching over shattered landscapes
In shinning replete:
Crunch Artumes eternal legions
Across the snow bound years.
Casting down from the mauve
And cloudless heights
The pale witch broods upon her dark
runes;
Chilled breath steaming mutterings
Of meddling spite,
Uttered under Luna risings
Of half waxen moons.
Repulsed from the presence
Of the holy alters sacred glow,
That cuts like a torch
Across Yules Feast of Lights,
She incants of harsh Boreas
To relent his fierce blowes:
Raising high her crystal towers
To breach the walls of stilled night.
Tis now, away from cheery hearths
And the warm fires they keep,
That warring frost tightens
Upon this hardened land;
Happily sated people
Turn in contented sleep;
Motionless vapours are crushed
In the grip of an iron clad hand.
For as the siege heightens
In relentless might
Heavens wheeling sentinels
Begin to slowly withdraw:
Retreating upon spiraling orbits
Fading from diminishing sight;
Ghostly armies embarking
For far frozen shores.
Loosen now the silver longships,
Afloat on tides of drawing moonlight,
For the Red Goddess slumbers
In deep canyons to the west;
Artumes armies sailing
Into grey dawns fleeting respite...
Awaken... Oh Glorious Aurora...
Scattering your foes -
Before Sunrises conquest!!
Written: March 05, 2025
***********************
As the final petal droops
upon quivering leaves,
while the soul begins to decay
akin to the evening lights
fading into a coffin.
Tears flow quietly across vacant rooms,
sheltered in the hidden retreat,
of a hapless fool folly.
Aged and forsaken, an ancient blade lies
on a ragged oak table.
All around the termite-ridden
floorboards are strewn with
tattered sheets of stories.
Valiant voices of victory,
vibrate in vivid verses,
preserved with lively Ink.
Decades of disarray have faded away,
leaving behind a cherished tale,
its inked revelations whirl into a frenzy,
as I peer through the glass,
reminiscing about those golden days
when my youth overflowed with joy.
I couldn't assist but notice
the drooping scarlet dahlias.
A gleaming golden crown,
sparkling with lovely
crimson queens
rests upon the head of a forlorn exile—
and that is all that remains.
Under the relentless sun
that preys upon the flames,
how can I rise above
the crimson chaos
that encroaches at the edges,
surrounding the ghostly grave
of the poetic soul
I have lost in the quest for acclaim.
Within the weeping window,
a wild wonder reveals itself,
draped in a vivid shade of vermilion.
Amid the whispers of wayward spirits,
the flawless porcelain of our past
now bears unsightly marks.
Fractured dreams are embellished
with delicate threads, while shafts of
sunlight slices through shadowy skies.
The family fortress,
frozen in cold stone,
waits for its wary wanderer,
beckoning the illustrious
to traverse its dimly paths.
In the serene silence of slumber,
the sorrowful saga emerges.
The embrace of eternal sleep.
A chilling chronicle of the collapse
cascades in the corridors
akin to a haunting harmony.
The aspiration and avarice
ultimately overwhelmed us
As the clock chimed cheerfully
at midnight on that chilling night,
the cunning usurper brandished
a blade and brutally
broke their beings,
birthing ghosts of grim,
unspoken words to weep
behind weathered walls.
At this moment, I am
the emerald evening
of the early dawn,
The waxen white wick
that waits before their
weathered tombstone is
withered to a whisper.
whimsical windswept whiteness
wedding weekend wanderlust
willowy wonderland waltz
wrongfully weathered woe
wintry wishful whispers
wrestling woodland wintertide
welcome waxen wallflower
weeping wheezy widow
whimpering wholeheartedly
wrangling worthless worries
wanton wretched wrongdoing
wedged within wickedness
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
A harvest breeze invites the leaves
to shimmy on the tree.
In haunting song she sighs and grieves
as on her breath they flee.
They dance and twirl away from her,
sweet fragrance lingers where they were,
they dance and twirl,
they dance and twirl
toward the twilight of the year.
A gentle moonlight bathes the leaves
that lie upon the ground.
Her magic with them interweaves
in midnight’s silent sound.
They turn to gold from jaded green
beneath the moon’s cool waxen sheen,
they turn to gold,
they turn to gold,
and gild a graceful autumn scene.
A winter wind disturbs the leaves
as they so soundly sleep.
The tree’s loss, so the wind believes,
gives him the right to reap.
He whips them up and whispers low
that all the golden leaves must go,
he whips them up,
he whips them up
to clear the way for soft white snow.
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.
Oh heavy heart these PR men in power
Yellow waxen masks reciting lies
Discovered by research in college towers
Who watch flashing brains in MRIs
Recording as fear lightens lobes
Word and images recorded and sold by drones
For use by corporate men round the globe
Control both CEOs and worker clones
Yet life's free forces flow in city and town
For through the dark. forces strive to transcend
As ever bruised and bloodied onward bound
Through a jumble of fears passes the path of men
Uprooting dreams
of yesterday,
time sows the seeds
of tomorrow.
Grey clouds shed tears
as April rains,
when winter wanes
and warmth abounds.
Fleeing far-flung
sanctuaries,
migrating birds
start heading home.
And on the winds
of open sky,
caterpillars
try newfound wings.
Snowdrops, crocus,
and daffodil
usher in the
first days of spring.
And tulips flaunt
their waxen bells,
atop stems of
emerald green.
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
repentance again
old women kneel in pews
dotted about the shadowed church
black splotches they float
among the incense clouds.
faces waxen like the flicker candles
raised, softened, in the stained glass light.
hands tightly curled into each other
black rosary beads clutched in woven need
black, black, scary black
repenting for the world of sin
carried in their voluminous souls.
timelessness pervades saturday confessions
it is all the days and nights of transgressions
large and small they roll down
the passages of life
to be laid at the feet of god
well oiled with words of penance.
ritual, mea culpa, contrition chanted.
scrubbed clean as their kitchens,
one by one they arise, genuflect
and disappear into secularity.
It’s autumn time in America,
the colors are changing ...
(it’s alt right to gasp in whited disbelief)
as poplar majority, quaking Aspen leaves
slowly fall off
the John Birch branches
Minority bad weather report
says with autumnal census certainty,
that the colors are changing
irrevocably
And as such,
the changing of the times
has weed hateful nettle disgust
rooted permanently
Forest green consequences are seen
ever spreading
with solyent rapidity ...
(it’s alt right to paint a Snow White
enchanted cottage fantasy)
As the waxen ruling majority,
manifestly, cope with
becoming the newest minority
These be the autumnal days —
the kaleidoscope, tabernacle feast harvest
befalling America
Changing of the color landscape
is being coldly received,
winter frostily ...
(it’s alt right to fiery bemoan in ash-white grief)
The reaping season of Autumn
has duly arrived in America,
with equinox clarity
Equal time for daydreams and nightmares
demand sober vigilance,
as the latter-day fermented rain
begins to foment fall —
An end gathering of
rainbow intolerance disparaging,
mightily ...
(really, it’s alt right to cry with pale hope rantings)
Winter teardrop flakes of uncertainty
are alabaster doubtful falling
America now ghostly faces
the haunting reality of changing colors,
changing what was to what will be
Autumnal days of whine and wilted white roses:
a nostalgic weep binge of dead leaves ...
Drunken ivory desires
porcelain pining
for past skin demographic superiority
Mirror silver clad she stood, upon the lakes dark shore,
A spectral icy vision , that chilled me to the core.
A vapour’d hand she raised to lead, across the sheet glass lake
With racing heart and awestruck eye, I traced its misty wake
A cold dead air, that chilled my soul, now held my senses keen.
For there among the darkened woods, I saw what can’t be seen.
Like unlit candles stood a host, of mournful waxen dead,
In decaying desperation, with the fixed stares of the mad
My pounding heart so close to fail, beat faster at the sight,
As gliding ever closer drew, these sentinels of night.
What fearful power, what dreadful fate, hath drawn them from the
grave.
Whilst I transfixed upon that shore, my sanity I craved.
Then turned the lady of the Lake and fixed her steel grey eyes,
then pointed once again to where, the darkwood secrets lie.
My fading gaze could scarce suppose the horrors there replayed,
Whilst spectre ranks, in silence viewed with countenance dismayed.
Upon my knees, through fingers splayed, and terrified to see,
the horror there unfolding, between those witness trees.
I saw the bloody massacres, heard shocked and dreadful cries,
I felt their fear, and died their deaths, with terror in my eyes .
Each wicked deed, each evil act, each thrust assassins blade,
of every dreadful murder done, within that forest glade.
With screams of death, and cries of loss, the misty shore resounds,
To haunt my soul and flay my ear, upon that hell struck ground.
In faint I fell with senses lost, afraid to look again,
as words she spake in whispered tone, ‘Remember when you wake,
these unjust works, these sinful acts, leave vengeance thirst unslaked,
thus you must tell of this darkwood, beside the silver lake.’
Tossing and turning
not a wink of
sleep in sight
Visions of her beauty
have me thinking
all night
Butterflies fluttering
Churning deep inside
Never fathom
She'd be my bride
She's the sunshine
that falls gently
upon my face
The breeze
through my window
floating with grace
The stars in the sky
shining so bright
warm hug at night
holding me tight
In just a few hours
all dreams will come true
as I give her that ring
and we both say I do
Staring from the window
on the night before we wed
Thinking of first moments
Inhaling a deep breath
Thinking of that smile
which has captured my heart
Thinking of his tender care
A gentleman from the start
Many years I've waited
Just to watch him sleep
Just to lay beside him
Feel his toes slight-brush
with my feet
All my life I've waited
for our dream to be
At last Im gonna have him
for eternity
My pearled silk gown is hanging
Tomorrow it would be worn
Before the lord, our eyes meet
the promise would be sworn
From the chapel to the gardens
Our entrance would be grand
The waxen buds will blossom
and our love would be sung
Some were peeling
others chipped and cracked
Some crayons sat tall and semi-pristine
others were beautifully bent and black
One was dotted with the colors from another
All were silent as ice mountain monks.
There were a few empty seats
(monuments to the lost?)
Where do the discarded and forgotten go?
Where do waxen souls leave their mark...
An old box of crayons is much like a city bus.
Naked dunes recline and off the headland
Spume and dolphin fins hammer rocks,
Smithereens spraying skywards,
A roar of thunderous aftershocks.
Creeps in the tide and out again,
Leaving vortex swirls upon the sand,
Patterns changing, Neptune's scrawl,
Reclaiming atoms of the land.
The waxen polish on the surface
Holds the globules on the leather;
Droplet speckled transience,
Yet gripped in ever changing weather.
Grains of salt on lips that met,
And tasted ozone burning bright;
Devious undertow tugging feet,
Yet stand their ground in falling night.
With lighthouse tenacity, limpet strength,
Held each other, prayed for more,
And hewn of rock and ocean carved
Did yield instinctive on the shore.
Forty days and forty nights in lock down
Breathless for inhaling my own air ad infinitum
Could be worse if I was left out to dry in the desert
Isolation in my own four walls in solitude
Puffing and panting from the magic scented flacon
Fragrant innocence of lost childhood in terminal decline
Slimming down expectations for a slice on the road to Nirvana
I light sandalwood from a candle of flickering dreams
Perfumed ideation adamantly adheres to waxen resolve
It's only over when the slim lady sung a tune of lifting reprieve
I hope that she has been told when to bow for applause
And that the virus chokes on the curtain of epical demands
Like a bat out of hell I run round in circles along my four walls
Loose count of repetitions as I pace an eclipse of boredom
Enact biblical scenes with a teddy bear and ragged dolls
Lego figures dance a concert of doom with swift ballerinas
Trinkets on the mantlepiece rejoice in prominent position
Count their blessings and have their day in the lime light
Super powers of alien invasion penetrate my face mask
Order my persona to reveal resilience and count down
The apocalypse for when the gloves are off and insanity ends
03rd April 2020