Best Wearisome Poems
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
“ Affirmation without discipline is the beginning of delusion. Jim Rohn “
Relentlessly I pace around the room,
like a caged lion, dreaming of vast forests,
yearning for savannah grasslands,
vaguely remembered.
I fret for I feel inadequate,
still, I yearn despite the drudgery of life.
My thirst for you is insatiable,
always increasing though deluded,
as if I'm living in some devastating desert
where no fertile oasis thrives.
How can I enforce discipline? I cannot do it.
Night deepens and I yearn for the day.
Lying in bed I wonder
how much of all this I can take.
At last, my wife's home,
reeking of foul-smelling cigarettes,
reeling with too much drink,
dress soiled with what I dare not think.
She smiles at me, I freeze revolted.
Her kiss is blistering
as I wipe her saliva off,
I help her reluctantly
to her dark solitary cot.
How easy my fire is quenched!
All sweet song is muted. I despair.
How many wearisome nights are appointed to me?
That we should exist
when life is just like a passing wind,
it comes and goes, extinguished forever.
Till then, she and I are but chained,
each to his own devious devices.
Will I ever see joy again?
I retire to my fitful sleep
and dare to dream.
Perhaps one day.....
Who knows?
The newborn dawn is nigh,
its first rays are fresh and bright.
Yet, despite reality and delusion,
I dare to dream.
Placed 1st
A box of old shoes under the stair,
Discarded, unwanted, no matching pair.
No longer needed, pushed out of sight.
Resigned to this box, and a fast fading light.
Soft supple leather with creases to spare,
Polished and nourished with infinite care,
Deep, deepest red, black cherry hue,
Once, long ago, a fine ladies shoe.
Dirty old canvas all tatty and frayed,
Laces have gone with age they have strayed.
Way back in time in Olympics it shone,
The end of an era, the last race is run.
A crusty old boot with steel in the hide,
Remembers the days the land it would stride,
Helped build this country relished the role,
Undaunted, unbowed, grit in the sole.
A soft velvet slipper its partner long gone,
Lies quiet in the box while the world moves along,
Once in a while a pale silken glove,
Holds it so gently and strokes it with love.
Such a wearisome time in this box of rejects,
What happens now? What happens next?
Each knows the answer. No use debating.
It’s the end of the line, and Heaven is waiting.
Life as a manic-depressive's so, so drab
and wearisome at times; it's bad enough
to drag me down where I don't feel so tough.
When manic, I have the rare gift of gab;
and when I do, I take a taxi cab
to the club, get smashed, and act like a rough.
But when the bouncers begin to rebuff,
I calm down like a mouse trapped in a lab.
Life's so full of despair and pain, it seems?
If I could, I would chuck it right away;
but that'd be taking it to dire extremes
and drama. So I oscillate all day,
and drink to tales of less suicidal themes:
God help me! I'm such a bipolar cliché!
She wakes to scrub the walk with brine
as endless tales pile in her thoughts.
This, shy young maid named Caroline,
she fears labors will be her lot.
Reprieve, a pen is her best friend;
wearisome work, few hours to lend
for frivolous pursuits and cares.
Alone, flowing words wash her bare.
Late night, find her by candlelight.
She writes until her fingers bleed.
A writer born, her words alight
with blazing pen, an innate need.
She scrubs clothes in the stream each morn,
admiring roses, pricked by thorns.
The struggles she cannot foresee,
will one day make for great stories.
for F. A.
You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I’m trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh :
« You are unshaven. »
You took proper care to remember the right words :
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The ****** you probably tried to fake –
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it’s all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.
You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice :
« Turn out the lights. I’m afraid
You’d never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
Only constant repetition make them less wearisome.
One whole week you waited and watched.
One by one you chalked us down.
We fled, not so much from you
As from ourselves, not knowing which
You or the condemned flower to take :
« Why don’t you tell me something about yourself.
I’ve said enough, » you said and came closer
Wraithed in your trapper's overflying airs.
Now that you have prospected a little
Confiscated my intimate thoughts, coaxed my ego
Applied the guileful balms which embolden
A man in bed and made of the future a promise
And turned and sighed like the unwanted thing
Now that you have preyed in my sanctuary
Gazed long in wistful silence my empty shrine
How can I let you go – take my scent
And mix it till it roots in other flesh
And wandering, I’ll not know why someday
I might fret in the company of familiar strangers.
« What about the lad ? » Alone and wishfully loitering
« Oh, let him toss and turn. Why shouldn’t he ?
He’ll write better then, » you said, for once
Rippling the nimble calm embossed on feigning face
That poised flutter of your lips when words you wield
Assume a dextrous innocence
Little wonder then the sensually provoked blushes
Cross-fertilise the loping lurk of your poems.
You in going a little way towards me
Have gone a long way from yourself.
Before you go a little way prospecting
Leave leave a little of yourself in your safe.
©: T. Wignesan, 1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983, rev. 2012)
The truth is at times, we are just too lazy to write.
Hence, we blame our Muses, a wrong, to be made, right!
Inspiration is everywhere, in your past, present and within
you on the chair.
Who knows what beauty we might pen, if we could just realize,it's in your brain matter, right under your hair.
Some faint after a simple verse written?
You must learn to have the heart of a lion, not a newborn kitten.
Excuses, I hear, and it's tedious and wearisome.
Drink coffee or tea, and use your brain as the rest of us.
You have to eat food and read, for your poetic soul.
Otherwise, there are just lame excuses with zero poetic goals.
Oh, you have no goals, you say??
Look deep into your soul, it's called, Inspiration Bay!
3/7/2021
~2~
She left a candle burning bright
in the darkest shadows of her home-
Where the hills were her finest friends,
and her greatest vision-
a sunset lined with white lace
which she poured on paper in black ink.
Her last request was to torch
what remained of the beautiful scene in ink,
for to her it felt so incomplete.
And for what reason does she throw away
all of her wearisome work?
Is it a vanilla scented casket?
An orchid?
Some blue-field violets?
We left her to rest,
but the world will not
until every single character
she scribed has been seen
by our human eyes.
She yearned for death so long,
yet still lives through every word she once wrote.
Now she's gone,
and all the world wants is her return
for a simple explanation.
It's a cold hint of irony,
an unforgettable one
we all must someday face.
He stands before us
to deliver
a poem, a prose, a
verse a rhyme, or message.
His manner quite
manifesting,
and his confidence
puts the crowd at
ease.
Soon and very soon,
too soon- we loath
him.
There is
too much cluster on
his magniloquent,
vine, of strung
together
words without
substance.
Though the use of
an, apophasis
gives poetic license
to insult.
we loathe him
instantly.
The silver-tongued
orator's
brilliance, soon
becomes wearisome.
While the mute
articulate points of
his eccentric
ramblings lead us
to dead ends.
Unfulfilled and
burdened.
We now loath him.
The loathsome Bard
goes on to rant
about, degrading
and dissolute issues
of life, which we
felt the
Bard had not
concern.
His bombast
delivery,
to some appears
eloquent,
grand-stand
language, bellowed
out quite grandiloquently
.
Wordy vagaries,
leading us nowhere.
As we listen to the
of his charades, we
loathe him.
Though quite colorful
and pompous; He leave
us in shambles, brains all
scrambled and we
loathe him.
The once brilliant
verse, though
well-rehearsed,
becomes wearisome.!
The Bard,
went not in hard;
We the discombobulated,
pray aloud, “next poet
please Lord".!
We all were relieved
as he finally did
leave, because he looked
better going than
coming.
With our intellect
he was toying,
though the Bard was not
hard!
Most certainly;
He was annoying!
It's been a long day,
work two jobs all hours,
it is what we do in America,
in twenty first century America.
Wearisome hours,
I stomp my feet,
to a reggae beat,
to stay awake,
in twenty first century America.
The road is long,
the day is long gone,
my eyes are tired
of twenty first century America
The engine hums,
and the signs flash by,
a lonely truck passes me,
in twenty first century America.
I hit my head,
and pound the dash,
I must get home,
in twenty first century America.
My dreams will be,
to a reggae beat and
tomorrow I'll start
all over again
in twenty first century America.
There passes not a single day
when I do not think of you, or pray
that God's love, steadfast and true,
covers, protects, and abides with you.
And while life's hardships still do come
and the burdens become wearisome,
when uncertainties threaten or scare
and you need help, I'll be there
for I love you more than words can say,
as I have loved you from your first day.
Wearisome weatherman
Wears watertight wedgies
With wide well-worn webbing
When wading wherever
Warming water washes
Waterborne wastepaper
Wandering whereabouts.
FOURTH PLACE WINNER
Written May 9, 2021
for "Pleiades "W" Contest"
sponsored by Kim Merryman
7 lines with 6 syllables each checked by HMS.
Cocktail parties are an entrenched American custom, I suppose.
A forum to spew inane babble and where the booze freely flows!
I've suffered through more of them than I care to recall,
And I try to avoid them like the flu - they drive me up the wall!
Alas, an invite arrives and a firm decree from my spouse ensues!
"We're going!" I didn't even have a chance to voice my views!
This one to celebrate some guy's retirement or something or other.
I wish they'd include me out - I have little time for such pother!
I retreat to a corner of the room with my drink to gaze about and pout,
But bless my soul, invariably a gregarious boor always seeks me out,
Regaling me nose-to-nose with tedious trifle I really don't want to hear.
I dodge and parry with him but he insists on bending my weary ear!
I strive to be tolerant when such occasions beckon.
And I'm reasonably adept at observing social niceities, I reckon,
But that uncouth, sotted boozer bent on a gargantuan toot,
Makes me a bit fractious since he also spilled hooch on my suit!
I've heard more about his kids and job than I want to know,
The latest obscene jokes and how his investments are sure to grow!
Thankfully, his spouse appears and notes his besotted condition,
And graciously rescues me from his boring, wearisome rendition!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Away from the city, away from the world,
On top of the mountain which sleeps in the cold,
A humble astronomer stares at a star.
How lonesome our planet must seem from afar!
He ponders the spaces of wearisome void,
Celestial empires unknown or destroyed,
Continuous mingling of matter and light.
What frightening pageant for man’s feeble sight!
The whirl of the spheres, the clash of the orbs,
Our universe dictates and calmly absorbs
With eons to spare and inscrutable plan.
How weak and unfit is the power of man!
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Hindrances prevailing everywhere
Coveting is not everything
Yet I want to fly forgetting own limitations,
Realism pedals over fancy.
Like many other mortals, I also want to fly
Forgetting the fact that I don’t possess wings
I love enjoying vast by travelling like a free butterfly
But having two kids, it’s really a constant worry
They need their mom every way, no time for mine
My husband? He is a own employed businessman
Loves to stay busy surrounded ever by his work.
Whole day, whole week, whole month
I feel lonely, enough wearisome
Having no possible other way,
I keep my dreams apart; but, for how long?
I try myself to energized, console….
Saying, hens cannot fly, yet they have wings
How can dare I? I’m snarled firmly by reality.