Best With Sympathy Poems
Wonder not
if my thoughts are thrilled and twisted
daily and deeply by the albums of your ways,
I succumb severely to the impulse of imminent interplay
so dumb with joy, grateful for the fusion of our fevers,
I've never let you leave my mind,
you haven't finished eating your portion of my heart,
there is so much more for you, still in my chest, on my eyes,
I am your rare happiness,
that bare beast of a woman's best distress,
trigger your storm sirens with a single drop of Goodbye,
serve you with the most sensational sadness,
replenish your youth with an admiration that won't die,
knowing that I am not a makeshift man, nor a loyalty within a lie,
that I'll punish your pulse with peppered pleasure
because I can, because I must,
pull your hair just to hear those breaths beg for big flares,
treat the smooth and sweet lascerations of love's lament
butterfly cut into the surface of a girl's search for sincerity,
we get intoxicated on performance of personality,
buzzed beautifully from believing in the addiction of adoration's affliction,
We know we can handle one another's hurt
as warriors bleed hard because they sell themselves the sacrafice,
that we can process history with humor by breaking the shame of blame,
synthesize epiphany with sympathy to nourish symphonies of Divinity
we realize that intensity is the regal implement of our tournament,
I like it when you tell me the tough truths,
that you want to be loved for more than one reason,
that being respected in segments isn't enough,
that he will never be me,
that words can outlast the disappointment of distance,
that the world overwhelms you when you most expect,
that sometimes you'd rather be a heart attack
before being a pretty song or a favorite memory,
I understand your need for absolute affection, absolute attention,
lets allow our love to be confusing, dazzling, on the verge of villainy,
it isn't steady as a sleeping heart beat
or ready for celebration like a " gee wiz " graduation,
it is our Love, and its undefinably volatile and lovely,
Your cosmos gives a question that feeds one answer,
that love is ours, safe in the arms of Armageddon,
I remember the ember of our future
spazing on the hearth of fresh earth,
don't ever miss me Babe, just keep lovin me -
J.A.B.
I bought a box of truth from a peddler down the street,
even though he told me its veracity might sting.
I handed him a stack of bills and asked for a receipt.
The box was wrapped in violet silk and tied with silver string.
I gripped the lid with shaking hands and paused with bated breath,
even though he told me its veracity might sting.
The truth inside the box was even uglier than death.
It slapped me with repugnance and assaulted with its stench.
I gripped the lid with shaking hands and paused with bated breath.
I closed the box in panicked shock and struggled not to blench.
Receipt in hand, I hurried to return the wretched truth.
It slapped me with repugnance and assaulted with its stench.
I found that lousy peddler selling boxes from his booth.
He studied me with sympathy and eyed my violet crate.
Receipt in hand, I hurried to return the wretched truth.
With fingers clenched in fury and a heart awash with hate,
I bought a box of lies from that peddler down the street.
He studied me with sympathy and eyed my yellow crate.
I handed him a stack of bills and asked for no receipt.
She was staring at me but i was staring through her,
Her eyes full of beauty,but her soul in tears,
Though she smiled,i could see the grief deep in her,
She tried to hide it but i could feel the tussle within her,
As i asked her what her troubles were,anxiety overwhelmed her,
As tears rolled down her pulpy smooth cheeks,everything seemed quiet,
At that moment i couldn't think of anything to console her,
And as i stared at her with sympathy,she tried to murmur out something,
It was too much for her,i had to hold her in my arms
And with tears in my soul i murmured,
I may not be able to whisk you from this hell,but allow me to walk you through it.
~the_lamp
I walk along the slippery shore.
of the shingled beach
that welcomes the inland sea.
The sun rises slowly in the east,
lighting my way amongst
the small rocks and drying seaweeds.
There is a lift inside me
that nurture enthusiasm.
Peace and quiet reign around
disturbed occasionally by the barks
of sprightly dogs that race upon the sand,
the squawks of gulls gliding gluttonously
swooping down for their repast.
I look with sympathy on other walkers
on the beach. Thus, I meditate,
a marvellously therapeutic exercise.
Who am I, Lord, to deserve all this?
The quiet meditation calms my mind.
lowers my blood pressure,
a spiritually potent release.
My mind is tranquil,
I know who I am,
my soul is happy.
A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown throne to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of imposter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
The Youth:
The clock's face smirks at me.
It mocks my glare and irks me.
I roll my eyes, it grinds its gears.
I tap my pen, it tocks and sneers,
its minute hand a finger
that flips me off and ticks me off...
This class will never end.
The Dead:
The clock is a useless tool,
only taunting fools who let it,
only making rules that people fuel
by immersing their lives
in stringent time.
The Elder:
The clock 's face pities me.
It stares at me with sympathy.
It counts each white hair on my head.
It counts the lines that branch and spread
across my weary skin.
It ticks and tricks just like a bomb
counting down to an epilogue.
It counts my beats like a metronome
And tocks in foreign tongues.
Still, I dread the day
this torture stops.
The Dead:
The clock is a useless tool,
measuring mortality,
narrowing vitality.
Don't let it tick-tock away
the waning moments
and fine components
of your final days.
For Craig's "Talking to Yourself" contest
"Time to take the Soup off the stove,"
a little birdie whispered in my ear:
'Tis the Sabbath Queen that's drawing near."
But the Soup's not done, I dared to say
in an unpoetic, defiant way
The little birdie just looked at me
with pity, but not with sympathy
Shook his head and moved his beak:
"Sabbath's come; the Soup is done.
~ So's all your work for this week!"
Phyllis with passion
of love not hate
Phyllis with joy
that words can create
Phyllis with love
being more than just kind
Phyllis with happiness
just like wine
Phyllis with compassion
for our fellow man
Phyllis with sympathy
so we will lend a hand
Phyllis with pride
so we will not stand aside
And Phillis with the Holy Spirit
so our God will be near by
Oh, Mother India,
The sacred smock of your cremated children
Over your revered land, I see
The lamentations of the death-stricken families
I daily hear
The unbearable agony of your offsprings, in my
heart, I constantly feel.
Do not despair holy India, for it is not only me that
shows compassion
But
The whole world, with sympathy, has turned its
Eyes upon you
All nations are willing to assist you to overcome this
Horrible affliction
Thus
You to return to your illustrious status
And
The love of humanity to be glorified!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 May 2021
*There have been at least 300,000 new infections every day in the past week, with more than 360,000 new cases and more than 3500 deaths in the past 24 hours.
My Plea
This my plea O world
That drags the dream of peace
Through the mud of wickedness
Rise
From the egotistic slime to wash away
Self-centered muck
Loosen
Your profane feet of clay
From self-absorbed quick sand
Break through
The entitled self-interest of the arrhythmic heart
To the steady beat of the heart of all hearts
Release
Sludge filled veins of self-importance
To freely flow with innocence’s compassion
Lift up
The hands smothered by erupting ashes
Of the shameless vicious with sympathy
Immerse
Self-seeking vanity of the starving soul
Into the Samaritan’s fountain
Transform
The narcissistic selfie flower
With unfettered grace
This my plea for peace, O world
Sing the dream of dreams vision
Pray the prayer of prayers hope
Speak the speech of harmony
Live the life of peace.
3-29-22
Contest: Your Peace Message to the World
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Oh! to be among trees, mindful of silent power
in mountains hallowed trails walked by Muir
snow still filling nature’s deep kept secret bower
breathe a bounty of sweet air clear and pure
the rush of streams in springs ever rapid plunge
music played to my footsteps beating drum
water dripping into the grounds wet sponge
snow melts as flowers start to thrive and thrum
he set about recording each feeling, plant and rock
tramped trails knowing there was hidden a clue
we roam the mountain as one of his unknown flock
interlace our souls in a weave that’s as old as it’s new
what words can be found dropped into this silence
when distraction is nothing more than a birds wing
no screens to scream about the daily violence
just lessons of earths sacred bounty worn like a ring
where your eyes meet what has lived serenity bound
falling trees that heard the soil cry with sympathy
decays gift of life as the circle comes to meet around
aligned in time to hear its own life of pure symmetry
caught in a fast web of our own handcrafted design
we can let go to journey upon a mountain path
what Muir saw as seasons to be so innately divine
we carry within our spirits in an inherited shared bath
So! On to the forests and into the depths of green
wear visions of blue sky caught in the white giants lure
adventures drift into the dreams that you’ve seen
on pathways not hallways we answer our cries cure
Choked by the incense of poetic justice,
I volunteered to be slain for the betterment of humanity.
The paintings of my ink on white sheet were witnesses,
When in Abuja, I drew my poetic daggers,
Against a twin bomb blast that left separated Limbs of men bleed with acrimony.
Eyes wept with sympathy crawling down their cheeks
While our crown boast of a thousand solutions with no one in sight.
Poetic justice shall reign in Nigeria, I prayed
I handshake my communication god when it rang
And cling firmly my peripatetic poetic spirit,
To Didier's motherland, under the cloud of French stimulated Ivory,
I saw a goat-bearded-god mimic the suit of the stars and stripes.
And commands pagan's adoration of the sun upon his throne.
When scions of termites spit at the sight of our dead flesh.
I wept when hunger-lashed beggars’ union
Cling on my feet for one CFA franc.
Poetic justice shall reign in Ivory Coast, I prayed
Under strong loyalty to tyrannical whipping with merciless rod.
I saw my brothers drip blood from the scars of yesterday.
Should religious fundamentalists be blamed?
When a star, firmly crucified on a sickle moon,
Grind the 'holy cross' people of the south.
While the big brother stood akimbo and watch vultures poke our intestines.
The referendum at hand smells secession success on my screen.
I pray for poetic justice in Sudan, Africa and the whole world.
a day will come
when all my anguish
will vanish
and my sadness
turn into happiness
free from the whips and chains
which feeds me with pains
far will i be
from the land
of hatred and jealousy
from the life which inflict me
with emotional agony
and cloths my path
with tragedies and mysteries
lay me a bed of cruelty
but a day will come
when time will look
at me with sympathy
when life will smile at me
for success will be my lover
and failure my enemy
a clean spirit
do not have a place in hell
for heaven is the place he dwells
so poverty i wish you farewell
because am departing from hell
and heaven is my next destination
away from the discrimination
and the intimidation
when that day comes
my night will turn to a day
and the sunshine
will make me a hay
i will enjoy the fruits
of my labor
have happiness every dinner
for i have reached the land
where joy is divine
and all that is beauty
now is mine
wonderful thought seducing me
to my prosperity
for birds only fly
and that is their destiny
i am a mansion
built with wisdom
and furnished with freedom
the doors of my heart
opened to the future
and my hunted past gone forever
escaped from the land of fear
i now live where
life is very fair
conquered the psychological welfare
in my struggle
have i learnt something
nothing can compare
i don't walk with hate
but now walk with faith
Edina's life story is worthy of being told with sympathy,
she was a refugee from worn-torn Kosovo breathing
an air frosted by the harsh wind of January;
she escaped from an abusive father named Bojan
when her town was burned down towards morning,
but that horrifying image is worse than
her living hell lying on a bed facing a window made of cherry wood
as she waits to be abused by men violating her body already bruised.
Today three's no sun peaking, only icy rain falling;
and expecting screams from pain, she starts crying...
who will assault her when that creaking door opens?
But against her will, she must obey the stranger's voice.
Twice a day Vuk, a sturdy Yugoslavian men, walks in
with a tray of bred and water and says, " Eat it, ****! "
Edina shivers and nods for fear of being beaten;
will she gather some courage and finally shout?
How can Edina escape from this tiny room
that has steel window bars like a prison? Her weak, short arms can't ever grope,
they will never bend them and know freedom;
although gloominess is all around her, dim sunrays give her comfort, not hope.
The coldest and longest night awaits her...no sleep for Edina's scared heart;
she'll feel dirty and can't wash the filth away to feel clean...
rough hands will touch her, making her do a despicable act!
Rain won't stop falling: it's the shiny tears of angels rolling down her chin.
Did you know the Gecko cannot blink ?
No I did not, but it sounds alluring that image
Of a focused lizard reptilian in glorious intent
From hide bound tail to protruding cheeks and jowl
So I blink, too tired to contemplate the enemy who stalks
Unruly neighbor holding night long juice jointed jamborees
Where alcohol steams the atmosphere with its truth venom
Inhaling vapours that create this courage that carries cowards
Yes I will blink, sleep deprived laborer courting reluctant pens
Refusing to yield hidden gems and buried treasures like jade
And tanzanite blue rhythms that accompany melodies and dirges
Legend has it that only the cry of the lion is met with sympathy
That of the lamb actions firing coals and flaring wood piles
Eager to consume flesh of the flesh returning it to the soil
Crosses are only temporary and sting in Easter
If carried by the many Simons that dot our unholy lives
Mother was the first and most enduring taken for granted
Only Gecko’s know the patient denuding effects of focus
Turning this pages that refuse to yield riches
And daily only seem to offer me
The menses of aborted dreams