Best Withal Poems
...inspired by 'The Salamander' by C.S. Lewis
The sun bore down with blinding rays,
the oceans boiled and came to nought,
it was withal the end of days
with every living creature caught,
when from the rocks, agile, adept,
a tiny lizard meekly crept.
With roughened skin and beady eye
he reconnoitered through the haze,
no stranger to a blazing sky
it lay in shade, at last to laze,
it raised his head, albeit weak,
and rallied, then began to speak.
"The Future of Mankind is sealed,
the devil's bell has tolled and won,
no recompense, no last appeal,
eclipsed before you have begun
to fight disease and lawlessness,
the hallmarks of your wickedness.
No light will break from yonder stars
to help you in your hour of need,
your destiny these blighted scars
that seal your folly and your greed,
alone with your predicament,
God's only live experiment.
To mess with Nature to your shame,
to disregard His Holy Name,
to vilify the Golden Rule
will label you the Biggest Fool,
death comes quick as you will see,
the bell has tolled, and tolled for thee."
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
In stellar skies the nights bestow
our firmament’s majestic show
with portraits of creations past
that stretch into the heavens vast
surpassing Michelangelo.
We yearn this welkin world to know
through avid searching to and fro
and seek a sculpted cosmic cast
in stellar skies.
Withal, the astral art aglow
o’erspread above in grand tableau
to awe wide-eyed enthusiast
shall mortal earthly life outlast,
as goes the great galactic flow
in stellar skies…
~ Harley White
Donald Trump offered up a prayer
But God knew Trump wanted more hair
So Trump made a call
To The Wailing Wall
Where folks bang their head in despair
Trump MUST have his own Wailing Wall
With taxpayers funding withal
When folks on their knees
Are begging Trump, "Please!"
Its the grandest wailing of all!
Shimmering was the air nearby, I know a man who did such descry..'
To point it out after a space.' before he could; things changed apace,
Compressed..? this glistening..' the air more 'white'..?
Then in a twisting flow, of a flood..? it did alight..!
The appearance was liquid, filled with shining bright,
'Alive to forever' such an arresting sight.'
It chose the hood upon to fall, like water on tin; its noise withal.'
Displaced the metal, this liquid light, flying forward speed of sight..'
His passenger was of many years, from testing times of strength and fears
An atheist, he knows this well.. He gazed transfixed; to times shrink & swell..'
He wondered did she see or know. but He could not turn from what was so..!
A ripple began from the hood fore, ran to the edge. Then up into air till 'twas no more.'
Still stunned,from out the corner of his eye, he saw his aunts face heard her low cry she said .'did something hit the car at all? yet no one was near, and he thought no earthly thing by did fall..
He wonders still did she see light as well, or only hear & if she did will she then tell.?
Her years are 90 she was sitting bent low, it only fell when He intended to show.'
He keeps his silence..' yet should he ask.? she is old and frail it would be a task
To her son he spoke, he said 3 times I've asked she's vague, she thinks there was something, then says she's not sure..'
It may be to much for her, let things stay this way..'
We gathered to lay her in the cold ground;
it was to be her resting place—poor Mom!
Grieving, I sobbed while my siblings were calm;
only I appeared distraught and unsound,
overwhelmed at the sudden loss I found
too great to bear. It was like a huge bomb
had exploded in my life—like napalm!
As I sat with tears flowing and profound,
the eulogy was then delivered to all.
We buried her on a cold, wintry morn;
all were mute, as I felt a gloomy pall.
Among them I wept, so bereft and torn
was I during the funeral withal:
all the while, I felt gloomy and forlorn.
Can you get my point and drift?
It’s in my free verse and also rhyme.
They say ‘Life’s a beach’
I say, “All the time”
and there’s a beach for everyone, and all!
It accepts incoming the tidal withal.
From flotsam floating of every noxious kind,
Where you will beside the innocent the toxic find,
From grass,to plastic, garbage bags and all,
also the rancid sewers dark outfall,
And I see the littered beach
All covered & disfigured, spit headland and shoaly reach,
Then raised up with rampart fey
the most humongous tidal wave
And it is definitely and gravely shoreward bound,
Oh dear Lord, have mercy, I say,
For all of those who live nearby, and in the way
in Their lowly shed or fancy high-rise buys,
Already they suffer to live near this
Please avert your catalyst
oh!‘No’ says God, its course will run
its bounds and goals are set
As I set everyone,
Too much for me! my eyes I close
i just won’t look at scenes (that I suppose)
i await the crash! its deafening loud,
and I imagine the chaotic screaming crowd,
I wait ….. I wait….now look I must!
Before cold melts ice and rust becomes dust.
And What! before mine eyes a sight, the beach,
All pure grains of white, (are seen)
against verdant mounds of beryl green
The background sheds and townscape now stand serene;
The wave was a vision of God’s cleansing hour
Wrapt in an instant of unbridled power.
For the antiprigoligarchist was sent,
And the veil of worldly waste was rent.
There also is a literate beach
Where the antiprigoligarchist will also reach.
As antidote for pedantic bias, attention & thought
And scalar vision with true value nought
so with devoid headway misused opportunity
and selfish sway away! and
before the drift becomes a roar, better to
Clear such wasted ways from the literary shore.
We sing the song today withal our pride
For the nation who gave us our life,
Let us forgive for a day all enmities
And solely beclam their souls
Who bled freedom for us to live and peacfully die.
Let us unite today one nation not several states
One religion not casteism, one culture not classism,
Let us worship today one idol not millions we reverenced
One language not parted, one trait not fallacious
For those who bled freedom for us to bask and relish the daylight.
We sing the song today withal our pride
For those who sweated for us to gratify our hunger,
Let us praise for a day with all dignity
And give their life a day to live
For those who ploughed and gave the nation its scenic greenary.
Let us bestow with one individual not one amongst the crowd
One voice not hollers, one vision not apathetic eyes,
Let us preach today for one regime not unbiased politics
One person not any gender, one love not any protagonist
For those who honored our nation with medals and fame.
We sing the song today withal our pride
For those who penned us their creative literally works and arts,
Let us pray a spiritual rebirth with all dedication
And narrate their noble life
For those who treasured our nation with poetries, stories and fine arts.
Let us travel together with one destination and no bar
From Kutch to Churra, from the Himalaya to Nicobar
We are all martyrs, let us be blessed by the holy bathe in the Ganga
And unite the masses with the spirit of the song of our nation
For all those who deserve, let us salute for them hoisting the flag
Our Pride, Our nation, India.
Note: Dedicated to all the Indians. Happy Independence Day. (15th August, 2011)
Eclipse Of The Soul
By: Noel N. Villarosa
Plants harmonize to the sun to bring life aglow
And to rest at the night’s luminary
The sea is waiting for the wind to blow
And serve as a cradle for fish hatchery
And mankind, on the hustle and bustle of each day
Gyrate on a merry-go-round, so tedious
Withal, a wishy-washy self
And a thrall of his own fear
Thither that place called ‘hades’
And in his dream the edelweiss and wisteria
Go down to ecocide
The fierce billow has taken many billets-doux
Into a forlorn land
Pensive for a homing pigeon to carry his thought to God
That once awaken, a harmonica is playing
And a new paradise for dwelling
Many at threescore are not contented
And praying for a longer life
But many committed blasphemy so umpteen
And now yelling for the forgiveness of sin
And the fracas he brought to nature
Now mankind is waiting for the great covenant
For the realization of life, truth, and love as above all
And the destruction of sin, sickness, and death
Before he sees the complete eclipse of his soul
Written and posted in voicesnet.com poetry site: 28 October 2009
At the end of the elated visit
Around the mind moving marble mausoleum -Taj Mahal
I was unconvinced to leave and got a place to sit
As excited to enjoy the environment, withal
It was the inside on the right, near the main entrance
Just before the famous ‘visitors bench’
from where visitors pose, with faces full of romance
As a monumental memory, though the fire won’t quench
I was seated at a comfortable distance
To watch this mankind’s magnificent marble marvel
My mind churned the charm, inch by inch
With visitors from the entire globe, lining after a long travel
Of all colors, gathering was the crowd of tourist
With dressing styles that were, to this land, new
My emotions of excitement, I could not resist
Their expression of ecstatic too, none knew
Flocking was also the beeline of photographers
With the face of everyone, full of excitement
Earnestly everyone was immersed, as none bothers
None can forget in life, this joyful moment
Distracted my ‘dream-like-reality’ was an eagle
He was flying low, short rounds over the main dome
Over his unusual behavior, into me, I did giggle
He returned after two short rounds, as it was awesome
He now flied directly to the Finial – Islamic moon symbol atop
He sat over the Finial, as if he came to chat with me
A new relationship between us began to develop
I enormously enjoyed this ecstatic and wondered to watch the game
Joy or grief never lasts for longer
As he could not sit there comfortably
As the edges seems sharper and stronger
My friend was forced to fly away, inevitably
This play of this eagle, perhaps I only noticed
Perhaps only towards me, He sat to chat
Taj as universal ‘symbol of love’ is highly placed
The joy of watching the eagle too, a tantalizing treat!
(Copyrights reserved by the Author)
Wistful is the heart, silent the walls
where the gambols of youth echoed.
A return tale’s sentimental journey
inside the gates of Sweet Briar Road
Long it behoves me my thanksgiving
to you, aunties Yvonne and Jocelyn T.
For all the love you showed withal
and for all the good you saw in me
Hearken the jumbie bird in the night,
the heat of day and smell of rain.
And QRC bell tower sombre tolled
the hills and valleys of Port of Spain
The crowd’s roar filled its cricket halls
on window row to a grandstand view.
And an open door its gates would be
to weary travellers passing through
By candlelight on evensong sabbath
I saw hands petitioned in God’s raise.
And among portrait, altar and chattel
an old ne-gro woman chanted in praise
Downstairs eating pepper mango,
salt prune and sweet preserved plum.
And upstairs the ghosts of the dead
a trickery of wind and light become
With long treetop fruit picker in hand
softly chorused the sound of Greyfriars.
When joyfully as I picked to my ear
sung the weekly Church Group Choir
Up creaky staircase bedroom chamber,
pantry annex and old livery quarters.
Home to where my grandfather lived
with his wife, eight sons and daughters
In Christian soldier evangelical prayer
waited I for sleep’s silent lull perchance.
O but late by BBC midnight wireless
did growl the dogs in lunar trance
I followed the trail back to its past -
a prodigal son on long returned stay.
When time and fate and the risen sun
dawned upon a much younger day
Written: January 1993
Cold and icy passageway to trudge through.
Ships and warships sailed thru the Bering Strait.
In limbo 'tween two nations, iced, staid too.
When I first set out, for thrill I await.
Where ferocious beasts can hunt and roam thru.
Gray clouds with puffy tops hedge their offspring.
Calmly shifting layers, like a stack shades.
Wet and wild park made of stone tectonics.
Not to mention a beard made of green trees.
I saw two black wolves on Eagle Brook Road.
Mountain trails are plagued with random people.
At the outset, there were rocks and small stones.
There are blooms on the young pink rose jungle.
Here, among green discord of willow vines,
Aspen trees clump joined, stay comfortable
Alaska: home to the famed "midnight sun."
Where kids play and grownups lose track of time.
Reminds them that it is time to wind down.
When it gets quite dark they call it nighttime
Bright toughness is a trait with a tough tone.
The place where the Moon is second fiddle.
Matanuska vale's snooze-fest of a town
while moose and caribou withal trample
Move across the railroad ties one side down.
where the grass is green and soil is ample.
Alaska: home to the famed "midnight sun."
The place where the Moon is second fiddle.
Written: June 21, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Checked by: HMC.COM/ 10 Syllables per line
Rhyme: Rhymezone.
As I stood before the porcelaneous basin,
And streamed into its already uric and xanthous-stained depths,
A stain, a sight and a liquid yet yellower and more urinary;
And as cloudiness, not of mind, but of that which is uric attended the
Deposition, a thought occurred unto me, and it poetically and psalmically
Collected and gathered and arranged itself, so that it was as follows:
Does she of a morning stand before some wicked ablutionary sink,
That vile whorish slattern who devoutly believes that only dulcet voices
Emanate from the mouths of the damned in the pits of the lowest Hell?
What fell and foul rites does she with hands cleansed with foulest,
Blackest, evilest water; which of these wickednesses does she perform
And practice, she who washes her hands in the black-flowing waters of
The Stygian pit?
Who is this damned damsel, dame, and maiden fell and foul and not a bit
Fair, who as a fool believes that there are melodious voices echoing in a
Mellifluous and delightful chorus in the lowest pits of Hell?
Though I doubt not that therein there be many an ungodly maiden:
Indeed, the blackest, foulest, ungodliest of fell and evildoing maidens:
Plaguing and blighting the very pits of Hell, who is to say that their
Feminity alone endows unto them a felicity and a melodiousness of tone?
That is doubtless the (unsound) thought that crept into the very
Black heart of she who wrote those foul, foolish words;
But to me, not even the godliest or the goodliest of men,
But inditing ever of good with heart, and tongue and mind and pen,
For such is the great purpose of art such as this, no?
Withal, to me, she spoke of foolery, and of folly.
Lest she be speaking facetiously, in her daft assessment
Of foulest Sheol, she surely was wrong.
Wronger than wrong, if such a thing ever be.
And in my mind, as I urinated, I thought these poetic, psalmic thoughts.
And, though there be hundreds of characters and spaces remaining,
Touching this and that and all things else
And any number and all manner of good
Or e'en fell and foul
Matters, I haven't a word else to say.
The poem is expended, completed, done today
And so am I, with it at least, I must say.
How is it viable that life could alter the course,
from people to people?
What makes you quiver in the middle of the night
to play with my agony?
Until it is encircled by a wing of misery.
That has decayed when I embrace the gloom to reach you.
Even though I may find hillsides to be the Snowden,
As I scream out a chuckle, the humming torrent,
from the Empyreans stopped.
Be that they are on a brainless creative path, as this might,
What's more, there was a strand of the first dawn,
daylight as I got to it, In either case.
I can visually perceive an expanding synergy
within the grace before the murkiness
that Involves me in the dolefulness.
O, I love behaving with mate's optical discernment.
But whatever story could be, the enraged planet
Is making a beeline for the egress.
Forlorn, exhausted, paused, abstracted, and stress.
In a world full of velveteens placed overarches,
absurdity reigns supreme.
The Spectra in Solitude of even a Young Dreamer
With a dazzling sense of vision,
I'm expecting the end of the world.
To find my way into the norm of emotions, Withal.
I'm on my way to another light pole.
Where you make the most out of my verses.
Decorate my hardbound book with your scripts.
Dramatic Monologue poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
2nd place contest winner
Date written: 02/26/2021
Dramatic Monologue
Edward Ibeh
Far from the madding crowd
I treasure the myths you gone through
Once I walk down the streets of legends
Even the weeping dusts reminds me of
Bloods, who immolated their lives to you.
Oh Calcutta! You live with a pride
For ages you are loved
They valued glory above life itself
When they speak of valiance
And guns are still fired in the air
Withal due respect of those souls
Who deserved their nascence
In the realm of your freedom.
Oh Calcutta! You live with an honesty
Not because of the madding crowd
Because you are blessed with eternity
As she flows with her gentle ripples
That streams the ambit of almighty purity
When I voyage down the river
I breathe the air of immortality.
Far from the madding crowd
I travel down the busy streets of the city,
The antique edifices still provides me with
The evidence of such superiority,
Walls still fends against the political conspiracy.
Oh Calcutta! You live with prosperity
Though affected by the madding political crowd
Once you were ruled by the dwellers
Now your sanity being destroyed immensely
By your own posterity
Living in the land of divinity
Of goddesses Durga and Kali
And they still feigned that they are native.
Oh Calcutta! You live with heritages
Not beacuse of the busy primal edifices
But you have the world known aged cantilever bridge
And over a century living the tramways.
Your marbles are still gloried by the dwellers
And they still wonder the hand pulled rickshaws
And admire for the age old alleys.
Far from the madding crowd
I still come across the pavements by the busy roads
Coins dropping with bimetallic sounds in the beggar's bowl
The vendors hallooing with prices on a rhythmical prose
And as I step ahead, I find my foot stuck in the crud mid of the road.
Oh Calcutta! You still live with diversity
Not beacuse of the poor and rich
But you still have few people left helping you in needs
You still have one culture you were born with
Hindu-Muslims celebrating together both Id and Autumn fests
Joining their hands with the christians when December ends.
Oh Calcutta! You still live with your beauty
Not only beacuse you have the beautiful bengali adorned brides
But you still have the chapters of noetic minds
You still exist with love and peace
Only when I find you far from the madding crowded streets.