Best Wrestles Poems
Only life in our mortal realm
entrenches self-doubt’s stand.
People and events cripple us
with critical mirrors showing us
visuals of our ineptness.
All who are predisposed to clutching their negative blows
know doubts occurrences of fearful disturbance
thoroughly unscrambles one’s confidence channel
Image deceit drips as falsely scented,
mixed with drops of fictive doubt,
to kidnap our splendid potential.
On and off, our truth wrestles doubt’s absolutes.
Since youth, most have fought that gloomy devil.
I feel your unrehearsed pauses--
the rustle of a blue shirt in leaving
a tangy ache your firm lips make,
holding back cold, collected words.
This rendezvous ... a slow-fire quiver
an ending which has it's own interment;
and outside, night wrestles with time
brittle dew against my eyes, dry mouth
licking an estranged bite that reminds me
of your frivolity . Until sighs
become hollow and stuttering
like a thirst from a weltering breakwall.
So it is with discovery,
the trails of affection are never mine
as I call you grimly,' 0 heart-breaker'
while banging shells litter on the dunes
as this heart shrinks from tangled lies:
There is still much to learn about
young passion... needles upon my chest
losing you from sight like a migrant breeze...
for a woman , fragile at eighteen.
On a still...ancient horizon,
Massive dragon wings emerge,
To the atmospheric battlefield.
Where two legendary beasts,
Clash for the love...of a dragoness.
A battle of mythic proportions,
Of two stonily serpents in the sky.
Only three dragons remain,
The two wary warriors,
And the dragoness they fight for.
The flap of enormous wings,
Thunders the air abroad.
The fire in the sky illustrates,
That the battle has begun.
Fierce deafening roars,
Rape the quiet Delphi skies.
In a solemn brave attempt,
To win the dragoness’ heart.
She rests...nestled in the mountains,
For the winning warrior’s return.
Strident screams pierce the heavens,
From the vicious violent brutality.
Aggressive attacks resonate,
Vibrating her lair of stone,
As she shivers in despair and wonder.
Sharp talons pierce the scales,
Shredding the tissue of life.
Effervescent mists spray,
Staining the clouds with gore.
A thud hits the landscape,
And her attentive attention reacts.
Waiting with complete ambition,
A second thud thumps the landscape.
Curious eyes creep from the cave,
She wrestles with the thought of extinction,
As both...her warriors are slain,
Laying lifelessly...in a crimson rain.
Winter whitewashes Autumn's decay,
and yet, you hope that Spring will soon show.
But, as snowflakes bury Fall's array,
depression deepens with each fresh snow.
Snow-laden trees, like sculptures of clay;
stand exposed, chiseled by a sharp breeze.
And stenciled in statuary grey,
outstretched fingers of bare branches freeze.
A brisk breeze wrestles your breath away,
in the grip of an unyielding cold.
And muting the sound of children's play,
melancholy thoughts firmly take hold.
A stormy day causes nerves to fray,
as doldrums brood within shadows cast.
And folks speculate on Spring's delay,
damping hopes that this weather won't last.
Purple and scarlet ink the sun's rays,
and yet, sunset chills you to the bone.
For as twilight dims on dreary days,
you feel depressed, shut in, and alone.
Living the most complete life--
No man deserves less or more from living than another
From a tiny drop of nectar, a flower blooms
One blossom though different invites the same appraisal
Such is the life of a man…he merits happiness and fulfillment
Survey life’s purpose--
Assess what is the best and the worst that can come
If something is meant to be, it will find a way to happen
Never walk without knowing where to go
If no design, the desire may go unfulfilled
Follow the perfection of nature--
The butterfly flutters by radiating beauty
What is forgotten is how it attains its loveliness
Beginning as a hideous larvae, then the ungainly caterpillar
Bursts out of the cocoon as the magnificent butterfly.
Nature’s plan-- the butterfly thrives
Planning is the key--
Humanity mimics the beautiful insect
Once an unknown quantity, man wrestles with his prospects
A dream develops with deeply planted character and strength
Man takes small steps if he knows where he is going
Thus, a man finds the way to his aspirations.
Hold fast to dreams--
Planting the feet assures nothing
Impediments block the way
Sometimes, days open up like flowers blooming despite adversity
Sometimes, man leans too far forward injuring himself in his fall
Sometimes, he opens up his wings and flies needing no net to catch him
Test the possibilities--
To have a life well lived,
Man should venture outside his comfort zone
Do something that scares him every day
Dwell in the here and now but look to the future…
Grab hold of a smile and never let it go.
Then, he knew why he must hew
old memories from marble-
emotions quarried from heart's slew-
Oblique fight with his faith's garble
Cut block unfolds Christ, enthroned
on mother's lap- death sleep supine...
Sculptor's concepts cast in stone,
art wrestles with thoughts divine.
And sorrow, stilled in her young face,
speaks truth of words kept in her heart-
mother, son, distilled in saving grace,
sacred words saved in graven art.
A pity, the piety
so few true onlookers saw...
Revealed in society-
few look on In devoted awe.
II
Now she knows why she must express
emotions whittled away, and smoothed
from quarried heart's deep distress-
The process leaves her soothed...
Such feelings are not cast in stone-
Warmly carved in reflective marble, maybe,
as he wrestled with tempestuous thoughts
burning, guiding hands that draped
unmoving drapes over motionless shapes,
shaping faith that cannot be bought.
And the tenderness on her gentle face
belies the hurt of curse's sword driven
straight through her mother heart...all trace
of ancient prophecy hidden.
Till truth, preserved, be told.
Had he not told them many times
he would return, come back to life?
And that word was kept, unfailing.
And the stone was moved, revealing...
Posted: 22nd April 2019.
Note: I am totally in awe of the stupendous sculptures produced over the centuries.
Miraculous as they are, I believe in greater miracles, the resurrection of Christ being just that.
I am also a mother of two grown up sons.
My little miracles...<3 <3
Luke 2:25-35. Luke 24:1-8
The weighty hand of Death crushes the core of your being,
sending a shiver, slithering up your spine like a cold chill.
And an empathic moon silently slips away,
as darkness conceals the tears pooling in your eyes.
Your heart is numb; you feel nothing:
there is no anger, no hate, no feeling at all:
just an all-consuming emptiness,
where your heart should be.
Abandoned to your worst nightmare:
life has lost its meaning; it just is.
Death has reduced your heart to a hollowed-out
shell, that's falling apart, piece by piece.
Love receded into memory's maze
of bittersweet moments and forever dreams.
And acid tears burn your cheeks like rivers of fire;
corrosive enough to dissolve hope and tarnish your soul.
Crumbling into a fetal position, you hug your knees
and rhythmically rock back and forth;
teetering on the edge of despair.
Your soulmate died, leaving a gaping hole in your heart:
that time will never be able to fill.
Your breathing is erratic as panic wrestles for control:
but you fight back, slowly regaining your faculties.
Yet, your heart harbors pain,
and the tears spontaneously flow once again.
You can't see how you'll continue your life:
there are no more tomorrows to share, only yesterdays to recall.
And you've never felt so helpless and vulnerable:
a part of you died; now grief consumes the rest.
man wrestles with his existence
while nature dances
to the melody
of the wind
at times the soul gets clenched
in an unspeakable grief
in a demoniac grip, it chokes and wriggles
the pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe
tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent
seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone
strains to lift the veil that shrouds the soul
wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude
the more it struggles to wade through the mess
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair
clung on talons of excruciating pain,
wailing a long wail of never being understood
the mind goes berserk
whirling and churning.
anytime the volcano might erupt,
emitting pyroclastic cloud
with the asphalt lava spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.
yet, have succeeded in putting on
a merry visage during day
laughs with the laughing crowd
but retires at night to the solitary cell
to release, in agonized sighs, the stifling anguish
and soak the pillow in a flood of tears
how long can one seek to hide oneself
in the cover of vapid cheerfulness…..?
why try to save the face when there is no face to lose?
sure the fig leaf will one day fall off
to stand in stark nakedness before the world aghast
April.2.2022
This or That, Vol.11.Poetry Contest
Topic-Fig Leaf
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
My mind is open
It has to be
Yet find myself tangled
In a tree
The wind
It wrestles
The safety line
As I hang with the birds
A silent wind chime
The breeze of emotion
Blows this way and that
The sun on my skin..
Then the rain caveat
My silky voice trembles
I just shouldn't be here
"The fates have designed you
This landing place, dear"
The view is amazing
Every moment you fall
Yet get trapped in the elements
Every hail-storm and squall
When the branches entangle
They can claw and then tear
So come back to enfold me
Crease me neatly with care
I just want to return
To that whistling door
The propellor is cut back
And we step-out once more
For this view is amazing
But is there to be shared
I'm designed to be open
Not land-locked, ensnared
Yes our minds can be unfurled
It's the best we can be
The leap from the sky
What it takes to feel free
He came back scarred inside his mind
At the carnage he’d witnessed overseas
As unseen sounds haunted him after dark
And caused all the non-dark things to flee
How long he wondered as the darkness crept in
And those voices started their rituals once more
The sounds of battle, of dying, then silence
And that pacing across the hardwood floor
He knew in his heart this couldn’t keep up
Without his mind going completely insane
But the VA had no answers for his nightly trauma
And only pills were administered for his pain
His wife couldn’t handle the man she knew not
So alone he now wrestles those demons once more
And yes once again when the silence gets broken
The voices come alive like they always did before
The county buried the old man just barely thirty
In a plot in the back of cemetery row
No words were spoken, no tears were shed
Just another soldier who couldn’t let it go
At times the soul gets clenched,
in an unspeakable grief.
In a demoniac grip,
it chokes and w r i g g l e s~
The pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe.
Tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent,
Seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone,
Strains to lift up the veil that d a r k e n s the soul,
Wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude.
The more it struggles to wade through the mess,
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair.
Clung on talons of excruciating pain,
wailing a long wail of never being understood,
the mind goes berserk~
w
h
i
r
l
i
n
g
and
c
h
u
r
n
i
n
g.
Anytime the volcano might erupt,
emitting fumes of sulphurous smoke,
with asphalt lava, spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
because the dark was winning once~
the kind that chews the edges
of your breath, the quiet thief
that steals the names of stars~
and someone said enough.
Lit a wick. Poured thin gold
into the hollow of the night.
because the world is cold
and getting colder,
we pile logs until the fire
wrestles shadows to the floor.
because our hands,
empty so long,
remember how to hold.
because the story never ends
with winter. Only with
a door left open,
a child’s laugh
caught like a bell
between the falling snow.
She called herself London
On that day
She fell from the sky
Child of apple blossoms
Dancing wildly
Into your mind
The snake that hung from her neck
Bites your hand
Expels you from Eden
Tears into the cool flesh
Of your madness
Posing as reason
London
Kisses you like a sweet lover
As though she really cares
Lets you
Taste the passionate orchard
In her body’s secret lair
London
Wrestles with all your demons
Nothing quite compares
To the pain
The indecent pleasure
In the waters that you share
Her name was London
Call her London
She called herself London
On that night
She prayed to the moon
Apollo’s lyre
Played darkly
In a portent
Of your own doom
The hell she hides
In her soul
Toxic drug you’ll never escape
You crave the milk of her touch
Her strange and dangerous ways
London
Kisses you like a sweet lover
As though she really cares
Lets you
Taste the passionate orchard
In her body’s secret lair
London
Wrestles with all your demons
Nothing quite compares
To the pain
The indecent pleasure
In the waters that you share
Her name was London
Call her London
My baby, London
Call her London
My moon-girl, London
Call her London
I love her, London
Call her London
Forever, London
I call her London……
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
alone with the enduring Earth, and Night.
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape.
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky,
where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play.
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
the spots and struggles of the timid Dawn
here where seclusion looks out on a scene
not what will be, but what, long since, has been.
So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite
And where the red was, lo! the bloodless white.
THE relic taken, what avails the shrine,
or crackling holly, or the gummy pine?
The trees are full of the dark-stooping night
with octaves of a mystic depth and height.
When life is done? Perchance in other spheres--
across the gulf of darkness and salt tears,
I would not tarry if I could be gone,
as one who having wandered all night long.
Among th' immortal pow'rs, and free from care;
even the torment sighs soft in the air.
The shrieking of the tempest-tortured tree,
of her most ancient, chastest mystery;
untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon
with vain Inscriptions, which the Freeze has borne.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn?
Every conception that a man can find
that dwell within the compass of the mind
sink tower and temple; nothing long may stay
of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day.
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
an orb's dim throes, by iron stars controlled.
A climbing moon upon an empty sky;
the grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!
Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold,
who can distinguish darkness from the soul
for him, that calls for Succour from the Throne
till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone?
Catch the faint voice, and raise the languid head.
what need of name or music hath the dead?
I hear huge Pestilence draw vaporous breath,
come, heavy sleep, the image of true death
with silent feet into sleep's poppied lair.
My Soul. I summon to the winding, ancient stair.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men
as silent Suns to meet the Night descend.