A
sexy
blonde bombshell
fresh and footloose
notoriously
enticing, ensnaring
dragged me by my nose-ring
bewailing, bemoaning made me
walk down the aisle towards the altar
intentionally intimidating.
Dust laden window grilles,
Lime scales on the shower door.
Detritus below the fragmented doors,
Commiserating the saudade and furor.
Blackened cushions besmirched with dirt,
dusty sheath peeping thru sleek curtain pleats.
Scalloped valance swaying and bewailing in silent grief.
Scattered around are the pages of the brief.
Culaccino marks on the table,
Shriveled up and dried plants silently standing in a row,
A zestful soiree, which took away all the glow long ago!
I comb the banshee’s long hair
until she is calm and silent.
She is older
than the lowest barren hills.
Then,
a young girls voice
issues from her open mouth.
“Daddy.”
I’m not her daddy,
No one knows her father,
unless it be the ever-wailing winds.
“Daddy” her voice is getting louder,
ceiling light-fixtures begin to tremble,
a picture jumps to its death
from a cringing wall.
“Stop it! No one knows anything!”
The banshee dissolves into tears
and silence.
Moments come and go,
the locked house door, swings open
with a shattering crack.
A little girl is at my front step –
the screeching from her mouth
is mind-shattering. terrible.
Seagulls drop like stones from the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An Irish myth. Some interpretations say that combing the Banshee’s hair
is the only way to stop her life-threatening bewailing.
She is said to foretell of death, but who or what is unclear.
This post might lead the reader to think of child abuse, at least I hope so.
“But woe is me, oh lament!” ~ Roger Whittaker.
Since you’ve been gone, my love,
Lo, my mournful heart…
how it pines for you!
This melancholy dusk
this smothering loneliness
this bewailing wind
and this foreboding mists,
As the shadows deepen
my longing grows deeper.
Since you have been gone
in the quiet, I lament.
O my love, I pray
do come back
to soothe my hurting heart
to console my sorrowful soul?
If not to appease my yearning heart,
At least come
to lull this moaning moon
for the teary stars of the night skies
Oh, do come back
to enliven this mournful milieu.
When a wayward gust of wind sweeps by
the rustling of the leaves
startles me and in a fit of sullenness
I begin to wonder…
Did you just pass me by?
~03/14/23
~Contest: Writing Challenge "L" words
~Sponsor: Constance La France
Rivers run,
It is fun,
Not reverse.
Like lovers,
Ahead, they
Run – all day,
Murmuring –
Whispering
To sun and
Moon, and land
On their gains
When it rains.
Bemoaning,
Bewailing,
Along, they
Run – their way
Just to see
And to be
With the sea
Feeling free,
Where life ends,
With no bends –
With one name,
And one claim.
Sept. 6, 2020
Threes, Please Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Beth Evans
*Honorable Mention* in the following contest (judged on Sept. 6, 2020)
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (4)any form any theme
Contest Sponsor: Brian Strand
Alas, God, they want you dead!
Your preachers, your Bible,
make them see red.
,
They will only listen to the
mermaid's call.
Or to oddballs bewailing the
earth's curtain call.
.
Blind as bats hitting the wall,
Any doomsday saying, they
believe it all.
.
No understanding that man did
not create nor rules this earth.
But the howling against God
is a mistaken dirth.
And arrogant humans, to you, God,
will never bend a knee.
But out in the garden, many do.
Adoring and loving a tree?
March 20, 2020
9am PST
Underwater where sound
carries much farther
the bustling of fish feeding
awakens the whales
tis morning above
frigates are moving
their noise like fright rising
all the sea's creatures
suffer it's passage
from shore into deep water
filling the oceans and seas
noise pollution is deafening
the whales by nature
swim towards the quietus
mass strandings before them
dolphins lead the way
facing an unheard of escape
frigates grow larger
and the new are born to it
the bewailing
that ear splitting deprivation
our cloud of disquiet
at sea level up on it
above the drone of ships
onboard under Cetus
no hue or cry is made of it
the devastating consequences
of 1087 feet per second
beating soundly to extinction
all that lives below
while humans draw power from it.
De Mask of Tomorrow
ìbòjú ?la
Fiddling with the freckle petals
revealed a hidden grin
with frightful fangs
dripping off hateful bile
we ponder about tomorrow
waiting to pounce
with vengeful anger
on each sorrowful souls
gorged on all sides
by constant burdens
he was meant to stumble
bewailing his flustered solace
with his bending wills
he was meant to fumble
with the clouds
dropping its curtains
he was meant to fail
I did not know how brave
she was, ninety-two,
and I, seventy less...
so young that old age
was textbook stuff:
a fact of life, but not mine.
I was alive and free
to stride the world,
a colossus of youth--
whereas she had ate
almost a century:
and all her friends
and all her family
lay dead somewhere,
except in her mind,
still crisp, poignant
in its memories...
of a wealthy husband,
a daughter dead young,
her own youth and her
beauty remaining lonely
in a silver-framed photo.
She never complained,
this old lady--never once
did I hear lamentations,
a bewailing for the lost
richness of life:
that ripe fullness
she must have once felt
as a wife, a mother,
a woman of grace and beauty,
a living queen in her time.
Now she lived alone in a cold
basement flat, standing barely
five feet tall--yet I've never known
any being braver. But it is only now,
when I am become old myself,
that I envy such courage.
[rec'd n/a in Brian Strand's #2 contest, judged 6/29/20]
Wind swifts across the leaves that fall in the arid ground
Rain drops falls from the sky as bewailing your demise
Dark clouds gloom the firmament evoking a somber air
A red flower bud blooms as a great promise of a new life
Nayda Ivette
12-12-2015
FRIENDS OF THE EARTH
It is separated from different parts of the world
Searching to nobody but for hostility
Relations will be shared
In the society
Friends of the earth
It will happen no more betrayal
But getting what we ask, request and need
For no reasons and trial
The back of ours will be pared
Friends of the earth
Respects of what we’ve, in what we preserve
The shadow of the tradition will shine from and too far
Bewailing to the ones wearing white mask
Let us do what we prefer
Friends of the earth
1.What world recompenses rain?
Kind unexpects nothing.
2.Earned wealth is to
help the deserving.
3.Rare to find anywhere
as helping acquiescent.
4.Gracious befitting alone lives
others classed dead.
5.Wealth of befitting wise
as people lake.
6.Righteous’ wealth, as ripe
fruit-tree at mid-village.
7.Nobles’ wealth is like
reliable medicinal tree.
8.Acquiscents never fail helping
even fortune drains
9.Complaisant becomes poor, bewailing
inability of bestowing.
10.Co-operating complaisant sell even
self, overcoming poverty
…………………………………
Dedicated to Thiruvalluvar(31B.C), the author in Tamil
Translated by S.Kandasamy, MUSIRI, TAMILNADU, INDIA
Published in poetry.com on 13-12-13
Apologize to God
And make your atonement
Be ashamed
And contrite
Be so deeply sorry
Bewailing your discretion
Feeling all the remorse
In deploring your sins
Relent these acts
And reproach yourself
Seeing the error of your ways
So filled with sorrow
Have many qualms
As you lament these deeds
Feel every regret
And begin to reform
Writing upon the scroll,
year after year
day after day
the monk lives for the painted work
He prays and draws
He prays and writes
Eloquent brushstrokes
fall like soldiers into place.
Who can say that
not an inch beneath them
lies an army of letters
too vulgar for the eye to see
too forbidden for the soul to taste.
Lost in his set serenity, the monk
takes no heed of the bewailing clamour
the ships, the heathen helmets and the crowd.
Lost in his world he covers
the threatening set of words,
ignoring that in seconds
he'll be a hidden palimpsest
a human palimpsest
beneath
a crust of curdled blood.
His eyes were like eagle's, telescopic and sharp
reflexes came easy, time seemed to warp
a warrior in battle, his bullets caused pain
life left them swiftly those that were slain
war was his master he felt no guilt
he laughed with his buddies, all the "beer" they had spilt
but now peace was his master, the nightmares began
the war had been over, so why doesn't it end?
the mind is a mystery, it stored all the horrors
now he's strung out on dope bewailing the sorrows
he suffered no injury during the war
but drugs were more deadly, deadly by far
its hard to believe, just a short time ago
this warrior in battle, a hero you know
then I heard "taps," playing softly, a final salute
a warrior a soldier just died in his youth
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