Brimful Poems

Let Come

On the arid marsh
No blue heron comes
No moon reflects itself
No sun can sip to quench 

The shattered piece of the soul
Survives alone in the dust
Dust of the filtered memories
When the heart of the desolation
wrapped the garden of the sky
where the love left behind 
the flourishing past

Let come 
the love
to the desolate heart
to clean the dust of loneliness

Let come 
the love
to the desolate heart
to fill with happiness
of the brimful nature

Let come 
the love
to the desolate heart
to draw the peaceful soul
on the celestial canvas

Let come 
the love
to the desolate heart
to write the epoch-making poetry 
on the fertile veins

Let come
the love 
to the desolate heart 
to weave the embroidered wisdom 
where time begets the love

(Inspired by “Arid Land of a Desolate Heart poem by Poet Bernadete van der Wielen)


©Mahtab Bangalee
12th January, 20215

My wish for you

May you be victorious in battles,
May you be rewarded with divine joy,
May happiness be part of your chattels,
May you always have favours to enjoy.
May all your efforts be crowned with success,
May you live in peace of mind and good health,
May you be free from all forms of distress,
May you be brimful of favors and wealth.
May God's love forever live in your home,
May God protect you from untimely deaths,
May good fortune find you during their roam,
May you be well-secured till your last breaths.
And when breath finally ceases out life,
May you also have a great afterlife.

Kindness

Comes within the heart, and makes a person tender
Heals a broken soul and makes his heart lighter
The language of pure love and favor
It doesn't cost anything but a brimful spirit
Compassion is all we need to create a beautiful world.

Cup of Tea

f
                                      l
                                       o        a  
                                     a       r
                                   t           o
                                    i            m
                                    n        a
                                   g
                      from brimful cup I drink in bed
                        the piping hot reviving brew    I
                        Darjeeling tea in cold winter          h
                         morning gives me heavenly        o
                           pleasure peps up joyfully   d  l           
                             my sleepy listless spirit   
                                 cup of golden tea
               ==========================

No Cuddles In Shadow

Written: October 09, 2023
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are no blooms to snuggle in the twilight
No promise that it will ever reach the zenith.
Either the sky is clear or a cyclone is brewing
Unpredictable, akin to the whims of fate.

Life sheds its brimful aura and amorphous shells
No longer a folk-waltzing performance,
But an aphonic and agrestal appendices

Shifts sustain, the skin splits and slides,
Revealing the vulnerability beneath,
A skin split that resonates in the heart
Where forlornness resides, tearing at the seams

In this ever-changing world, seasons shift.
Some souls only shine once a year.
Or twice, if they're lucky, reaching even higher.

When you least expect it, or in the spring,
They decry what bestows them delight,
Appreciating the winding road of life,
 
Finding beauty in the midst of anguish
There are no blooms to snuggle in the twilight.

Boot Leggings

At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.

The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.

I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.

I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.

I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.

Victim Or Victor

Victim or Victor
Written: by Miracle Man 
4/2/2023

Victim or Victor, to your thinking you’re bound,
perhaps heart has no space for feeling gratitude.
Are thoughts “Woe is Me,” which never astound,
while ever searching for some snarky platitude.

Victims, see half empty, when viewing their glass, 
instead of seeing a glass that’s always half full.
Half empty tells others we’re thinking low class,
but a victor always strives to see his glass brimful.



Sometimes we just need to pray, 
God please GENTLY adjust our attitudes.
Tom

A Brimful of Torment

Going to hell is a brimful of torment,
like you don't want to stay longer than a moment. 
With all the heat scorching your skin,
sure, it's the worst place you've ever been. 

It is like dying a million times everyday,
but in this prison, you have no choice than to stay. 
With all the screams of wanting to be spared, 
your fated soul is more than scared. 

It is like being shattered thousands of times,
like being ripped of all your reasons and rhymes.  
What you can only do is to endure 
the shredding blades of endless torture. 

March 10, 2023 

Hell Poetry Contest (10th place)
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori

Cracked

Like an egg that fell on a greasy ground,
I cracked, slipped, and could not be found. 
Somewhere between light and darkness
my soul was caught in fads of madness. 

But the light of her gorgeous glow
gave me heart a gentle blow.
The gleam of her shimmer showed me the way
to a place where I could stay. 

With her caress, I was patched. 
With her warm glow, I was hatched. 
Somewhere, outside my shell,
there I found her mystic spell. 

The magic of her brimful charm 
makes me feel I'm safe and warm. 
Her gorgeous glow is an inspiration 
that paves the way for my redemption. 

March 8, 2023 

Cracked Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco

My Cup of Tea

Every morning it’s my habit not so new
of drinking from a brimful cup,
the piping hot reviving brew,
as from bed I listlessly get up.

I try various types of tea and their progeny,
herbal, green, brown and even spicy,
get the satisfaction of a low degree,
often the sip becomes dicey. 

Gaining simple pleasure from concoction,
I get to think is not my cup of tea,
until in the Himalayan hill station,
I taste the famous Darjeeling delicacy.

The aroma of golden liquid delights my sense,
drives me to go on a drinking spree,
turns me into an addict of its pleasure hence,
enthuses me to drink everyday a cup of this tea. 

_______________

February 10, 2023
Contest : A Simple Pleasure
Sponsored by : Julia Ward

Fill the Empty Well

empty 
                           hollow, void 
             depleting, nulling, vacating 
abandoned, nothingness, capacity, plenary 
                  filling, imbuing, hilting 
                      brimful, complete 
                                empty



Date written: 01/20/2023

Devil Feeders From Elysium

A celebration was held by the Angels,
Heavenward late yesterday night.
And hide from the moon spirit labels,
Eyes staring in the twilight as first light.

They needed to escape animosity,
And stay away from bitter anger.
They took a dim moon with velocity,
I held my fun back with a sharp clangor.

The moon and heavenly body in the rearview,
They inspire a mad dash for the host star.
I am in the spirit realm of my bare gyps too,
Join the sun club and cross where you are. 

Watch out for brimful smiles and sharp gazes,
How to hypnotize where sun is in a saffron blaze.
Straight hair and a toned body were striking,
It erodes and dulls, you can't view a liking.

A wicked beast hunts humans for their flesh,
She will do it again and the tale will start afresh. 
Nobody was aware of her murderous tally,
Hundreds may have fallen into an alley.

And, as you slept quietly in that stance,
She sneaks into the kitchen, sing, and dance.
A steak knife was used to cut the meat,
She will slice your neck and kill you with conceit.
 

Written: October 15, 2022

Captivation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward

The Market Sellers

An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like nestling birds
beside the Ping river.

Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.

They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.

They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.

A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.

A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.

The Frog Strangler

The Frog Strangler
(Idiom for a torrential rain)
Miracle Man
5/2/2022

With little variant, rain came straight down, 
winds whisper was so faint it couldn’t be heard.
Bar ditches, now so full of water a frog could drown,
but by this rain my spirit remains undeterred.

Though frogs are amphibians much unlike a toad,
the old story has it that they do often strangle.
Yet I find no remains where high water has flowed,
just another mystery for my mind to untangle.

In our 2 acre yard, low spots, “like ponds” stand full, 
when will someone be able to cut the grass once more.
Our rain gauge now appears to be nearing brimful,
thoughts exit strangling frogs for a mowing chore.

In Walmart

I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.

A shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight,
rays pierce high-stacked shelves,
beam upon all-consuming shoppers,
flash briefly upon brimful spandex.

It is then I realize that all I need is you,
not cut-price plastic hole-fillers,
from this warehouse of empty dreams,
nor anything blue, green, or yellow
seen on T.V.

but then I remember the wine
and beers in aisle twenty-two -
but I still I love you.

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