“A heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I AM that dwelling in inbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We are that we are that we might align as God’s designed, divine
boned souls; therefore, I am that I am that I might become all that
Spirit deems my possibilities to don and grow from.
As golden light inside earthly flesh status and matters, I densely
stumble through life’s living maze to either be conquered and
triumphant, or conquered and redundant. Only when confined
do most seek to break out and realize the divine tools we all
possess in the recesses of the ‘I am’ we are.
I am my soul’s potential of light, love and joy thus existential
credentials are essential for realizations of my nature. Intuitive
insight pulses layers of intoxicating rushes that inform and
discern the terms of who I am now and endowed to further be.
Stared at the ashes of burned bridges
Blank and free, stripped of emotion
Densely piled through the ages
Obscured from memory, no recollection
The scorching fire came not from inside
Unaware even that a tether exists
A consciousness bound in receding tides
Resembles a sun to an evening mist
Wasted by life’s strange concoction
Dampened hopes, dimmed sight
In a cobweb of confused emotions
Wildly spun, tangled tight
Lost while traveling the selfless road
Regret revealed what truly matters
Reached the isle of pain—cold and broad
Relief, now, found behind closed shutters
Solitude, a consolation offered
To an existence where others once lived
A need for what remains to be spared
When value, in the absence, is perceived
She is not more passionate than other women,
nor does she bring happiness just because she is a Gypsy,
she is the counterpart of a mystery, an unexplored zone,
captures a heart, even though yesterday she was a stranger.
Her seductive gaze hides sadness within,
even though her smile is her trademark for you,
you can delight her even with a flower
and that will be enough for you to be her hero.
And the centuries in her shadow are densely woven,
the shackles of customs and other people's prejudices follow her,
she will fight, even though her dreams lie stranded,
not caring for those who judge her with their eyes.
For her heart is wild and loves freedom,
she can deceive you with love into believing she belongs to you,
even though you never dreamed of such an outcome,
you belong to her and that fact does not fade.
And she was not just any Gypsy — she was mine,
or perhaps I was only fooling myself at the time,
though I was hers, I surrendered without a battle,
and I still am, our story is now my burden.
I knew an old buffoon
quite the gloomy poltroon
who through a stormy monsoon
flew his hot air balloon
and among the Walloon
and Flemish
much to their surprise
did not meet his demise
but with neither a blot
not a jot
nor blemish
at all
on hand
in the small
6-Government
densely populated
parliamentary constitutional monarchy
3-language country of Belgium
safely did crash land
I am a girl with densely haired arms.
In school, classmates would exclaim upon seeing my arms,
"Oh my gosh, how can you have so much hair on your arms!"
"Kiwi girl! Haha"
I looked at my own arms, then at the arms of other girls.
Their arms were smooth and bright,
While mine were like unpeeled yam sticks.
Fine, dense hairs scattered in every direction,
A gust of wind could even make them change course.
I gently brushed my left arm with my right hand,
Though not touching the skin,
I startled the little hairs,
Feeling a tickle.
So I raised my arm to observe it against the window.
Hey—they're like little grasses growing freely on a hillside,
Some long, some short, swaying in the sunlight.
I think I'm starting to like my arm hair a little.
Describe what you see my love, she queries
A game they often play in the depths of the forest
He replies, Turgid are the woodlands densely they’ve died back
creeping where no life is seen,
between the flowery meadow's cracks
The poplars have shed their leaves leaving violet trunks bare
For it isn’t rare, sun light that shan’t filter thru the canopy
Entrapped is the pale old plant ivy green
However, the white roses striving and yet flutily parade
whilst tolerating the languorous shade
As he describes his innermost inhibitions
without interference or shame
In the distance, expanding their horizons together
Both aware 'tis a harbinger of the end game
("July 7 - Hot and Blue", 2024, original encaustic)
Turning to Become
As they say, humans are like onions,
Densely layered and prone to making others cry.
But I think a better metaphor is Earth herself,
After all the Good Book tells us
We are created in God’s image.
At the surface all is sweetness and light,
The abundant fruits of survival’s tricky game,
While just below tectonic plates drift to a darker rhythm
Leading to all sorts of uncontrollable forces,
And at the core, something unknown,
But pure and original nonetheless.
So with us, we show our best at the surface,
While just below swell the barely repressed tides
Of biases and bigotries, passions and poisons.
And at our core the mysterious essence abides,
Pure but powerful,
The clear light of primordial awareness
For lack of a better, poetic term.
Each of us is such a complex world,
The micro expressing the macro,
Each of us challenged with being ourselves
And getting along with others.
From cradle to grave Life is the constant,
While we the change
The world is turning to become.
(7/10/24)
I could fill a bottle with air,
sunken by liquid depression.
A matter so densely populated.
by false hope and worthless thoughts.
I cower to my need to feel this way,
for this was the path I chose.
and this is the shoe I must eat.
God be damned, and I damned me.
So yes, I'll be having another,
and another, and another,
until the floor quakes.
under the pressure of shattered glass.
and the walls give in to my blows.
And F you for saying a word to stop me.
Don't you know who I am?
You are the son of Adam,
and I am the afterbirth, less than.
Earth can't decompose me.
because I don't deserve the mercy of death.
So, my heart will pump and my liver will fill
and this darkness will swallow me.
until I am nothing but matter.
enveloped by all things vile.
Leave me alone while I shiver.
Forget about me as I remember.
Go back toward the light,
for I will be forever lost.
“Look carefully and see if there could possibly be pain like my pain, like the one bestowed by You upon me.” – Lamentations 1:12
I walk the width of 2000 pound bomb crater in the densely populated refugee camp, searching centimeter by centimeter for the pieces of inhumanity littering the ground, reminding me of the legionnaires of the fascist air force bombing Guernica brutally, wondering how Picasso would paint this tragedy?
Gaza, now the biggest open graveyard in the world, with the bombs breaking the record in Guinness book of record, guttering hospitals, bakeries, schools, and convoys of war refugees, after decades of oppression.
There are cries of the wounded under the rubble, with no way to reach them,
and the stench of death spreading to the distant shores, to the throne of God.
Into Gaza I go, to find hell and retrieve my conscience.
But, you hear the voices? They don't stop singing, over the abyss of war,
Palestine will be free.
Part - I
O bright star! Where have thou gone?
For thy beams are needed again,
To warm thy followers’ lives forlorn.
Few robbed breads thou baked, most sans gain.
Till thy rise, it was densely dark,
Large folks were made rotten by cliques,
Thou shown them seamless spark,
Instilling fire in once meek cheeks.
Ramparts of Varna thou steadfastly confronted,
Blisters on humanity thou laboriously removed,
Wounds of thy fearful society thee operated,
Thee enshrined golden verses healed and proved.
Dismantled demonic edifices resurrecting everywhere,
Buffoonery gets accolades nowadays. Won’t thee be there?
Thy place is the North Star that world has verified,
Bhau prays thee help thy breed get timely 'Modi'fied.
in half tones
patterns of dots
so densely packed
dinner dark
like blackened corn on a husk
mother hits me with the blunt force of leftover liver
frying pan bled
densely knotted
unanchored from Julia Child cuisine
mother's radical rejection of normal kid food
that punches through my faith in parenting
meal of grievance
tough liver that dents gravity
that requires self sacrifice
unsettling
like imperishable grief
do I let go of my aversion
for a factory-floor meal?
gone to the dogs
(if only I had one!)
Poem composed July 17/2022
Dripping petals in gilded droplets unfold
Cascading down from trees like waterfalls
Densely packed on branches, bunch by bunch
For nature’s generous gifts, pick more than one.
Flowers like huge dangling earrings from the sun
Giving final touches for all colors of spring time
Curtains of twigs pensively drape to expand
Oozing rich showers of happiness at every glance.
Golden showers abound especially in spring season
With its royal color celebrating the healthiest bloom
While we sojourn under an umbrella of its throne
Balmy breeze crowns us with vibrant confetti gold.
March 9,2022 10.33am
A BRIAN STRAND 1094
Contest Judged: 3/23/2022 1:20:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Place 1
Shadows Densely Cast
David J Walker
How soon the night begins to call
Fall is falling fast
Shadows thinly passing all
Daylight dwindles past
A crusted moon
a ragged ball
auric emblems last
Hold your breath
against a death
shadows densely cast
After the fog cleared, I could see.
In roughly a few steps from me
Exclusive land that reaches the sea
Praise God who made it utterly!
A long, densely planted tree spree
The mood must be darker, mostly.
it's a puzzle on cool prairie
Praise God who made it utterly!
Mystery in the cold, moist air.
The houses waited for the snare.
The ocean was lost in his angry.
Praise God who made it utterly!
Old man sits under a pine tree.
Tulip tree near shadow's alley.
His beard nudges with the calm sea.
Praise God who made it utterly!
Cross-section of a staunch landscape.
Veins like the wind's traces undrape.
As seen from drumlin topped species;
Praise God who made it utterly!
River has kids whirling on ice.
Over drift pile green water-scarves.
one where hungry ravens can glee
Praise God who made it utterly!
Being landscape, shedding snow-light.
After a snowfall, keep the peace.
after a snowfall, keep the Ecstasy
Praise God who made it utterly!
Syllables count: HMS.COM
Written: September 15, 2021
''L'' Contest New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.