Vexations after vexations file on
In this temporal succession here;
And even the best zeal and effort
Meet cold uncertainty and fear.
Petty foes give way to petty foes
In strenuous strivings here below;
And even the soberest of hours
Is fraught with sorrow and woe.
And no new joy that melts here
That’s not with fresh sorrows dealt;
Till the merriest hour in this sojourn
Is as close-punctuated mourning felt.
So now let every minute go
And every new hour emerge;
This soul shall no joys expect
But will silently mime its dirge.
If dirges tend to distress, no wonder,
They’re par for course nothing less, no wonder.
If naught comes in nor goes save memories
And graver gets loneliness, no wonder.
If fireflies fail to brighten gloomy nights,
Darkness adds to grief’s denseness, no wonder.
Yet, should your acts cast dull shadows, beware,
Sun is a ruthless witness, no wonder.
Caught in Self’s lawful court, I would confess,
Guilty feels this mute witness, no wonder.
_________________________________
Ghazal |14.03.2026 | darkness, dirge, distress, loneliness, memories, night
The keys are cold, the notes so sad,
To pipe love that never bloomed
A minor key sighs, moans and weeps,
To recall a promise made
The ivory keys hum a dirge ,
A broken song of its sown.
G'day you beauty Blue
as I haven't heard you play
in a year and a day
what did you do
with your fair dinkum didgeridoo
don't get me wrong
but it's been gone so long
has your bonzer boomerang
returned from whence you threw
by yonder backwater billabong
how about your most unusual pet
a marsupial (a roo) if I am correct
was it sold to pocket the proceeds
and pay for your daily needs
or abandoned beside the track
in the bush a.k.a., outback
We stand like statues of hunger-
Ticket numbers for halos,rationed dreams.
The queue curves like a funeral procession,
Every sigh a shovel stroke in invincible graves.
The air smells of waiting,the walls of wet wool.
We hum hymns to the god of "Next!",
And the floor creaks under our collective shame.
stilled wings
mate … sings
Deep in the bush i hear 'the snapping of sticks' a sound that flat toned sits with a
Feeling.. Just so sick.' When did Vice-pol
Really get so bad? No shes just not right.'
Wow the vibes real sad.' I think of their
Estate? unravelling fast now.' Tailing off
Like a dingo's howl.! They have returned to
Their vomit..As will most dogs, eager to eat..At this thought i hear the lyre-bird sob..Its the Sound now of Victoria ..A place now hard of face.' Bereft of exuberance, yet not, yet beat.. And 'with mind on that
shelf' built in twenty twenty and maintained, by this force.? For dan's selfish self'
I wish to exit this museem..Or cell filled with
Much re-morse.' And i'm overwhelmed in
Anger, as the dirge deafening loud; does course..Near as
Much as the bush silence can hold your attention.. All round and God i can't escape this sick feeling in either solitude or crowd'
We are all poems in motion
our beauty shaped by the choices we make
the words we speak
the paths we take.
So let’s write something beautiful.
Let’s choose peace instead of war
kindness instead of cruelty
love that doesn’t ask to be earned.
Be a sonnet not a dirge
carry hope in your lines
leave room for others in your verses
and rhythm that heals not harms.
Don’t cut the stanzas of another
just to make your own read cleaner.
Let every voice keep its meter
and let every line lead to peace.
Obtuse abuse..rude platitudes shout..
About alternative attitudes..generations..
Scream at different altitudes & latitudes..
Venerate mandarins sins..
Generate pernicious vicissitudes
Vicious avaricious machinations..
Celebrate nations chagrin…
Pander to propaganda spin..
AI garlanded reputations..
Cohorts in suits cavort in cahoots..
Kiss or diss..the abyss
Hiss of mis-information bliss..
Arrests..capitalist corporate conquests...detests protest..
Well got egregious prior & previous..
SO
Whatever your hue or world view..
We know what's wrong..doesn't belong
Deliriously daring to dream of derring do..
The meme..prime time you probably knew..
The Force..of course..
Is also seriously strong in you..
A poetaster I will always be
Renowned throughout eternity
For wonky metres and dodgy rhymes
Amongst my other versifying crimes
Like dull images and dreary words
Not to the liking of animals and birds
Whom Orpheus charmed with lyrics rare
While my efforts they just cannot bear
McGonagall is the master to whom I bow down
The man who merits the peerless crown
Of poetry so ludicrously solemn
That it earns derision in any newspaper column
His Forth Bridge production garners distinction
For drawing down mockery on its versification.
I must thank the website to which I belong
In allowing me to keep singing my song
That honour I bestow upon Poetry Soup
With its generosity towards my glutinous gloop
#4
Mellow is our hound found lying on our deck by the lake.
A blaze of glorious yellow and orange meets my gaze.
Those radiant trees reflected in the water make my poor heart ache.
Old memories seize me as I look out at those trees.
Oh, all those days I recall of autumn’s fleeting gold phase!
Gone are our times like happy rhymes drifting away with a breeze.
There near the dog of my lost love is my darling’s wicker chair.
Where are those arms that cradled me as we watched the day's last rays?
I play the guitar that he cradled as well. Grey is this fate I must bear.
Rebirth:
Tragedy has been your favorite genre—
A fount of acts and scenes
of wailing tears and excruciating scars
punctured alive by so-called healers.
That oozing wound
paints the genre that trickles down the plot of your story.
The parched lips, a speaking metaphor of your turgid deals
In the hands of those wandering away with lots of your heart in their claws.
I know the shivering voice hosted in the tender sheen skin of yours
Is not a language of aging;
a simulacrum of those who promise heaven
but shuffle hell down your throat.
I know your fate in the cruel, crooked hands.
fueling you, of course to make your heart a Jericho.
And swallow pain to yourself
only to sing the dirge in love.
I know love never resides here
Neither has its chorus any memories of remembrance.
I think it died.
If love is dead, let me be the raising prophet.
Let me tender this desert back to Eden,
where nature plume and sing again.
(In memory of Uncle Thomas)
Bumpy breeze, like a blasting roar
That day when you did soar without an oar
Twenty-two years of sorrow, too long
For many years, I sang a solemn song
Days of dark, and greedy clouds
These years have been a time of thunderclouds
What went wrong for death to take you away?
Again, this year, your memory will keep us at bay.
Your days were not in vain.
Life ends, life begins; the thrusting train
Is still on track. Gone from this world
But not from my world
With Habakkuk Kargbo (Rabbi)
©Poem Makers SL (18/03/24)
O Maya, 'Tis important to return from your invisible journey for I, right now, like a corpse dangling on the ground, wish to die in spring, beneath the cherry blossoms, while the springtime Moon is full.
If you, O mistress of my heart has passed away
And after you, eager to serve, go I
I now waver between life and death
I wish to put my neck to an unsheathed sword whose cut is but a breath of wind
Why wish death for your soul?
Are not your lashes rows of arrows set to conquer any obstacle? When you wished to turn your brows into smoke, into nothingness, Did I not beg you to refrain?
Can't you see that your absence has made me like a rotten log half-buried in the ground? And my life which has not flowered, hungs on the melody of death and has sunk beneath the shadow of death? In the face of faded love, where's thy strength?
They have slept with their fathers
Shall we seek for revenge?
Even the emotions could no longer contain our sisters
All we sing now is dirge.
I could hear the wailing of infants and cry of women
the sound of swords clanging and shouting of men
Everywhere... I see darkness
Death! like we had no fortress
Shall we seek for revenge?
... All we sing now is dirge!
They have slept with their fathers
Left their children and wives
Shall we seek for revenge?
who will console our mothers?
When will grateful tears well up in our eyes ?
All we sing now is dirge.
How long shall we fold our arms or fight for peace?
When will the deafening and raging battle cease ?
Shall we seek for revenge?
... All we sing now is dirge!
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