It’s Sunday –
a snow-dreamy morning…
The mad, embroidered Moon hangs
on the cloth of the sky.
Amidst a barren land I see
a speak-burning tree.
I am so dispirited.
By the roadside chapel, a small boy listens
to the deaf-mute woman…
through touch.
Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.
That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.
Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.
Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.
So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.
So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.
Ominous leaden clouds sink low in the sky overhead.
Tiny sparrows cease to fly and seek shelter instead.
Shadows fade, the sun slinks away and disappears.
The gloomy day only increases all uncertainty and fears.
Everything seems to have turned the colour of ash.
Morose feelings overcome me, as rain falls with a splash.
As I walk along it stains the pure white concrete slab.
As the day darkens, my colourful clothes look drab.
The ambience that surrounds me is most depressing.
I don a sullen expression. I can’t stop myself stressing.
As the rain subsides, a misty fog draws in like a curtain.
I can’t see the colours of day. I must get home for certain.
Dispirited and glum, I can hardly tell black from white.
The unwelcoming day to my dismay has turned to night.
This empty sadness I feel renders me deeply down cast.
I know I will be OK when I arrive safely home at last.
For Color My Mood Poetry Contest 26th May 2025
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
________________________________________
Ominous leaden clouds sink low in the sky overhead.
As shadows fade the gloomy day increases uncertainties.
I don a sullen expression as morose feelings engulf me.
The ambience that surrounds me is most depressing.
This empty dullness I feel renders me deeply dispirited.
On his way to the stream
Leaves fluttered and dance with the breeze
His flops screaming crisps sound
Like it was being forced to step on dry leaves
Naked except for a short and the abundant grieves
Lying inside his empty bony stomach
He got there slowly running out of believe
Crouched on the sand and whispered all
His deepest grievances, tears honouring his words
The silent stream listened but replied not
But the reply came through breeze unknown
O man, what ya doing all alone
Shedding tears, you dispirited bone
The stream you disclosed your deepest secret
To it I shall give all honours and merit
Despite us dumping all our garbage and waste
Still moves on, never does complain
Gritty, resilient in pursuit of it goals
Up stand you, start motivating your lazy soul
Hope aids us to walk into tomorrow,
It brings us out of the depth of sorrow,
It brightens as we tunnel through the night,
It upholds us in our plight and each fight.
Sometimes we’re dispirited by the day,
When the unseen comes out of its chamber,
Mystery stealthy walks into the room,
We sojourn across a turbulent sea,
Hope and tenacity will pave the way,
Until the monsters are laid to slumber,
The emergence of light disperses gloom,
Redemption we'll eventually see.
Hope is the light that shines on the mirror,
It unveils our eyes so we see clearer.
Blight the clouds lowly dispirited feigns,
Despite these regards there belies the shrouds,
In height uncovers the misplaced reclaims,
Ignite, blameless drives of a dove in clouds.
In measured distance or that of life's span,
Of treasured reflections as fawning dawns,
A feathered friend that needs a shepherd's hand,
Unfettered airiness descends chiffons.
An aloof crowned hall grows ever grandeur,
Shall allude facts of dire circumstances,
Can assume, beasts of burden, not dirt-poor,
Ample proof, a slanted roof, mischances.
Grounds, telltale's a flap, wingless warrior,
Sounds, fled coos, eyes unreachable love,
Downs of feathers white o'er once courier,
Pounds the ceaseless cease ... flights anew born dove.
Since you don't feel the need
to write to me, I endlessly
type nonsensical words onto floating
electric clouds.
Since you won't phone me,
not even on a Sunday,
when in England, there is nothing much to do
but read a book, I am a little dispirited,
even though we are long divorced.
I wonder just what book you are reading.
Once you read my poetry,
once we made love for 8 hours
never leaving the tussled bed for long,
that was on a Sunday.
Today is another Sunday.
No mail on Sunday,
yet I look out my front window
look at my mailbox - mind-talk to it,
imagine your mind listening,
as you read a romance novel
a sad one,
one that does not end well.
You pride in the unseen,
Your pathway is a mystery,
Enigma runs through your vessels,
Your door leads to the untold.
Oh! How you veil your face and set us on an Odyssey,
Oh! How you take away some pieces and we run in a maze,
We sojourn through a haze.
We quest and fight.
We're dispirited by the turbulent sea,
Some hearts falter and flee,
We're led through the night's highway,
We're intercepted by strangers.
Beyond you is the place we seek,
Through you is the bridge that leads us there,
We'll no longer be slaves to fear,
We''d have gone through hell's gate.
November 7, 2023.
We're held by the reins of politics,
The lies, the truths and the deception,
The misguided pathways and the hell ways,
The unknown and the hidden facts.
Is there someone else behind the mask?
Or there're too much complexities woven in the tasks?
The society is overburdened,
The people are dispirited.
Trust yourself first and expect the unexpected
should be the watchword,
Then mayhem will not be a readily drawn sword,
Then we’ll find a road to cross.
There’s confusion at the centre,
The books don’t seem to proffer solutions,
The people seem to be accustomed to their hard ways,
Redemption is miles away.
November 1, 2023.
For a long time I have waited
Anxious and dispirited
For you to come back to me
How much longer shall I wait?
How long shall my patience be tested?
How long shall it take to rekindle a love gone cold?
Find it in your heart of gold to forgive
Let go of every grievance
Let go of every pain of the past
To err is human weakness
To forgive is divine
Life is too short to be wasted on
Grievances and mundane things
Whenever I look into your eyes
I see a heart burning with desire
To love and be loved
I see a soul craving to be smothered
By genuine affection
Come back to me my darling
Let us take back
Our lost paradise
From the altar of denial
Sadness within me is my skald,
Ignorant world, taunting my afterworld,
Why is my soul in this soil pinfold...
The sky is filled with dark enshroud,
Am dumbstruck, thunderstorms cloud...
Love is an unloved harken,
The heart in me, a shrunken token...
Fey reliquary in the sand,
Buffing the defoliated leaves off my land,
She lay her tears on my heartland...
Miseries of the silenced one...
Tortured hell gone...
Patrilinear
monotheistically monopolistic
CAPITALists
calculate potential endurance
of terrifyingly terrific human consumer time
Left for anxiously anticipating rhymes,
reasons for seasons long trusted truths
ego-coloring beauty
captured by
and yet beyond spiritual inspirations
rewarding
redeeming
competitively cooperative nurturing nature.
Matriarchal poly-enthusiastic multi-
bio-culturalists
also account for cumulative synergy
expanding territorial dictatorial time
Rewinding awesomely awful sacred rhymes
distrusting mistrusted false tongues
electing hooded lies
Disparately dispirited
desperate starving backward future
rhyming reason seasons
of nutritional communion
Not inviting
yet tolerating,
Not accepting
yet equilaterally esteeming
estimating patriarchal monopolistic economies
within brighter lights of polycultural value
No longer worth
resonant ecowomanist trust
empowering spiraling truths
of beauty duty,
health of wealthy safety,
Enlightening spirts
of empowering social nature
Empowering CAPITAL invested research
enlightening Earth's most heavenly design.
Agendas in modern schedules,
drive us to our personal goals,
and we rarely look to the wayside,
where lies unfortunate souls,
whose dreams are lying in tatters,
dispirited with broken wings.
At these times showing respect,
can lead to such wonderful things.
But sometimes we can’t see ahead,
because we’re secure in our feeling.
Sometimes security crumbles,
and no one is there for the healing.
And so on the pathway to glory,
where rainbows guarantee gold,
think as you pocket your riches,
about a friend who is left in the cold.
Remember when in your struggle,
where the upward climb grew its thorns,
and remember who pulled you through,
with their wisdom in your early dawns.
Sometimes the comfort zone sprawl,
can lead to a lapse of the past,
that sometimes becomes the lesson,
required for a courteous cast.
For the scale of life has a balance,
that rises and falls with our greed.
Sometimes we may not be the needy,
and sometimes it’s us who may need.
But sometimes we can’t see ahead,
because we’re secure in our feeling.
Sometimes security crumbles,
and no one is there for the healing.
I feel the world
not going well:
When the puppy from below
barks sadly
lately...
The neighbor cat
remains meowing all day long
in the kitchen...
Here at home we eat
3-day bread ... and coffee
it is always reheated ...
I feel that the world,
not going well:
When I don't capture anyone, anymore
smiling in the square ...
A rare car
moves...
Drowsiness brings down
The Neighborhood...
I feel all badly going instable,
when I observe the winery
of Antonio empty ... he
sitting with Maria dispirited
awaiting for customers in the lobby ...
Without selling anything,
without collecting a
nickel ...!
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