Night,
Ageless and porous,
Sang screeches of fireflies of
Crescendo-diminuendo sparks.
What hour?
In the midst of the hustles, I lost my hoursight
Different, tonight, is my eyesight, seeing even
Through the darkest foliage of gentle, but sinister
Caress sway.
On the broken, cracked slabs, squatting, dark torsos!
Pensive, broken, sad, old and so good the
Work of Italian sculptors.
Further deep in searching glare, the hardened
Mats of hurried sepultures of returning
Soldiers, whose wellingtons have squelched in
Mudblood.
Wars and battles never post blandishments
On peace.
What hour now, brother?
It is so dark and mean, and my hourglass refuses a
Moon reflection.
But now the hours move fast on march of the
Headless feet in wellingtons.
'Left, right, left, right....'
Dolts hasten among fleeing marabouts.
Stench from ailing, balmed smog
Stills the whiffs of roasting deer, all in
One silence of close hour canticles...
Such phalanx, brother, coldens the head.
Categories:
hustles, dark, death,
Form: Free verse
Midnight's zero hour draws ever near,
With bated breath, we await the cheer for new year .
Unfazed by cold, our spirits run high,
As nostalgia whispers sweet and bitter sighs.
Everyone hustles for parties, friends, and family
Gathering to cherish moments, dancing to music's melody.
The celebration euphoric, a grand adieu to the past,
Honoring 2024, as it leaves us at last.
Bonfires blaze, cheering the new year's entry,with glee,
firecrackers' burst ,a spectacle to behold in wild spree
Revellers fill the streets, a cacophony of delight,
A standing ovation for 2025, shining bright.
With promises renewed, we solicit blessings divine
For peace and happiness in the world to refine .
As the Sun rises above the horizon with radiant light,
We embark on a fresh journey, filled with delight.
Copy right @tej.patnaik
Categories:
hustles, 10th grade, allusion, appreciation,
Form: Rhyme
Seeds can grow to fill a pot
even if it seems to take an eternity;
A step up that staircase is still forward,
do you dare discount something small?
Tossing a coin back to the ground,
it was a gift you threw out like trash.
Buried in cushions or the back seat of the
car? They add up. Pennies matter.
Overtime that was passed over,
all of the hustles not started;
Small decisions huge consequences.
Basically you blew off a slow burn.
So focused on an quick fix,
did you really expect a solid batter?
You disrespected the base ingredients;
Progress AND the process blown off.
Buried in cushions or the back seat of the
car? They add up. Pennies matter.
Claim small victories hold them close;
Appreciate every intricate detail
as they quickly freckle your marrow;
Anticipation replaces hesitation.
The next move appears so vividly
that you take that giant toe length leap.
Buried in cushions or the back seat of
the car? They add up. Pennies matter.
Categories:
hustles, emotions, feelings, inspirational, introspection,
Form: Other
I worry about birds
battered frazzle by winds.
But, with feather fluster
hustles, they withstand, affirm.
Categories:
hustles, bird, wind,
Form: Quatrain
LONELINESS
FOR THE LONE ONE ON THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF
WINDS HUSTLES TO GET HIS DIVIDING ATTENTION
DELVING ON HIS DEEPER MEMORIES
REMEMBERING HER ON THE COLD HARSH NIGHT
DARK CLOUDS HOVERS AROUND HIM
TO ENHANCE HIS MISERY
PERILIOUS CLIFF DID NOT BOTHER HIS THOUGHTS
THAT WAS HIS LOVE LOST AND NOT FOUND
THE DARK NIGHT ENLARGES AROUND HIM MORE
Categories:
hustles, 11th grade, allusion, angst,
Form: Tritina
Would you take a chance with coarse anomy:
A folk with dreams like yours tag an enemy?
A partaker does hurt vibrant economy,
Dropped farms for power: Poorest Agronomy…
Rivals to get rid of with shameful hustles,
Paid full cash silencers who love their rustles:
I’ve long learnt to think of all power tussles
As “For the wrong reasons flexing one’s muscles.”
On the African scene badly burnt car,
Owner politician with its rude scar,
Life savers much afraid he would not go far.
“They might finish him off in some lone bar!”
Times it meant with cash, asking that one step down
But mostly with weapons to forget The Crown,
Bizarre shoot-outs and scuffles in a calm town,
In the end wasting Senators Charles and Brown…
Stark evidence one can’t targets deliver,
His subjects to meet with enclosing river;
One would only be worsening the fever:
The merely interested in Gold and Silver…
Yes, not at all times take one to the Tower,
Sometimes, hands one over to Grave with flower;
From oneself one takes away easeful hour,
A crazy idea: one hour in bower..
Like games greatly checked by youth-crushing age;
One shouldn’t in one’s seventies open the page.
Categories:
hustles, death, political, vanity, violence,
Form: Rhyme
Love lusts longingly
Hate hurts heartily
Marriage mars mercilessly
Wife whines woefully
Husband hustles habitually
Sex sells shamelessly
Politician preys persistently
Priest panders pompously
Religion ravages rationally
Cash corrupts completely
War wrecks wantonly,
Peace pacifies profusely.
~11/02/22
Contest: A Brian Strand Premiere Choice.
Categories:
hustles, life,
Form: Alliteration
FREE DREAMS, EXPENSIVE HUSTLES
HUSTLE: the power to hold dreams by the throttle
And run individual race like a hurdle.
DREAMS: You see her in abstraction, form-fleshed,
Holds the power to set the real you unleashed.
HUSTLE: He's your companion to the dreamland,
It demystifies obscurity & what you can't withstand.
DREAMS: the currency of the rich and famous,
the lingual franca of the poor and ignoramus.
Irrespective of economy, the DREAM is free,
the HUSTLE is sold separately & answers not to plea.
DREAM big but spend the HUSTLE currency well enough.
Big dreams are what big hustles are made of.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 28th October, 2022.
Categories:
hustles, 1st grade, dream, inspirational,
Form: Rhyme
Towering
Heavenly wood
Mount Olympus
awaits
Hermes hustles
Wings flailing
Seeking higher ground
Elemental gossip.
Aphrodite's eros oozes
bombastically from the cargo net
onlookers salivate.
Poseidon glares from the pit
monitoring his realm
for rapacious rambunctious rascals.
Apollo's mirth emanates
atop the monkey bars
emotions elevate.
Ares hangs by fingertips
below
scanning for signs of his
next blow.
Persephone checks herself
slide in-view
wandering if she'd ever get that
tattoo.
Hades peers up through the cracks
from down bellow
Lamenting on his bad boy role.
Artemis finds her center
in no time stat
balance beam barely buckles.
Sticky quicksand
swallows my feet.
The arena's stacked.
Better get a move on
Mom's sure to call
grape juice slurped
bugger all.
Categories:
hustles, adventure,
Form: Rhyme
The race of earth is for men.
Not everyone runs it with pen.
The grace of God is for all,
Without it no one shall stand but fall.
Give unto him an eagle's eye,
That can stand to face the sun.
Give him the one that see from the sky,
Into the depth of the sea like none.
Nothing travels faster than bullet;
In its own speed of light,
May be the skyrocket of an autopilot:
In its just bailing flight.
No one lay tiles so plumb
And strong like this young TILLER.
Through it, he rarely crumb
So far You are the Pillar.
Make his days long delayed...
Grow him peace of mind in grey.
Let not successful days be betrayed
And forgive all hustles leading grace astray.
Happy birthday young lord!
I pray favour never depart from you.
May you not be ignored
In trials designing artful blue.
Enjoy your day like no other.
This is the day of the year;
Spend the moments without bother,
August 12 is always for cheers.
Categories:
hustles, africa, age, appreciation, art,
Form: Rhyme
Thinking of you
The world outside
Waiting for the lockdown
To be lifted
The lonely moon,
The stars and the clouds
Know my hearts
Yesterday suddenly everything
Come to a standstill
Less night back man
Less morning jogger
Less cars and pedestrians
Less hustles and bustles
But lights and humps
Can never block us
Going out is a song
Singing rhythms of life
Road is a river
Flowing out to a greater sea
Home is a gloriette
For people and backpacks to rest
Thinking of you
The mountains and the sea
The youngsters and the oldies
The drawing of the famous Chinese art piece
Hundred sons and thousands of grandchildren
Categories:
hustles, journey, lonely, nature, people,
Form: Free verse
Pain pierces, like switch blades, within, I bleed,
Howls of dry weary lands, in mind, I heed;
Heart, haunted, endlessly hustles-bustles,
Sleep so sleepless; fright in fearful puzzles;
Love; its loss; its longing; long languishing,
My chalice is bitter; peace-vanishing...
I hate; yet, her face blows glows everywhere,
Like fallen angel; grayish grave mirror;
Broken into thousand cubes; she in each,
Smiling, laughing; crying; with breach and bleach;
Taunting, tearing, teasing abundantly,
Pain of this bitter chalice sores bluntly...
It's not like Jesus Christ choosing his cross,
Nor like Sisyphus with boulder did toss;
It’s a battle between me and my self,
Worsened with her entry, like tight-locked shelf;
Leave me, cheat, who, now, in another's hug,
I'll drink this cup; die in the grave I've dug...
24 January 2022
The Chalice of Night Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Categories:
hustles, loneliness, longing, loss, lost
Form: Rhyme
I hear voices
high in the trees,
trilling from the shrubs
and on the breeze.
I hear voices
high in the sky,
that grow and fade
and finally die.
A non-conducted chorus,
yet oh so sweet,
from a raucous warbling,
to a static tweet.
There’s a whistling pitch,
or a cackling cry -
I hear these voices
as I stroll on by.
I hear voices
that defeat my stress,
help me understand,
what matters less.
I hear voices,
that are sweet to hear,
with natures melodies,
pleasing to my ear.
Not a truck or a car;
not a bustling bar.
There’s no smog hidden star,
and no concrete or tar.
This here is their paradise;
no one hustles; no one lies,
for one to live, one often dies,
and all around me flies.
Where I hear voices
high in the trees,
trilling from the shrubs
and on the breeze.
I’m their audience,
with a host of choices,
when I amble by,
and I hear their voices.
Categories:
hustles, nature,
Form: Prose
At morn the leaves were just green,
When I was just seventeen.
At the bench I sat in vain,
Till sunshine chased the rain.
As green leaves turned to gold,
Softly the colours manifold.
Now, old auburn tree rustles,
But the branch no more hustles
19 August 2021
Your Pick Again Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Categories:
hustles, farewell, lost, seasons,
Form: Verse
She spins erotic prayers that he tattoos
onto his libido.
Clutches at this man plucked from the void,
prints his likeness over her breasts.
His words are as close as a bedtime stories
told to her flesh.
They meet at the edge of an idea.
Motel doors slam. Daylight hustles
through echoing corridors;
between twin lamps
a bed rocks.
Evening dims a muted room;
they lay inches apart
more separated now
than by any text or e-mail.
The tangled sheets are tongue tied,
like bats before the sun
desires fly back into distant caves.
Categories:
hustles, poetry,
Form: Free verse
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