If it is conceived by the mind,
sanctioned by the heart,
it’s not fiction, a measure
of the real in every storied work.
Above me is a shelf-full having outlived
their authors, many their civilizations
along with their gods. There are not fictions!
Instead, transitory dimensions of being --
journeys limited only by one’s dragging
imagination --
I will consign a heaven where poets are
royalty; seated on thrones surrounded by
fawning fans. We autograph their copies as
they wipe our profuse brows, having laboriously
bleed one’s soul into the pages. Wherever
they are future carried and read, we are also there,
spirit cursing through Time’s Lyric Arteries….
The ancient Mariner!
That raging infernal!
Am I not the saga of my parent’s love,
each a manufacture of our God?
There is no fiction after the fact.
And woe to you, critics and editors,
savage murders of my fond text!
Sometimes I sit and I ponder.
I ponder about my lacquered erudition.
I ponder about my varnished rectitude.
I ponder about my penning acquiescence.
The insipid tedium of my veins questions my oblivion to a stupor so stark to the glorification of my solitude.
I ponder its adjacent to the extolment of my void.
The seething flame sanctifies the feigning rot of my lungs as I inhale the melancholy of your lips.
Something so soothing.
Something so soaring.
Something so laboriously stinging.
I desire for the salvation of sin;
To tattoo your words on my tongue.
To swallow my decay in your blood.
To fuse your disparity on my webs.
I sit and I ponder.
Am I so inured to the metal of these bars, I distort the culpable intimacy of still yet existing in one?
And thereafter, I ponder whether my silver ashes will ever dare to utter the sinister sacrilege of my syllables.
Disappearances
Things leave me
Without reason or rhyme
Just gone.
Case in point: my recent, brand new cellphone.
Secured to a loop by my belt, in a case.
Gone. Overnight.
I know how it sounds,
But this happens to me
More often than I like to think about.
Perhaps there is some kind of negative field about me.
Regardless, this isn't the thing that really upsets me.
What really upsets me is the knowledge
That nowadays I'm basically not allowed NOT to have this item.
20 years ago, I got along perfectly fine without it.
Now, my whole life, my connections to everything
Disappear without it.
There's an upside:
No more doomscrolling.
No more listening in by who knows who,
Even when it's turned off.
Yet, if I want to live an ordinary life in any way,
I'll have to replace it,
Laboriously filling back in every last contact and detail of my life,
So that with its reappearance
I can make disappear, again,
Every shred of privacy
Every note of solitude
I ever once thought I might've had
For the sake of rejoining the endless shoals
Of faceless fishes
Our masters are casting their nets for
All day
All night.
I searched laboriously for you in the cold winter rains,
shivering from the shallowness.
I chased you on the hot, sultry days of summer,
feeling your presence hovering over me like a winged angel
with a message from God.
I felt you change me during the reflective, transitional days of fall,
with a promise of better times and abundant colors and joy.
I found you, though, quite unexpectedly in spring blossoms.
In my newness of life, for the first time, I felt whole.
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windshields cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
Indicating indigo improvements
Juggling juicy jiggling Jello
Kibitzing kits and cats
Laboriously languishing lightly
Making marvelous maneuvers in word play
You cannot see what I hold in my heart
Your hate and your fear drive us apart.
My loving pleading eyes beckon you to see.
In outbursts of pain, you beg to let you be.
My time is laboriously short as life in me dies.
I reluctantly turn my head away from you and cry.
You turn to me to hold me close, and you ask why.
With one final heart-wrenching hug we said goodbye
In The Formless Womb of Mind
Thoughts Are Conceived
Admitted by Water
Nourished and Fed
Contraction to Accommodate Expansion
Laboriously Giving Birth to Recycled New Born Ideas
or Dormant Dreams on Wings
Received by Water
Innocence Groomed With Love and Care
Above and Below.
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.
jinxed souls i combat
each night laboriously~
snorting loud on bed
cognizant i lay
browsing mounds of ceaseless tasks~
drifting in my brain
fire flies breed in cheer
enclosing frame serenely~
rouses my spirit
i soar in night air
enthralling glimpses of stars~
steering halts at dawn
cycles thirsty dreamy thoughts~
as i sail on boat with snorts
10 June 2023
This chilly morning in Hartford
Ensconced in the ambiance of
Freedom in God’s own country
I woke up with a start
Lost in the labyrinth of emotions
Wondering what the future
Held for my beloved country
Currently languishing and content
In her age long delusion of grandeur
When all I see in my dream Is a behemoth
Laboriously climbing a ladder
Precariously placed on the wrong
Side of her trajectory
What a tragedy of a country!
Perpetually lost in self destruction
An election to move the country forward
Has been won and lost
But the giant of Africa
Keeps looking back with nostalgia
To turn to a pillar of salt
DISCONNECTIONS
harmony order
reason &
beauty
&
incidentals
severed
by
upheavals
cerebral &
austere
a purveyor of
dimensions
to catalogue
&measure reveals
the obsessive
elaborate
laboriously
constructed
tableaux
of
destruction
so instantly
recognisable in
impressive &
immaculate
artefacts
to
specifically
fire the imagination
&
concentrate
the interplay
of
reason in
perpetual motion
in grappling
&
conveying
the painstakingly
drumbeat
of
sensation
amid the melee
of the
orchestrated
ensembles
at a distance
the measured
mood
detached
artificial
yet in
symmetry
knitting
everything together
in
cool respect
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Sporadically, language falls short of the lasting mark
To instantly share awe-inspiring testimonies and remark
Appalling atrocities of war and unfathomed sorrow
Millions of people are on the hunt for a wheel-barrow
This loaded backpack was previously packed for a trip
It is, however, currently being utilized as an escape tip
Their humble lodging is becoming increasingly narrow
We pray they will be clung to unite like a bow and arrow
They're laboriously dragging their burden along the street
It is extremely beneficial to deliver water and buckwheat
For their active life, they will keep an eye on the sparrow
And won't utterly work behind the plow and harrow
Written: March 22, 2022
lovely lithe lively lemurs
languishing lovingly lengthwise
laboriously lightening our loads
laughing in lemur-like linguistics
lovely lacksidasical loving lemurs
letting loose leeches live
living lemur-like lightness
lollygagging in lemur-like ways
An illumination one can’t achieve the marvelous with,
Its 384400 kilometer distancing not a myth.
Never a lantern for any length of night study,
The printed in books a blur like the cloudy.
Readers’ eyes laboriously tackle their deciphering business,
Always seeming to need another helpful pair and witness…
Trust me, a crazy conspiracy against the optical
That should the readers earn crazy names or the atypical,
For having wanted to the innocent pair impair before forty;
No honest sympathizer who wouldn’t be naughty…
Still, in solidarity Moonlight is with the eyes
For all infuriating contacts with the injurious:
To the darkest of Nights, its improving flame
That us enables to ascertain the spurious.
Moonlight is God’s personal approval of our patrols at night
Which does the business make airily light,
Patronizing man’s nocturnal romances on grassland
That could him in Heaven or in Hell land.
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.