Long Anguishing Poems
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There is an echoing whispering amongst the trees,
A deadly chanting’s whistling, of disembodied voices
Calling upon the living to beware, for you are entering
A no man’s zone, turn from here humanity,
Dare not enter look away in fear, for
Beyond this point of no return, lies the
Of the Island of the dolls.
Beneath the waters rippling edge deaths drowned
Children reach for them, these dangling dollies of dread,
With hallowed out hearts of evil intentions, enticing these
Fallen angels of innocence, and laughing at their anguishing
Screams muffled by their watery graves.
Cold eyes shine above, hanging amongst the trees,
Soulless spirits dancing on the evening breeze,
Calling unto the muted hushed.
Come play with us, they so tease, but the children
Are locked beneath this black lake placid of deaths
Nightmares, unable to grasp freedoms spiritual release,
As these plastic, porcelain jackals laugh down wards at them.
In the sizzling heat of the jungle thick, vaporous phantoms
Walk alongside the murky shore, tickling at the feet
Of the dollies, tormenting the tormentors, begging them
To seize, but are they not a child's toy, just that and nothing
More, a haunting reference to say the least, nay they
Shall not stop at their child’s play!
A suspended mobile of dirty cupie dolls,
Hangs on the limbs above the cradle of humanity,
In this island playpen for the spiritually deceased,
What a harsh lullabies song do these spiritually
Disembodied sing, unto suffrage’s children!
Tidal currents rush against the island shore,
Splashing, crashing with agonies pain, but
In this isle of the forgotten Neverland,
These spiritual lost will obtain the livings
Fondest wish to never grow up, but remain
The banished forever under the waves,
Of the island of the dolls.
There is an echoing whispering amongst the trees,
A deadly chanting’s whistling, of disembodied voices
Calling upon the living to beware, for you are entering
A no man’s zone, turn from here humanity,
Dare not enter look away in fear, for
Beyond this point of no return, lies the
Of the Island of the dolls.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Oh! That anguishing moment! When I craved to cry,
And pour my tears, like monsoon rains, on some grass dry;
A bit away, hence, from the madding crowd, I went,
To soothe my grieving heart; give benevolent vent...
A hard hand hit my shoulder and commanding, said:
You're a man! Should not cry! Calm! Courage! Go ahead!
We, in our culture taunt, tease, torture girls, torment,
No shame? Showing off before strangers? You pretend!
Go! Wipe tears Apply talcum on your plastic face!
Lest those around judge you an empty broken vase!
Our girls, hence, tie pains like ghosts in their sari-knot,
Paint their faces with multi-color smiles, a lot.
Children! Gems! Never cry! If cry... Bad boys! Bad girls!
Satan is making home in you! His freedom whirls!
Why do angels crave things, like beggars full of greed?
Why, like dramatic artists - fussy tantrums breed?
God's watching like a hawk! Behave! Be virtuous!
Your movement should be angelic! Care! Courteous!
Yet, deaths, dangers, droughts, floods earthquakes for many years,
Have made us shed, like rain torrents, abundant tears;
All who gently hushed up feelings like shut memos,
Have melt into tears as though from lavas or snows;
Seeing harsh callous actions if we do not cry,
God's creating such rich tears has no purpose high.
Dogs cry. Horses cry. Birds, flies, and reptiles cry too,
Feelings, like dew-drops, fill and fall when we're in woe;
Sentiments secrete like wild streams within our hearts,
Full-fledged; flow like fluent falls; finely flits and flirts;
Stopping these, is, like building dams over rivers,
Wherein - water waves; caves; crashes; ripple-triggers...
Holding tears may be raw romantic! Dramatic!
Yet, its nature is to flow and fall full frantic.
Brain stressed; heartbeat skipped! Breath blocked! Body traumatized!
Muscles, nerves, and blood vessels stiff antagonized;
Nature has ways of venting pain and suffering,
Thwarting this is, just like her freedom plundering.
18 August 2021
This or That, Vol 5 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
The sadness of getting lonely, weary and old
is none other than the anguishing thought,
we can't avoid feeling or mentioning at all cost;
daily unrest triggers the awful death word!
Will all frighten when that time comes?
Shutting windows to shelter ourselves
from an imaginable cold worsens existence;
it's not winter yet, gather common sense!
A menace is horror to whomever perceives it
as an imminent demise, a sudden sorrow that
persists and torments feeble souls intensely shivering;
insidious voices transform all moods and well-being!
Whoever detests old age will have his own pain
to bear when he comes face to face with reality;
and the one who uses his young body to entertain,
escapes it from it a while, then encounters fatality!
Declining years show their signs on faces,
unbearable is the isolation from a society
that abuses and scolds the enfeebled minds,
all they ask for is understanding, not mercy!
Are they able to withstand the fury of the rainstorm,
the fret of desolation amid screams and crashing noises?
And despite their strengthless, fear and deviating tones,
nothing delights them more than the soothing calm!
They have lived a life with very noble ideals,
no affection they withheld from their peers;
and having completed their devoted human task,
they'll go serenely as they came into life to be brisk!
It's so clear too us that who chooses to live in dreadful darkness
decides to disregard what's sacred indulging in wrongful pleasures;
and for the ones who strongly believe in a gratifying, divine purpose,
they pave the way not with gold but with something very grandiose!
The greyness or whiteness of hair shows actual age,
it's not complaining about wrinkles, moods and looks:
it's the absence of compassion, kindness and closeness,
take away these three from them and they'll feel rage!
Language So Learned Begins
I always thought it too audacious to think myself a poet-born but I tried it at age ten then my mother laughed rattling my precious penned paper as she pronounced from her parent-throne “No, your brother’s the natural writer not you” from her ken of always reading in our house of nearly half a thousand books all read so I supposed she’d know
and I took the dare
throwing myself into a learning to love the language from its rules to its rhythms the synonyms and rhymes origins and designs for pleasure or political leadership inspirations there came so many nights
I wept almost uncontrollably with my eyes aside Alfred Lord Tennyson’s anguishing “in Memoriam” I thought Oh Lord what your created Word has left to do? I’d teach myself
beginning 23-years of writing journals and trying all the genres humility wrenching all my turns getting published with prizes but still I gave up on my perseverance as well as myself
until two years ago
when I met another poet Charlie Cooper who moved me back to my voice as it rushed from its prison cell breathing all the straight-jacketed phrases with their thoughts aflame
in time’s wisdom
to spell them out til I declare I am a poet-born as I sensed I always was made to be a natural writer of this so very loved language all it says does inspires songs even prayers of our souls too the desperate hearts who must lie alone to share words to walls but do remember language lives as it was made Alive to listening as well as speaking the voices even long imprisoned
the Word made flesh died but rose redeeming
our voices do not forget
their stories go forth among the generations
our voices are heard
********. *********. *********. ********
(c)sally Young eslinger 12/31/20
Thanks be to God
Please also read my poem “Then Came the Lady in Blue”
Cold air whistles acquainting
me with Arctic Blast, when
roundly forcing acquiescing
into half foursquare corner, activating
most recent spate of
ideal linkedin warm weather
ah...,my favorite sweet
spot for read ding
partially secluded from
gossip mongers addicting
fellow nosy residents,
who rarely brave elements
of style lush nature addressing
natural environment, sans leaving
comfort of their hermetically
sealed apartment adhering
to zero risk exposure
even during pitch
perfect weather adjusting
cessation to renouncing
"cabin fever" administering
most potent panacea
for heavenly solar fling
nay, most every tenant
here at Highland Manor
prefers vicariously admiring
terrestrial flora and
fauna, even when nature
bursts forth with adoring
"The Rite of Spring" adorning
the snapchat buzz zee
flight of the Bumble Bee
the still frozen, yet slowly aerating
rib rock solid state terra
firmae slowly alleviating
thick slabs of iced over terrain
indiscriminately allocating
patch of landscape
legion limitless almsgiving
then as instagram dusk
preempts afternoon alternating
cathartic, fantastic,
and iambic anesthetizing
magic, opportunistic, and therapeutic
reverie blitzed, viz banshee screaming
mother nature's wound
dead spirit expressing
agony dost vent wrath
heartfelt lament vacillates, manifests,
and explodes analogous
qua red bull who readily
didst get smitten angling
to expunge anguishing
cumulative racking torment
hell bent on annihilating
primate responsible species
akin to a silent spring announcing
slow but inexorable annulling
guardian (nee abuser) role usurped
by *****sapiens,
who need answer
for relentlessly antagonizing
writhing, lowing, and bristling
Planet Earth!
Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
The Lord is with me too.
He whispers in loud soothing words
that resonate like
liquid softly fluent.
His watchfulness always lingering
in the pushing of
this steel plated city
where I am trapped.
Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
The Virgin Queen of Heaven
intercedes for all of us.
She intercedes for me too.
She prays in splendid atmosphere
anguishing over every
sin I am thinking.
Her once-flesh hands twinned in
ever steady prayer.
Shapes populate in my always troubled
daily life.
They upset and tangle the soothing
urgings I feel God placing
in my contemplations.
Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
The pleasing phasing of spiritual halo's
surrounds me in constant
reassurances.
I'm praying mental rosaries, intoning
words familiar, yet, so loved.
So firm in comfortable places where
I come to God.
This straggling pretence of reality
that we call human-kind;
is not as clear as the affable prayers
of Blessed Mary, my holy Mother.
Standing or sitting does not matter.
Nothing of flesh
ever does.
What is critical are the prayers of
faithful gathered
in presence in Christ's Sacred Mass.
I shall be there too, joining my voice
in time honoured assistance,
"Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you."
April happens
One out of twelve chances
That it has to come each year
And it always seems
To happen out
This way
The vast chance
The ocean has
To roll out over me
Is never unwasted,
And it finds my raw, used up hands
Swelling like cold water
Rising in distention
And falling like an exhale
In the deep
Puerto Rico delivers this to me
Upon anguishing fingertips
And I follow my love in the alley
There we share confusing breaths
That plunge us like thorns
Into ourselves
Making us feel foreign
April finds me possessed
In the reflection of my new heart’s smile
And whispering prayers
That he might love me
And prayers that this drug
Won’t snuff me
As I’m trying to figure out
Why I want him this bad
But those pleas can’t help
But fall away
As our smoky lungs make us
tumble into
a dream, that food or drink
Can try to bear us through
My body becomes a claustrophobic cave
It’s hard to see, and it’s hard to breathe
And It’s hard not being terrified
Because my mouth is definitely stuck together
And my butter skin is slipping
And together we slip, we’re tripping
Into some oblivion
And I’m Hoping it might soon be over
Maybe then I’ll tell you
That I love you
And that I don’t want you to leave me
And that maybe
You can save this life I’m risking
For a confusing moment next to you
God shaped my hollow heart
To hope to not be empty
And yet April falls upon me
As indifferently as the weather tempers trees
Tearing branches with green spread leaves
Making anything that can be made to be
From a loveless sun, a callous sea
This is how April’s tide tosses
its sleepy back to me
Though my bare chest breaks
As the dark night sways
There’s no more swaying I can do
I look to you.
Because, my star
My constant Spanish song
As long as I am strong
I will fall for those I love
Even when
There are only empty alleys
To catch me
bub-blub tump-tump-tump-tump
I was bitten by my wrong choices;
Invited and enticed by my voices;
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
In there stepped desperate loneliness, bleeding heartbeats
Of unfortunates that are decaying
chess rising WAIT this isn't NO game
My breath is wet; I'm drowning in shame
Lungs full of sin watering
Yet I'm breathing;
Still is neighing, still is neighing
I discovered the storms
blub-blub tump-tump-tump-tump
~
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
In there stepped desperate loneliness, bleeding heartbeats
'It's that grief,' I muttered sorrowed I was born
Death shall bring injustices
There stood a pivotal upstart
And so you came gently jingling (onomatopoeia) my heart.
And the core never minding disgusted
To warn me about the sadness
Somewhat louder than the kick start
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
I discovered the storms
'It's that grief,' I muttered
Death shall bring injustices
There stood a pivotal upstart.
~
And so you came gently jingling (onomatopoeia)
And the core never minding
To warn me about the sadness
Somewhat louder than the kick start
By the grave, I saw the ignominies
And the despair never anguishing
The desperate dissoluteness dismaying
Of unfortunates that are decaying
I have dreamed of the feelings
The sensitive smelling
All my soul within me telling
Much I marvelled this bittersweet heart
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
In there stepped a desperate loneliness, bleeding heartbeats
blub-blub tump-tump-tump-tump
6/22/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
He sat up in the bed with his thin face buried deep into in his small lap,
And for a brief moment his head was a pillow as he took a nap.
Slowly lifting his head, the sun greeted his face with its red, hot stare,
And his thoughts drifted off to places that were far but in this mind so near.
The chirping of the red and yellow birds and the buzzing of the honey-filled bees,
And the dancing waves down by the sea and the lush , green coconut trees.
His heart sang a sweet, melodious tune as the memories made his body dance,
And in that very moment he wished that he could be given another chance.
He clinged to the soft ,white pillow and his face was a swimming pool,
And he heard a gentle whisper in his ear, man, you are no fool.
Life was a raging fire that consumed his mind, body and soul,
How quickly he became a shadow of his former self , like a broken-winged bird, less whole.
With frail, shaking hands he clenched his fists and his sobs could wake the sleeping village too,
He tossed and turned in anguish , screaming like a tormented demon not knowing what to do.
His deep , anguishing pain was unbearable like a ton of bricks on an infant’s back,
And in that moment he wished , oh how he wished that death would come and take his stack.
Silence was now his only company as day turned from a blazing sun to a dark and cold night,
His heart was a ship without any anchor in the deep ,wide ocean and he knew that he would be out of sight.
*** RATE THE BATTLE ***
Rate your pain, they always want to know,
On a scale of one (least) to ten (worst — “like hell,” they say),
Although, I think, that should be reversed, because at
One, first, this pain is anguishing; wanting to be foremost;
Rooted under everything.
I see a numbered One level pain as insipid, blocking out life —
Like an iceberg
Able to sink a ship; with there being
One, only one way eyes feel when popping out from such pain;
One level of invasive emotional or physical pain that
Makes the soul groan and
The lips try to repeatedly keep their shortened breaths
Whispering, “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord…”
At One, or Ten (by their scale again now), I refuse
To imagine even a peek into hell.
I refuse to walk on a bed of flaming embers. Blut, at
Nine, I might lay bare on a bed of unpolished, sharply-cut lapis,
Trying to picture some promise of miraculous beauty
Underlying the monstrous pain.
A Nine would keep me in a self-induced trance of complete
Stillness,
Holding my breath, before I’d let it consume all my humor; and
I’d try, yet again, to find praises in the suffering;
Wherein, too, Faith in God can bring the strength and hope
To survive the scales of pain
In favor of the whole spirit’s long on-going,
Felt rise in gratitude.
(Deut. 9: 1-3)
————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 12/10/2022
Thanks be to God…