Long Conundrum Poems
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When I looked in to her eyes,
In it I saw a prospect of a paradise.
A paradise whose entry was not
contingent on my righteousness.
My days of startling agony, still battled my
hope of finding true love.
Like the Battle of Armageddon,
I always came out a looser.
But meeting her... yea the Vault of Heaven,
was like proximal to the Book of Leaves.
Her countenance and demeanor,
whispered melodic symphonies.
And her meekness and charm,
transited me into a world of ecstasy.
Covered In fine linen and sapphire,
she glowed than a continuous spectrum.
Her beauty was an Achilles hill,
that all men that saw her failed to vanquish.
Just like my maiden father Adam,
In her I saw the hidden part of me.
As a woman, as one I will be spending my life with.
I have never felt this conflagration before,
It was apparent she was my dream woman.
What can be compared to the taste of crimson honey,
The more it reddened the more it sweetened.
I have never loved like this before.
For her I was willing to exchange my soul,
To be with her till eternity.
But cunningly she unmasks her real face.
Beneath her could not be compared to an iota of grace.
She was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Who entered my life to distort and annihilate,
My hope of bliss.
All these while we paddled and flew high,
In the crescendo of our emotions.
It never crossed my mind that it was all a hoax.
A calculated sham just to make away with all I ever had.
Now am left with nothing,
Since her angelic face and docile pace,
Which I thought was the elixir my unending conundrum,
Was rather an emotional and psychological torture,
That has rendered my life defunct.
When I imagine her driving around town,
Adorned in my hard earned luxury,
There is only one moment I wish ,
I could re-write.
And that was the day I met her.
I always tell myself that sometimes,
It is better some people don’t come into your life.
But here I am know,
Wishing to right my wrongs and alter the past.
But it is so sad that I cannot have my way.
I know in the annals of time,
When my saga is being told,
I will be know as the moron,
Who killed himself because of a girl.
Though it may sound and look stupid,
I deem it a befitting penance,
For my obsessed illusion of love,
Thus love is an illusion that,
Emotionally disrupt sober discretion.
What can be compared to the stench of a broken heart.
There are visions roving inside my head
of a time and place where perhaps I once lived.
But how do I know of those worldly things
if I no longer exist? I must question if I ever did.
I am off kilter, as if I'm an invisible entity,
a salty speck of foam floating on a sapphire sea.
Should I feel dire despair, indifference, or jubilant joy
that I am not part of this place that's been laid to waste?
It's as if I'm surfing in shadows over what used to be
an amusement park, but the Ferris Wheel is broken,
and there's no spark of life anywhere to be found.
Only faded pamphlets lying on the ground, sun-bleached
remnants of the way life used to be, once upon a time.
I pity me for having been given this gloomy glimpse,
a vandalized view that no one could misconstrue.
I feel like Alice wandering through a frightening fantasy.
Desperately wanting to go back through the looking glass
and forget the devastation in which the world dwells.
If I ever had an inkling of what living in hell would be,
then in this chaotic clime, this dysfunctional dystopia,
I would seek to escape my existence and set myself free.
I feel the need for fresh air, but who would care
if I should have lived or died? No one cried tears for me.
What future fate have I discovered with thoughts
hovering? Tragic thoughts that haunt me like a cold stare.
What ill winds have swept the world away?
Cursed be!
How can anything exist is this sorrowful sepulcher?
I'd rather be a soulless specter without a home
then live among those in this lamenting land.
This is not Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
It does no good to imagine a world without me.
Friendships made; children born; none of those would exist.
I can only envision these things. These things that I've given wing.
They roam inside my head, making me wonder if I had a beginning
or an end. I feel repercussions from having a discussion
with myself over the conceptual conundrum of my existence.
Would I have been happy, would I have made others happy,
or brought them grief like the thief who collects the dead?
It's a nightmare of reality, for I am sure it's not a daydream.
Greed played its Trump card and schemed to sit on the throne
in a kingdom I could never contentedly condone.
I've no desire to dally here a moment longer, and
since I don't exist, I am certain I will not be missed.
Inexplicable blessing luckily
avoiding potentially grim fate
finds yours truly coming to grips,
how afterlife did not accommodate
the missus, and/or myself unwittingly
loved ones would never acclimate
reality of our permanent absence,
thus existence all the more I appreciate
and attempt poetically articulate.
Herewith the scenario that defies
conventional atheistic wisdom
finding me unable to square
involving 2009 Hyundai Sonata automobile
driven by spouse or her scribe, who dare
not allude to guardian angel,
yet conundrum inexplicable, when
touted as luck, regarding the rear
wheel bearing (passenger side of car)
that went kaput, blessedly ignorance
attributed absented scare,
yet in retrospect taking stock
i.e. how existence imperilled,
now more grateful than ever
toward life, liberty and
pursuit of happiness,
this in essence potential whipped miracle
of sorts presenting possibility
cosmic creative force continually near.
CJ'S TIRE & AUTOMOTIVE,
(1405 South Township Line Road,
Royersford, Pennsylvania 19468)
intuition doth agree
expert knowledgeable SERVICE
familiar personnel employee
since patronizing said facility
(actually franchise sites
scattered across United States), we
regularly return taking car repeatedly
to team of mainly younger,
but wiser technicians than me,
who realizes scant knowledge, née
absolute zero mechanical ability,
especially regarding
twenty first century vehicles
heavily accoutered
with sophisticated technology.
Now yours truly loops
back to (house at Pooh corner -
think Loggins and Messina)
i.e. core theme
Impossible explanation within
the infinite universe scheme
to explain convincingly fluke
protection against meme
evoking death, demise, destruction,
et cetera regarding as ye gleam
teetotaler who avoids Jim Beam
plus alcohol in general, cuz
prescription medication harmful
unless feeling suicidal to thee extreme.
Thus one garden variety, generic guy
NON GMO android (ha)
he doth not fear
the grim reaper at rapier
or gunpoint, nor mortality do I despair
hoop fully made somewhat crystal clear,
a quandary (one among many
that recurred), whereby air
ring professed nihilistically
skeptical minus impulse to destroy
comprises whether doubting Thomas
(English Muffins) stance
on wing and prayer
inadequate, obsolete, untenable...
We constantly deal with poetry which puts us in a soporific state,
we sit here apathetic to the cause of studying this beautiful art-
but Poetry’s breath Ad Nauseum about love and laments is bad for a date,
oblivious to the images, while attempting to turn the key we begin to depart.
Yet the door haunts us, novels, plays, yet poetry is the apex,
of this ethereal mystery within the maelstrom that is our mind,
alas this frustration is focused upon the conundrum of poetry being complex,
is it just a condensed novel, this Herculean Task of understanding the undefined.
There are many who deem poetry obsolete but tis rather far from its nadir,
now begins the unequivocally splendid power of the imagination-
hidden by poetry from the vituperative invader,
who’ve made an egregious mistake in deeming poetry a partial differential equation.
Imagination, oh what a beauty long forgotten in the age of reason-
we’ve been given Hobson’s choice, force fed Occam’s razor, given epitome-
yet good ol’ imagination persist like an excretion,
from the eyes of the true daughter of time, Science’s proficiency.
People assume poetry is the modern day Gordian’s Knot-
well- let us assume this is Utopia, were Imagination runs wild-
as she watches her forest, a black cat surreptitiously passes a man in thought,
startled because it is Friday the thirteenth his Triskaidekaphobia- this is all rather mild-
Just the tip of the iceberg was touched upon, just the tip-
Poetry and humanity is an oleaginous affair we mix but do not blend,
Or should we, poems are nothing more than what we put in, as if to dip-
just our toes, before we plunge head first into poems so as to apprehend.
Poetry is the Sun, as you are the flowers shined upon,
given warmth of knowledge and power if you are to just reach.
Not to let Poetry in as if to catch on-
give it back in your own form of speech.
Through your own imagination feed poetry,
It hungers for your reality, though not reality-
procrastinate not- hopefully,
for your conceptions are your sanity.
Or rather is fancy your sanity- decide,
it will affect your observation of poetry forevermore.
It will excite-
whether you believe it to or not- you will love or abhor.
Poetry is not arduous -
just do not assume there is a secret door.
In fact poetry is quite virtuous-
Seek only what you can give poetry, I do implore.
Loneliness of Gray
by Odin Roark
Could It Be…
The mirror by which we see ourselves
This captive freedom of art in all of us
This necessity to communicate
Desire to become
Is but destiny’s
Loneliness of Gray
For if
As in physics
The typical complementary colors
Blue and yellow
Red and green
Passion's mainstay
When mixed
Yield gray
Then why
When one’s being
Claims gray
Must disappointment ensue
When there is such empirical truth at hand
When there is no opposite for gray
As it is its own opposite
It’s own quintessential purity
Of emotion’s blend
why
Yes
Some would say
The artist’s mind lives unique perceptions
Available to all
Yet determined by most
As out of reach
Few
Accept this fourth dimension
Others reject
Where hands and feet
Colors and viewpoint
Change about
Inviting the dual organs
Nostrils
Ears
Eyes
To express like colors
Embracing opposites
Allowing vocal cords of multiple mode
To render art’s communication
Imagination’s reverse tongue
Creativity’s spoken proclivity
To forever accept extremities of the mind
As wonderment
As living
Ever notice
How simple the artists’ walk
It appears to be on whatever surface
Imagination might volunteer
Be it floor
Path
Greensward
Or bomb-rutted road
Where surfaces creatively experienced
Reveal a virtually abstract pressure-balancing of gravity
Requiring little of tactile distinctiveness
But merely an accommodation
Today’s levitational force
Accomplishing needed transfers of altitude
Where the climbing of stairs
But a walk up from lower levels of existence
To higher realms of selection
To the Artist
Passage from one scene to another
Needn’t be a factor
Rather trust in gliding
Where shadow and blurred focus
Claim one’s mingled curiosity
Into a chosen whole
Where much of vision
Voids transient objects
Ambiguous appearances like
Furniture
Or details of vegetation
Seeking instead
A diffuse lighting of every scene
Rendering the scheme of reversed colors and texture
Bright red grass
Yellow sky
A conundrum of black and gray cloud-forms
Down to the white tree-trunks
Green brick walls
Embracing
A Lovingly
Angelical grotesquerie
Such reveals one’s essence
One’s creation
One’s smile at chance
Depending on how
The mirror might be hanging
When are our best years? So many in this society seem to think it is their youth, or their twenties. In my twenties, I lived alone for seven years-as completely alone as you can without disappearing into the mountains of Tibet. I lived friendless; if I didn't have to go to work to pay the bills, I would have never left my tiny studio. I didn't wash my clothes, my hair, or myself, sometimes for weeks. I had no family nearby-truthfully, I did not want them to see me, ashamed of how empty I was.
I am thankful I have no taste for alcohol, given the heavy hand of alcoholism that holds my father so firmly, that eroded my parents' marriage and my own relationship with him. Once, craving interaction, I made an effort to get dressed up and went to a local single's bar - and stopped outside the door. I was afraid no one would speak to me, and afraid someone would. I was equally terrified of both outcomes. So I went home, hung my pretty dress up in the closet, and never wore it again.
I did try to date, through personal ads. It was usually ten minutes over coffee, until they suddenly remembered a "pressing appointment" and had to leave - if they showed up at all. I always blamed myself, of course - was I too talkative? Too quiet? Too short? Too plump? (actually, the irony is I never wore a smaller size than when I was depressed and not eating.) Was it the scars of my turbulent adolescence I still wore on my cheeks? Or my premature gray hair I refused to dye? To be honest, I see now I often rejected them myself - I was caught in the conundrum of wanting companionship yet unwilling to sacrifice my privacy, my personal space to allow someone in. I guess I was more in love with loneliness.
Then I met someone - a gentle giant with a sweet smile, warm brown eyes, a generous heart, a welcoming soul. He too had been ignored, been dismissed, been devalued. And, maybe, I needed those seven years of solitude to sharpen my sight, to see the buried treasure in this man that others had overlooked. He has given me a home, a family - he makes me feel secure, feel protected, that, no matter what, everything will be alright. He is why I smile, why I laugh, why I like myself again. He is my happy ending.
Now, in my forties, I am living my best years - and I am lucky enough to know it.
I waited
Under the outspread foliage
Of the banana tree,
With ripening fruits dangling precariously,
Wondering,
With eyes set on the earth,
Wishing I understood
This everlasting madness.
To what end would man go,
To what end?
A mystery it remains,
Like the age old conundrum
Of the seniority between the hen and the egg,
Like the unfathomable depths of the bottomless pit...
Oh! Lamenting in unbridled grief,
Mother of all,
Seated on an ashen throne,
Wails poignantly,
While her children trade mighty fists,
Wetted by her tears,
Buoyed no less by her flashing darts
Of fierce reproof..
I, a mere bystander,
Watching, meditating, confused,
Lost, trying to understand what
Led to such fisticuffs
Between brothers who sucked on
The small obfuscated nipple
And rode the same burdened back..
Yes!
To what abysmal end?
What, hidden under the rigid crusts of the earth
Drives man to seek so zealously
To bury his fellow man
Six inches below
And shake his head
From side to side
Wearing rehearsed frowns,
Indifferent, obeying the laws
Of anarchy, and basking
In the prestige
Of ill advantage?
For in these matters,
Fasidically christened "the survival arts"
Men show sleight of hand,
Dexterity and mastery of the deleterious science
Of death...
And for his fellow, he is unapologetic..
Fallen, have you into the cesspool
And mucky wastes of nothingness,
You survived not,
And as such, were not fit to survive...
We, must hold our
Small heads in mad agony,
For shamelessly, we have
Trampled on the little men,
So dastardly disparaged
Till they shrunk,
Into tiny ants
Who suffer in silence
While the mammoths fight
For the trophy from Sheol..
I wondered....
Days passed,
Nights went by, sleep eluded me,
Nightmares sought out my deranged mind
And tormented me,
And I could not bear it any longer!
I searched the lengths and breadths of the earth
For answers, from men
wizened beyond my years,
But found them not...
I found only fools,
Tightly snuggled in their cosy territories
With mighty barricades
And tall barb-wired fences,
Throwing orgies...
For they had defeated themselves...
It was then, I slept...
This time, in the gentle
Stillness of the Caspian,
Wishing I was never born....
Descendent of proto humans
dumbfounded, mystified, stupefied, et cetera
despite plethora of technological trappings,
whereby world wide web virtually linkedin
allowing, enabling, and providing
instantaneous electronic feedback,
I still experience dearth
of mental, psychological and social
meaningfulness amidst cerebral chaos
courtesy healthy mailer daemons
occupying sixty plus shades of gray matter
more valuable then any terrain
designated as Silicon Valley or Wall Street
constituting nexus of brain power,
where metaphysical thoughts proliferate
and ponder such basic thought
such as who art yours truly
what (I declare)
will constitute date with death
and where will corporeal flesh
and spirit separately journey?
Since time immemorial
millennium generations
happenstance bestowed *****sapiens
ability to become self aware
double edged figurative sword
allowing, enabling, providing...
forebears of yesteryear
to marvel at life, and
reckon with death,
which mixed blessing
wrestling with living and dying
also confronts man/womankind
during twenty first century
said inscrutable dilemma,
albeit reconciling mortality
linkedin with consciousness
heightened, tested, under_scored...
particularly at demise dearly departed
inadvertently affect
upon surviving family members
hijacking, offsetting, upending...
fracturing emotional composure
prompting immediate questions
regarding purposefulness living
nee, being born essentially to die
predestined to pass away
identical fate decreed upon
all animals and plants
bolstered by believing deity
foreordained every creature
past, present, and future,
yet most pronounceable afflicting
non denominational, non
religious, non sectarian
case in point Unitarian,
vis a vis visa versa secular humanists,
especially nonsensical poet wannabe
riddled with perplexity
about nature of being alive
wondering what explains
essence constituting individual fluke
finding meaning scuttling
across world wide web
hither and yon, to and fro
dumbfounded at futility
absolute zero adequate answers
(again, unless one subscribes
to codified doctrinal dogma
i.e. religion, faith, creed...)
I attest as garden variety primate
baffled, flummoxed, nonplussed...
The azure ocean, home to the embedded enormous incomprehensible riches of mysteries and riddles,
More than the Mars, lies unfathomed, underneath the conundrum of oceanic colossal rhythms.
From the The Milky Sea Phenomenon, a sight captured as bioluminescence illusion,
The Purple Orb of the ocean floor of California and the Baltic Sea’s anomalous puzzles,
Like the alien spaceship put foot on the colossal quagmires of oceanic chasm!
When the underwater volcanoes erupt to perplex beyond imagination in huddle,
To probe and discern those gems of oyster shell’s luminous pearls dazzles,
Deep beneath sleeping peacefully in the ocean’s cradle!
The fatal enigma of the unplumbed immensely profound oceanic mysteries will never dwindle.
The more one plunges to pierce in deep muse its vastness engulfs to diddle!
The superficial waves in corrugation, are mere widening its hitherto horizontal hurdles.
The bizarre sounds emanating from beneath are like giant icebergs scraping the oceanic floor in madly rhythm!
The obscure oceanic realms, its myriads mystical appearances remains timeless, fancy of millions!
Eras and eras pass, the mythical mermaid’s riddle are yet to resolve,
As centuries pass, may replete with the witness of numerous human civilizations!
Like the Atlantis of Japan, from time immemorial, the oceans are abodes of colossal confusions.
The voyages disappear in the Mystic Triangle, who knows what lies beneath the mythical abstractions?
The twirling sounds of infinite ocean swirling in the sea shells are quite captivating, attract admirers attractions;
The archipelago one after the other vanished without the trace, as in Marina Trench’s aberrations;
As if the Phantom Islet of Bermeja, in its murky abyssal cradle’s magnetic composition.
The Crop Circles discovered beneath its bosom as if the signage of other world’s manifestations;
The oceanic phenomenon of green flashes meets the red tides, reveals your magnificent disposition.
Wants to plunge, swim like a mermaid in your mystical cerulean temporal lilting motion;
Oh, the oceanic conundrum more we try to fathom, the more we entangle in your cryptic chasm!
© Silpika Kalita
On a shattered pebble beach my kernel,
becomes this dervish dancing to the maniacal symbol rash tune,
of inchoate monsoon grass beat timpani,
that’s dimly frowned on by sonic virtuoso,
but terms like briny carrageen sea sweep gain purple splotch kudos,
I gaze with indigo ocean eyesight,
at sheer rock face sunken mould gradient,
where faculties solicit august maxim,
from eternal parchment, grain whirl sand dune smorgasbord,
mud-strewn psalms primed and pumped by ebbing sotto voce stream,
gust smitten lighthouse whose solitary pulsing wink always welcome,
syntax that gray matter genesis scorned geoform tag,
I scribble quintains in a quagmire that ooze magma inkling,
prose stolen from jagged facet incline or whatever,
has this elemental moment turned ghost writer by sixth sense?
saline vista swung pivot on tsunami doorway,
brackish carcass rife with clamped seashells as mirror,
weather-worn thoughts skim eccentric apex,
behemoth undertaker facing self-scripted gauntlet,
but this pilgrim shall yearn evermore imbibing loose mist,
with marble slab as jotter and squid ink another fountain pen,
who really knows what tidemark gems may yet surface,
do metaphors sequester diurnal cycles like day/night swop?
rhetorical or not this lambent aspect must be met on grit-etch blue boulder,
vice-grip of visual plunge belies gravity,
yet this blustery conundrum is just this water drop,
something inconsequential for one clutching at faint will-o-the-wisp,
pepper-strewn haze does obstruct linguistic odour,
despite a caustic rebuff from deep down warden as inner slant,
zany whirlpool blob grasping at ambiguous twill plume,
faraway tangerine canvass might stir tongue-tied raw sketch,
ingenious quest might throb for charmed portrayal,
nought shall thwart this dreamer off-course,
spectral pantoum, geometric quatrain, jewel-crust tanka,
prolific silken sentient suzette an overarch odyssey,
regardless of vernal totem, sumptuous literary harvest,
with its dogged catalytic compass point,
to maunder without curb despite prevailing opus storm,
sculptured outcrop on an apt idyllic text,
once off ephemeral from boundless paragon,
a colour burst vocabulary pending but when?