Long Curtained Poems
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Me....,
a shy ..,
and
bashful guy
always kept me.,
confined to last bench..
down my head,
huddled heart ,
blenched my breathes and
arms always clenched..
Staring with a thief eye
to each one
around me
but confrontation
was not my forte .,
this fragility always
kept me away
from my very interest
and invariably
was a thwart ..
New day in the class,
New teachers and
Classmates too.,
but for me
each day was new
and each one., who?
Newly painted class
curtained each side .,
The Teacher announces
our new class guide...
In actual fact
I wasn't a beauty gaper .,
but this time
she forced me too sharper...
hardly I lavished my time
in any admiration..,
but this would give,
drive to my contemplation..,
breaking the ice to her
difficult and caffeine beauty
eyes were clear and watered ,
lips were glossy and frooty..
Tallest and
her collar in the same way.,
I stared alot but
kept her eye away..
walk like breeze
silent and cool
smile like blooming lily.,
none of her company
can stand by her
she was the perfect dilly..
Crowd would stop
while she starts
mostly buring in vex.,
she wants pin drop silence
in the class .,otherwise,
bitter pills to suspects..
The same rain
I got whole year .,
Whole year
I got ,
teacher will start ,
we all will set ,
and I will get lost .,
The last day of
this beautiful phase
I was loosing carelessly.,
No courage,
No rescue ,
The day cutting readily ..
God miracle or
some boon ,
when she came ,
in her black shoon..,
shrinking and shy
asked me a favour.,
Reaching to the seventh heaven
I started quiver..
Yea....Yea ....
I did it
and then asked my will...
Very courageous.,
honestly it was
to utter such word.,
but......,I knew
It was the
last chance
and never again for
me.....,
such a coward..
So....I did
did it fast.
listening it....,
she got locked.
'No Words'
she said
but I .....,
I did it.
did it.
Yea...,
I do.
by-Shagun
Form:
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
She opened her eyes and she stretched in her bed, then she rose up just like a skylark
and her eyes still glowed softly ,for she had spent dreams just dancing in the dark,
immersed in the beauty of what she had dreamed, she drifted just like an illusion
that somehow had risen from dreamland with her, in magical dancing confusion,
lace curtained light lit her soft elfin face, then lifted her eyes from the evening gloom
that brought her arising from yesterday’s arms, a cameo Princess alone in her room,
she wove herself onto the loom of the day like a tapestry waiting for rainbows to glow
then she wandered alone through a greenwood lit walk, where kiss soft breezes blow.
She meandered so gently, lost in her song, her whole world seemed just like a stage
her melody soared she felt sorrows depart, then she slowly turned over life’s page,
as she sighed to the sea, the sea whispered back of everything one day would bring
she thought of a time that was festooned in rhyme painted reasons that held her again
although all she had known after being alone gave her no thought of happiness yet
she dreamed in the sunrise of beginnings again, and smiled to the dying sunset,
to the transit of Venus she raised up her heart as she felt her dream nearing her door
she had given so much to so many in pain, and yet she still deserved so much more.
Then under her gazebo she sat by her fish pond and watched all the whirlygigs dance
and her heart skipped a beat as she pondered again upon such an endearing romance,
then she felt a soft kiss blown from so far away touch her cheek and bejewel her eyes
she knew as he neared she’d replace all her fears with such a deep loving sunrise,
Then she drifted away on a year and a day to that place where lovers often do
she was sure of their love and the good times to come, before their lives were through,
So many moments she’d spent all alone, before all she had wished for came true
But no longer she thought there would be just a me, but now both a me and a you…
Twas a dark knight,
whence there came a pawn the hushed crowded movie house
A phantom of horror sprung out of the rookery that wrought deadly havoc
Renting asunder innocent audience members
Anticipating Batman annihilate evil within Manichean eternal duel
Extant within imaginary world of Gotham portrayed on the silver screen
When out of the black curtained theater tear gas canisters got hurled pell mell
Accompanied by a fusillade of heavy machine gun fire
Sheering many lives
Many in the prime ascent sans parabola of adulthood
The youngest, a six-year-old girl transformed into an ashen colored corpse
Which death yet revealed to her young mother
Critically wounded, and clamoring for said daughter
While teetering on the brink of mortality
Oblivious to stricken offspring
While family, friends, relatives and anonymous prayers
And this heartfelt genuine communiqué
From me – a self styled nonestablishmentarian
Gung-ho to invoke a mandate that high powered fire-arms
Must be much less accessible
I.e. bulletproof laws need implementation pronto
So inhabitants of these United States do not fear for their lives
Nor feel akin to a potential prey sighted in the crosshairs
Wantonly gunned down from some grinning joker
Slaking glee from mass killing as to appease unquenchable thirst
To avenge some psychotic nemesis gloating to slay
With a vengeance and contrived vendetta
Promulgating pandemonium and grisly bloody aftermath
Yet despite such horrific heinous atrocity
Bravery and sacrifice witnessed and extolled
From heroic instinctual motive to offer themselves as human shield
So that carnage less devastating than toll on madman’s hit list
Now in solitary confinement and even if executed
Would be a Pyrrhic salve to those forever deprived of loved ones
Burning with an eternal sorrow no matter
Generosity of cyber sympathizers across World Wide Web
Plus the president of these United States
Reach out showering kindness analogous to Borealis raiment!
Form:
The American Morning
We ride smoothly, deliberately, in this old cruising caravan,
Across the ancient American avenues and boulevards,
Of the once living, and now, the finally dead,
Of the once famous, and now, the finally forgotten;
Of tattooed memories applied in the American morning, cooking
In the back kitchen, with yellow-yoked eggs frying rapturously,
Like monstrous hoards of buzzing locusts, out to kill,
In black pans, sizzling and searing sensationally;
With mysterious, soulful realizations of disappearing time,
The heavenly odors of bacon fat, rising to the old-fashioned clouds,
We come here to turn the radio dial, in this summer of winning and losing;
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What ‘s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
But as we ride now through these blighted snapshots in time,
This creeping caravan from the American morning comes to a halt.
Through the windshield and into the American night, old eyes see
A crowd of black ballplayers, gathering in Harlem on East River Avenue,
Looking to get inside the big ball yard, with the Babe, the Yankee Clipper,
And the Iron Horse, hitting fungoes over the EL station, over there,
Dressed in over-sized pinstripes, dripping in dirt and tobacco juice,
Tipping sweat-stained caps to the roaring, crescendoing ovations,
Thundering upward and through the airy reaches of the big ball yard,
Somehow do not reach their ears; still, they run fast, as if being chased,
Run faster than all the dead baseball gods of the American morning!
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What’s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
Upon revelation’s flight
Under Orion’s focus
I witness a fiery glow towards familiar horizons.
‘Tis no sunrise
It is a striking reality.
My saddened retinas witness monochromatic pitchforks,
Desolated screams,
Embellished declarations from misguided leaders
And self-made stallions riding into condescending sunsets
Without any earned punctuation to be taken seriously
A House of Eroded Representatives
A village of One
A village of souls
Pushing
Back
…
There was a home upon these well-worn landing strips.
This was my home.
But, these forged rooftops now taste
Withering, hurricane gusts of red velvet cake’s mold
Rusted nails forcibly detached from honored foundations
Unto egotistical coffins
The reality
Shining through meter-less corruptions
Comes full circle
Small doses of poisonous vendettas
Fed from tarnished, silver spoons
Echoes of Cuban Fidel
Lace elasticity of “open arms”
With onyx, unfiltered coffee drops
Coating infant’s petulant lip
Witnessing cotton-less sheep walking with listless fervor
Towards silenced, condemned “Noahs”
I signal pilot within my melancholic wisdoms
To redirect our flight
To a new horizon
To an unsheltered domain
Where even waterfalls still allow
Conducive verbiage to rise
Amongst the unabashedly meek
To a destination
Where stature is defined by all
Not by one
Where character
Is developed under accountabilities’ pen
Where high horses & curtained theatrics
Are the only victims of banned tomorrows
Where honor
Is still defined
Without deleted, impulsive banter
Where friendship,
Love,
Wisdom,
Memories,
Shine
…
Because
Things
Things are no longer the same
Things are no longer the same
Things are no longer the same.
©Drake J. Eszes
“And my ties are severed clean. The less I have, the more I gain. Off the beaten path, I reign.” –Wherever I may Roam by Metallica (my lifelong song)
To the end, the Home will uproot itself in nomadic urge -
The Flesh will ache to lift as paper from its delicate strands
with their reddy pulse, to float off as the slip of a dove
and bask with the world in a kitey splendor
and unbound from bitter ink,
and proudly Naked to the next beginning.
The Skin wishes to dirty itself,
soles in urban sewage and belly in a ritual mud.
The Skin wants to be tattooed, marked, and symphonically
Undefined. The Skin wants to be held.
And what of the Brain? Oh, You clumsy, grey thing,
How You whine to create, how You noisily rustle with blurred Eurekas
in Your shaking box, how stubborn! And too clean!
You must train each day to soften Your concrete,
and finger the soil in. You throb to be spoken to,
And Tongue: You throb to speak.
You want an exercise that dumbly bends You in
unfamiliar manner, You want Your spine to heavily crack,
to be understood and answered in turn
by another fluid, pink leech.
Lungs, You must breathe!
Expand proudly, thin sails!
Exhale rusted screams and gossamer whispers
to tell them who You are.
To proclaim Your bit of earth,
to which You are purposed a return,
a carbon christening.
The two jelly-eggs of the Eyes beg the colors,
They stubbornly will the whitened pokes in a black-blanketed sky.
And They must recognize the special ones They dilate for,
memorize each canyon and all their pebbles
for the day they are curtained.
And ears, You flat, blushing roses, You micey rounds;
You know Your purpose well. Let the instruments seduce You,
And the words of another prick Your delicate hairs.
Receive the good news -
that You are loved.
Now, scatter, scatter!
Seek every crevice,
and fit yourself to each corner untouched.
Cradle the empty, fill the cups.
It is not until You know all the world and hold every bone
That You will join to birth the infant Soul.
The town clock marks out the hours of the night;
Its pallid face looking down on the wet street below,
Empty save for the occasional swish of a car speeding
To a distant suburb. There is a brief glimpse of
A grim portrait of urgency, or frozen duet of
Snarling adversaries, or the happy laughing faces of
Lovers. Blank windowed shops cast pools of light on the
Glistening tarmac in competition to the high yellow flare of
Street lights.
But it is darkness that forms the stage
On which I walk. Deep shadows swallow the light,
Denying it power, denying it purchase in this world.
The shops soon end and their reminder of the busyness
And bustle of the day gives way to solitude.
My footsteps no longer echo between the shopfronts;
Now they sound only in my own small world, the
Curtained windows of homes too far away to reflect
My steady steps.
Town left behind darkness shrouds me, each step
Taking me further from the slow moving hands
And sightless face. As I walk, measuredly, like the ticking hands,
I catch glimpses of life in the neat houses that line the
Street. Here a teenage birthday, all frivolity and delight;
There the staid conformity of middle age – television, a
Cup of tea, an early night. And here, and there,
The warmth of seduction in frozen glimpses of passion, or
Passing of love, faint heard words of anger and rejection.
Ahead, darkness becomes absolute; no curtained windows to
Remind me of the rawness and tenderness of life, yin and
Yang. Only my steps, steady but resolute, their sound a
Cadence for my thoughts to follow in obedience. I think,
And therefore I am, except on this journey when thought
Leads only on into the darkness, and “I am” becomes
“I was” in my mind. The darkness ahead gently
Engulfs my past, and proposes my future. And far behind,
The hands of the clock mark out the hours of the night.
Trembling in early fall’s chill air,
I feel a giant dread gnawing at my insides
as I draw closer and closer
to the truth I seek.
Halfway across the large expanse of grass,
I’ll soon be past the line of trees
separating our property from the secluded woods.
Fighting terror’s grip, I press on.
I think of the many times he dragged himself in late.
How he lay beside me on our bed
breathing hard
and how he always thought I was asleep.
In the morning came the excuses:
He had to work late; he was at the gym;
he simply needed to be alone and took a long drive.
Those things did not explain his labored breathing
when he came to bed so late
or the way he dropped his gaze away from me
every time I questioned him about his whereabouts
the night before.
I had started noticing dirt beneath his fingernails.
I caught him a few times
scrubbing at it when he’d awoke from an exhausted sleep.
Last night I waited by the curtained window
and what I saw has brought me
to where I am right now this morning
walking past the tree line, following a trail
into the woods – a trail of foot prints
the same size as my husband’s feet.
It stops suddenly where I see weeds.
My heart is pounding.
Fresh soil has been upturned
and then packed down again
and covered carelessly by brush.
Beyond this spot,
I see other similar large rectangular spaces
covered with scatterings of brush.
I raise the shovel (the same shovel, which from our garage,
had been clean last time I checked it and which now
is covered on its edges with caked dirt.)
He thinks I buy the stories he’s been telling me.
How I dread what I’m about to do,
for soon I will uncover
what lies
beneath the lies.
Written Feb. 20, 2017 for Contest of John Lawless
He walked along the beach a man forlorn
Forgotten were his dreams, his heart was torn
The gentle waves spoke of the years gone by
And drew salt water down from saddened eye
He saw some driftwood lying on the shore
It sparked his interest and he longed for more
He touched it gently, to his great delight
Sandalwood he’d found: passion to ignite
The need to carve once more came to his mind
A joy he’d lost and could no longer find
He took it home, that battered piece of wood
With hopes to turn it into something good
A mane of hair took shape beneath his hands
Flowing waves of curly wooden strands
Round shoulders of the woman of his dreams
And breasts and waist of beauty carved supreme
Gracefully her form began to take on shape
When he was done he stood there mouth agape
She was a goddess made of his desire
A love for her consumed him like a fire
At night he wished upon a falling star
She’d come to life and chase his sorrows far
He looked at her before he fell asleep
And smiled for he’d forgotten how to weep
He felt a stirring there beside his bed
A presence seemed to hover near his head
He looked upon his statue now in flesh
Her body like a breeze was young and fresh
She pressed her lips so gently over his
“I need to tell you, love, listen to this
I was discarded, battered, wounded sore
I chose to be a part of life no more
You saw in me my hidden beauty fine
Your wish has reached the heart of the Divine
I stand before you, answer to your prayer
Sent to give you love and tend’rest care.”
She kissed his lips, and veiled him in her hair
His tears she wiped, this answer to his prayer
With him she lay, her breast his pillow sweet
The richest fare of sandalwood, his treat
What else transpires is curtained from our sight
Burning sandalwood…..scents the glowing night
Eileen Manassian Ghali