Long Decay Poems
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A trickling and discharging of these economic systems does weigh me.
A dribbling, and dropping of these little small paper colored green-backs.
A congress full of life-time professionals and political hacks,
and with a moral decline a tooth-decay black.
It does not matter if you have the highest of noted degrees.
The system is always on the verge of a catastrophe or a cold freeze.
You could know everything from A to Z.
Yet, only still to be tightly wrung through and squeezed.
A Corporate Cast system is the only thing that is real.
A theater casting calls of the first, then the last that's the deal.
The elites, and their enclosed franchise masked.
Is this fair or unfair or is it too hard to see.
This, to view, a carousel of toy ponies that are in a circle and phony.
It, an allusion like Fair; to be seen and this you will feel.
"Our only hope is in the Bible; its Truths and its highest Creeds."
"If and only when you truly do see it as a most highly sought of zeal."
"A one percent Fair; now in this world is seen; a pyramid slim scheme."
3 AM Thoughts
Moments like these awaken an imaginary riddle
in this dilemma. Being lost in these thin memories,
In an effort to retain the crux of the flux, while my
Thoughts unlocked dreams from reality.
Wishing you were here in this void of decay.
For all the right reasons, if only for a moment,
Don’t leave me lonely in this true ending.
After the most painful goodbye.
Now unspoken, such a memory loop is draped
In the mist, searching through remnants for any
Gentle hum or a reminder in a single word.
Maybe a faint remembrance before fate fades
into a life where loneliness is your presence,
dimmed by your absence.
Here longing in lament: come back to us,
And fill that corner of space in my heart,
where we still share the same sky.
Underneath the weight of it all, I’m feeling
missing you. This is no artificial romanticism,
No warmth that bleeds distant life forms of letting
Go even still, I am nothing but consumed with you.
With me, with us, here in this hollow space,
Where we last forever,
In Elysium.
FIRE the Immortal
Fire the Immortal—primordial breath,
Kindled in chaos, a twin flame of death.
Born in the forge where the cosmos ignites,
It dances through nebulae, seeding the night.
With tongues of plasma and fusion-fed might,
It devours the dark, gives birth to the light.
Fueling the stars in their hydrogen blaze,
A crucible shaping the eons and days.
It dines upon carbon, on oil, on trees,
Unlocking their essence in alchemical ease.
Combustion—a whisper of matter undone,
Entropy's waltz beneath moonlight and sun.
In crackling hymnals it chants to the spheres,
Echoes of supernovae ring in our ears.
A sacred convulsion, a quantum ballet,
A flare in the silence where atoms decay.
It moves like a spirit through vacuum and void,
A relic of stars long burned and destroyed.
From the heart of a candle to Betelgeuse’s core,
It wanders forever—then burns all the more.
You may quench the blaze in a hearth or a storm,
But the ghost in the embers reforms and reforms.
For trapped in the ashes are secrets of suns,
And in every flicker, the universe runs.
In the fusion of atoms, in stellar descent,
In novas and firestorms, it finds its lament.
A force that remembers the Big Bang's first cry—
Still roaring in silence where galaxies lie.
So honor its wisdom, its wrath and its grace,
This elemental phantom that time can't erase.
Fire is not only destruction or birth—
It is stardust incarnate, the lifeblood of Earth.
Immortal it lingers, from cradle to tomb—
A guardian of cosmos, in heat, flame, and plume.
And even when silence extinguishes breath,
Fire remains—older than death.
Deep within me are rusty, crumbling memories and grief,
like a pile of rubbish the dregs of yesterday decay;
all the bits and pieces of my life deep and inner lay,
but under withering sadness I can find a flower or green leaf.
A beautiful memory rising and I sweep away the trash to embrace,
and all the years of pain fade and I am in a lovely, lovely place;
oh, often I go to my most innermost space to find a magical trace.
I have collected clutter and piles of rubbish in this life,
lots of debris and toxic waste among the odds and ends in a heap;
it is enclosed in my innermost space way down deep, deep,
I keep the worst experiences buried because they cut like a knife.
But, every once in a while something charming grows,
from all the garbage in my soul a beautiful thought glows;
and for a moment I throw away all my many woes.
Oh yes, in the junkyard on the map of my existence,
I keep all the garbage and the lovely memories secure;
and only me, me alone has the key to the padlocked door,
I bring it all with me no matter how twisted and long the distance.
Yet, there is another space also cluttered where the lovely flourish,
I water each memory daily with my tears to nourish;
and to my broken heart I press them and forever will cherish.
_____________________________
October 4, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/My Crumbling Inner Space
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1186-188-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, My Favorite Junkyard
sponsor, Craig Cornish
15th Place
Seventy-three spins
The earth has completed around the sun
Since the first time I saw the light of
The day
There were a few spins I had that were full of laughter and joy
That I wished never to end
And there were those too many spins, filled with grief and tears
That I prayed to end at once
But
The earth, indifferent to my pleas kept spinning at its constant pace
For
It had the seasons to take care of and life on the planet
To maintain!
Now that so many years have past
I am more mindful of the number of spins that still remain
But
Even if one more spin or less remains for me to go around our life giving sun
I will not utter a single complain
For
All along I knew a mortal to be,
A mere speck of this holy dust that all bodies are made from
Which, after I am gone, to dust will return
But
My spirit, obeying neither the law of gravity nor the laws of
Growth and decay
Its ethereal wings will unfold and soar to heavens,
To the planes of spiritual existence-- far from earthly suffering and
All other worries ,
Where in the presence of its creator will itself find, ready to report all
Of its actions while was incarcerated in a human body
Then
It will wait to receive--as all of us will-- the fairest of all
Judgments!
P.S.: What a ride it has been so far...never boring!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 August 2017
*I was born on Tuesday, August 15, 1944 at 04:00 p.m.
Three times I came close to die but the good Lord kept me alive for that
reason I cannot complain even if there were no more spins left for me to go
round but certainly will not turn down any additional spins offered! Haha!
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours - waiting for rebirth.” Constance La France
Working your way through hardened soil
beneath my back bedroom window -
fetching note to my springtime eyes and nose
yellow yard breaking forth.
Marvel, unhelped by human hand
happens yearly right on schedule
I mowed you down in the heat last summer
when your blossoms faded.
I seldom contemplate your roots -
the part of you that’s underground.
Your heart, disfigured bulb, succumbs below
transforms over winter.
What goes on down deep in the dirt
is a death of the dearest kind.
Nature takes over the care of the bulb -
rebirth is the result.
Some have dubbed you daffodil;
mom always called you a jonquil;
others label you an Easter flower.
You bring new life to earth.
It is said that the dance of soul all there is,
sustaining all ecstasies by image certainties.
Vapors from galaxies atmospheres for sure,
expressions of divinities by light of pure.
Souls changing bodies in time,
as animals, plants and crystals to refine.
The dance by rhythm of the divine beloved,
frequencies in gestalt gently gloved.
Manifestations through mysteries observed,
rising the surface of living light preserved.
The joy by tears in depth of life perfection,
to know the dance of soul protection.
Loving Spirit under all heavens remains,
unfolding natures bliss by heart domains.
The Sufis dance in spirals trance,
waves in the ocean of eternities romance.
Voyages from ports of spheres towards pearly stars,
genius talents follow those spiral memoirs.
Melodies from the wandering Moon, what are they?
enchanted dancing souls with no decay.
.
the wind has died down—
the ground s t r e w n
with nature’s debris—
autumn’s palette
a feast for the eye … a shelved chore
before the
inevitable miasma of dusty decay
teased by wind’s chilling fingers
that’s tasted in the back of the throat –
green and red leaves
scattered side by side—
a conspiritual cosying up
a compelling contrast:
youthful green, aged red—
although red leads the rainbow,
it
follows
in nature …
the beauty of old age
unfolds in the display of fallen leaves—
s c a t t e r e d to the wind
infinitely wiser …
A glimpse in time
I wander your rugged roads
Ignited by a glowing future
Digging into my own mind
So that the surgeon might fix himself
Sullied in a swinging sorrow...
Born into your light at the start of the day
I then mire under the stars each night in a rueful decay
A zillion lives in a day
Fractured love is love after all...
The Garden Isle holds you closer than Oahu does
Less of the screams and shouts of industry
While ghostlike fortune shoots from my ears
My identity dispersing
And I stand aright on a beckoning beam...
Soldiers of madness don your fake noses
Rename your children
And run aground with me
Haunt the light that has no name
Leaves of morass
This is what drains
Not being able to hold dear to one rhythmic chord
Sensing escape I flee
I mean to fly
When instead the will sponges back into life
And I am a coward among cranberries
Mending the unlocked gate
Laughing for you
Where silence would be stronger
Just not as fun
The arrangement of our lives
Appear as boundless landscapes
Illuminating a glimpse of the now
Time untethered
For your remorseless surrender
While out driving, I couldn’t help, but stop and explore an old Victorian manor on a knoll. The unkempt courtyard was barred by a rusty old gate that had a chain and busted padlock to keep intruders out. My curiosity over took me as I gazed at the ivy and brush covered decaying building. Seeing no harm, I walked up the broken creaky steps on that silent eerie, deafening evening as a cold chill raced up my spine, even though I had a warm winter coat on.
To my surprise the weather-beaten door opened slightly when I knocked on it. After peeking in, I slowly stepped inside to a musty smelling great- room. As I started walking across the creaking rumbling floorboards, a warm breeze blew pasted me and slammed the front door shut. I jumped and let out a tide of nervous mumbling as I moved farther inside. There was a barren feeling of life as I eyed the dark musty, rundown old neglected house.
Dry rot had taken over the ceilings from being empty so long. Rats had run across the decaying dirty floors, huge fly filled dusty cobwebs in every corner. Despite the decay of the old manor it somehow retained a profound grandeur with an old run-down grandfather clock even though it had stopped living years ago. Making my way upstairs I thought I could hear low sounds of screaming, weeping crying of terrified voices. I couldn’t shake the niggling that something was amiss when I heard a loud noise coming from the attic that sent a chilling cold feeling down me. Hearing a door squeak open, I turned and raced back down the stairs.
Stopping in the great-room to catch my breath I jumped when I felt something rub against my leg. My head jerked down only to see a black cat purring and rubbing my ankles. As I looked up the old clock started to chime and with a click the front door swung open. Reaching down I scooped up the cat in my shaky arms and ran out the open door to my car.
With the cat curled up purring on the seat beside me, I raced toward home wondering what caused me to stop. I could be sitting in a nice hot bath or curled beneath my warm down comforter.
8/17/2018