Long Decaying Poems
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Imagine waiting for something or maybe it’s someone. Someone you look for in everyone you pass by but not someone that is easy to find. Everytime you pass by these people you look at their feet first, see what kind of shoes they have on. Destroyed black sneakers that are stained darker with red. Then you move up to their ankles, boney and sticking out like balls of compressed dirt, filled with worms and insects on the inside. Your gaze moves up to their knobby bruised knees that look like perhaps they’ve been painted on with watercolors. Next your eyes follow upwards to their thighs. You already know that they say it’s just their cat. Past their skirt you get up to their short-cut top, their ribs sticking out from their skin, looking like they’re trying to rip through to be free. You move your eyes up to their scarf wrapped around their neck hiding the bruises from their so-called lovers. Finally you reach up to their face. So sweet yet such a saddened look going across it. Pale white skin with tints of blue from the veins trying to shine through. Yellow and brown eyelids like dying sunflowers in a sad vase left behind and forgotten in a dark room with the blinds shut tight. Eyes that look like drops of golden honey or maybe even sap from a maple tree dripped into them, giving them the somewhat ‘life’ that they long to have. Their nose, glazed with hints of red around the openings from being wiped so many times to get away the excess ‘powders’ that make them feel again what they believe to be called joy and happiness. Lips redder than a blood moon that occurs only twice a year, peeling apart from the hours upon hours of picking and ripping apart with their teeth. Lastly your eyes wander up to their thinning hair which was once before very lucious and thick. Your eyes return to theirs as the passing is almost finished. You can see the worry in their eyes slowly go away a little bit as they find comfort in a stranger's eyes, yours. You smile and they return the expression back. You look back down at their mouth when they smile, their decaying teeth slightly showing right before their mouth goes right back shut to its distressed resting position. After you two pass all the way you start to wonder, do other people do the same? Do other people observe others as you do with everyone, looking for that person in someone else that you forever will long to be with?
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Across the Atlantic, 1793-
We cry out cursing to our very gods
Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots.
And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed
And setting in the milken sky, is the moon.
This is the hell that befalls one’s prism
If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism.
The ways of mokala are not our ways
And their days are never like our days.
Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell
As it would guide souls to wisely dwell:
Now permit me continue with my sad tale
Before we are rapidly placed on sale.
For here I stand under an alien sun
Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung
Battered, chained to the queue’s label
As humans are placed on the auction table.
Here I proceed with my tale feeding you
With my pain, pains of brothers on cue
As they are sold off like fresh tobacco
Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero.
***
Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old
The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold
Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm
Beating us to yield forth into realism.
Light strained in through rat nibbled openings
Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins
Vicious to the point of abandonment
Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement.
Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked
East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked-
Acquainting itself with the crampy hold
Taking in every detail for any bolt.
In long prodigious rows we humans lay
Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say
Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks.
They now submissive despite the reeks.
A cough here, a huff there. A groan here
A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near.
A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling
There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling.
That pungent stench, from decaying beings:
Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings.
I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained
My stomach flaring to throw up content.
And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies
Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies.
Tossing about, screeching on their suppers-
Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs.
And my groans joined the choir, a dirge
Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge
Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy-
And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!
I'm scared...
I'm not prepared...
to meet my end...
to drift into the river's bend...
I'm not prepared...
people start to stare...
people don’t seem to care
If I live or die
If I stay on ground or fly
I see my end...unwind...unwind...and it makes me blind...
The tears that are clogging up my eyes
They’re feeding me lies…and the thoughts whisper cries
I'm treasure...never to be found
Decaying in the ground
Forever...
I'm sorry...I'd never
Mention suicide again to you...
Don't be blue...though you get the clue
I'm not prepared...
people start to stare...
people don’t seem to care
If I live or die
If I stay on ground or fly
I see my past…unwind…unwind…now, I’m blind
But I see it in my mind’s eye
I'm not prepared...
people start to stare...
people don’t seem to care
If I live or die…
Live or die…
Live or die…
But I’ll try…
To live and make you feel happy
‘Cause I, alone, am feeling needy…
Greedy…shady…
I'm not prepared...
people start to stare...
people don’t seem to care
If I live or die…
I’m ready to meet my end…
The waters brew…and my fate blends
In with the gloomy, despairing river's blissful waves
The sky swarms above me…I want to see you
Again…but you’ve met your end
I'm not prepared...
people start to stare...
people don’t seem to care
If I live or die…
I STAYED strong…Where do you belong?
Your life ended like a shimmering star
You ended your tune of delight…I can’t hear your song
Repeat it again and again in my ears…
You left me with an everlasting scar
I'm not prepared...
people start to stare...
people don’t seem to care
If I live or die…
I want to die…just let me fly
And reach to heaven’s height
But, I’d feel guilt and contrite
I'm not scared (of your absence)...
people start to stare...(and I feel dense)
people don’t seem to care (I can’t bear)
If I live or die…(the thought of you, I won’t deny…I’m just trying to play fair)
In my heart…
You broke it apart…
It breaks my heart
To see you die and depart
From His light
Have you met your end
Around or near the river's bend?
Your heart breaks instead of bends
You still have some errands
To run...
You have the ability to run...
Just run...
And don't run off somewhere far away...or I'll consider you officially "gone"
But, first: get your duties done
And then...we can welcome the sun
Don't shoot yourself with a gun...
Put it down and run
WITH ME! *smile*
Psalms 118:22-24 - NKJV: “The stone which the builders rejected Has become the chief cornerstone. This was the LORD's doing;”
**************************************************************
Wisdom in Decrepit Stones
With bones and skin wilting away with age
Like withering stem and leaves of a tree
Like a house reaching a decrepit stage
I wade a few steps stooping to the knee
With the whole frame pining with stinging pain,
Treading a hundred steps a task in vain;
With a decrepit frame and ache in breast
Climbing some steps of my decaying home
Leads me utterly to gasping for breath
As battered by wild winds of a weird storm
I feel the need to take forthwith some rest
Like the twilight sun on its way to set ;
With a frail, feeble and mouldering frame
I feel like tumbling down at any time
Without any appalling stamp of shame
With my time ripe to kiss the earthly shrine
As the battered roof of a crumbling house
Forsaken to face its own fateful vows.
Yet my mind feels like waltzing tall and strong
The spirit simmering as ever fresh
The self shining as ever bold and young
The soul sparkling bright as ever blessed
As a house stone base that does not decay
But remains firm and does not fade away.
The mind retains insight plucked over time
Gleams with remembrance gathered over years
That ever remain valued and sublime
Like memories enshrined in walls` whispers
Like undertones relayed by cherished moans
Like wisdom captured in decrepit stones.
("" In order for the light to shine so brightly,
the darkness must be present"" -Francis Bacon)
Crossing That Siberian Desert Of Lost Souls
No joy, no peace, on that darken horrendous stroll
crossing that Siberian desert of lost souls
blazing sun hit by invisible arrows shot
wherein the weak die, left as carrion to rot
so many blinded by illusions that world sends
eyes shut, never seeing what world's ill wind portends!
Mankind swims in a world that its hopes slowly burns.
Rolling the dice as Fate and Death take wicked turns.
Once as a youth such an innocent soul was I
racing forward deluded thinking I could fly
until in too deep, heart cried out from burning heat
and the ill wind's angry flames licking my bare feet
Please a refuge, I pray Lord a refuge please send
Oasis, that this wilting body I may mend!
Mankind swims in a world that its hopes slowly burns.
Rolling the dice as Fate and Death take wicked turns.
As sky then chased away that fiery red-hot sun
ahead an oasis, quickly onward I run
away from lost and blinded journey through this hell
away from lingering doubts I could never quell
away from this world and its insidious pains
away from deep darkness and its decaying stains!
This soul left that black-world wherein hope slowly burns.
No dice, Fate and Death taking no more wicked turns.
Robert J. Lindley, 12 -21- 21
Rhyme, ( Truth That Darkness May Not Prevail )
Notes:
(1.) Inspiration and thanks given, for this poem was received from a comment made to my poem , titled, "I Looked To Heaven That Christmas Night"
Commented on 12/20/2021 5:43:00 PM by Jeannie Amos
("Not everyone makes it out of the Siberian desert of lost souls. Make the best of your blessing."
Thusly - I got this to stir my composing. - ** "" Siberian desert of lost souls. ""**
*******
(2.) Inspiring quotes from famous,
artists/thinkers/ philosophers/poets
(A.)
“Hope is being able to see there is light despite all of the darkness.”
-- Desmond Tutu
(B.)
“Differences are not intended to separate, to alienate. We are different precisely in order to realize our need of one another.”
-- Desmond Tutu
(C.)
"Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness."
-- Carl Jung.
Nothing to see so little to hear
speak and be silenced.
Smells peculiar...
Are my thoughts even mine?
Everything is glorious in the shadows of night
Bright lights that dim truth all sparkle and dreamy
City of savage fun and instant pleasures
The day breaks and the shadows slither
numb brains and worn out souls
drugged eyes burn by the sun light
awaken into the reality that the pleasure palace of night
is the decaying cesspool overflow of Hades slum.
Those crystal Babel towers shatter into the shantytowns of reality.
A little light shines a lotta truth.
Freedom
What happen to our revolution to make all equal before the law
Every one with opportunity to succeed
Success that benefited your fellow man
But now it feeds the greed
The richest one percent take over ninety percent of the worlds wealth
and they want the rest of it.
Babies are consider disease, there is a sick celebration and evil joy
for every aborted innocent life. What did the baby do?
The same people move Heaven and earth to protect
the wicked life of a mass murderer and loathe the victims
Sick people, very sick.
Justice only for the unjust.
Questions will be unanswered, other opinions shouted down
Disagree be mocked ridiculed and ostracize, Challenge be imprisoned.
One way, One voice One thought
all others crushed until they conform or die
Destroy the richness of past cultures
Deny the truths of Holiness, erase ideas of wisdom and knowledge,
Twist and confuse the spirit of youth
make them doubt their very gender and pervert their souls to Hell
War for profit, constant war to wear out and wean the will to live
That seductive siren's song beating the drums of war
replacing the heartbeats of young to march in rhythm of death
Media reports nothing but sensationalizes hate and propaganda
Opinions never news, feelings never facts, stupidity never truth
Talking heads with talking points, personalities with non information
Enough is enough
one lone voice reverberates through the wilderness
echos into the winds, blowing through each village, community
sweeps into towns and cities till everyone each person unites
revolution smolders, freedom brews , ideas simmer
overflowing for justice for dignity for reason
Liberty is calling
masses answer
His will be done
We shall be free
Amen.
Chorus x 2
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
1. A personality that is a well powered Agora
for affluence and power to trade
from collar to ankle, my long covering is embroidered
with stitches of laurels
as life’s willy, I stand against nature’s passive resistance
educated beyond satisfaction
as I neither drink the slurry of poverty
nor condemned in the scaffold of barbarism.
The depth of my influence
surpasses the borders of space
the slideshow of my worth stays not reclusive
as my path has gone beyond fate
to put fortune under no quandary to visiting me.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
2. There is no contest
to my flag standing highest and brightest
yet my blessings still feel reclusive
my known image will stand collateral for global peace.
Media houses even in the desert
roar in a moving tempest of my reputation
yet not half the needed depth is achieved.
My commanding drive and intimidating leadership
the first education to all newborns
I am a feather bed to all my networks
even in the grave, my decaying bones
will be worth more than the basilicas of ancient Europe.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
3. Stronger and continuously refined I am
as I stand on top
and drink the revile, like old wine
of those who wish to live in forgery of me
the air is tagged with my trademark
as communities mimic
from the chronicles and sweeteners of my exploits.
The sun rises from my past
to reiterate a future covered with curtains
of red silk and exotic flowers.
Down the stairs to a panhandler is stupid
but my pride can wear an Asian salwar
rather than an Italian blazer
yet, fully satisfied to cling
unto the appendages of God’s glory.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
Children of Guernica
Children of Guernica .
In deserts of no mans land
children play among the dead
killer themes from killer kings
what is the song they sing
comes raining down in
shrews of blood
Bombs burst though silent
air beyond the red glare
where mothers and children lie bare
In scripted carcasses of crumbling bricks
amidst the city streets
broken bodies limbs screaming
wombs of agonizing cries of despair
dropping down death from above
in the safety of the night
rivers of blood and angels of death
circle from high above
Sleep of sleepless dreams lie amidst the decaying corpses
children dressed in delicate dressings
starch white linen in ghostly silence
the lambs laid out to rest
Once so shocking citizen casualties
now so common collateral damage
distill the horrors of war
deadly games on computer screens
without touch or smell
Rage distorting the outline of shadow
horse’s teeth open wide to the sun
and necrophilia battle cries of death
stand still like ghosts amongst the dying flames
Wounded Pegasus gaping
requiems for generations yet to come
hypnotized to drum beats of war
where monsters of the id come alive
in the cradles of scorched earth lit destruction
Children born to such things
wander through the deserted streets
where there is no home to rest
sleep the dream of children
Lower at dawn their veils
through broken clocks time stands still
And tides rise over setting moons
amidst the lambs spheres of love vanishes
in landscapes of pain
Minotauromachy rises amidst the dead
monatours of death die slow
when swords turn to plowshares
iron bombs to gates that open
the hearts of wounded men
hush a by don’t you cry
go to sleep my little babies
In the meadows lie the little lambs
friends of the western winds
leave tortures on the bleeding grass
in lust for blood and shadows of fears
Moons of serpents awake before the dawn
crucible of blood cast bare amidst
the trembling wheat
street symphonies of stripped flesh
hanging from the poplar trees
Instruct us of our internal natures
inner conflicts and battlegrounds of distress
death instincts and dark knights of the soul
of tragedies and waste doorways through hell
and roots of indignant screams
I slowly open the old, rusty cemetery gate that groans,
it squeaks and creaks in the still night,
the trees are swaying dark shadows,
reaching out for me-
I walk
a path
strewn with fallen leaves,
they crunch beneath my feet echoing.
A sudden wind takes my long raven hair,
it whirls around me like a dark velvet, warm cloak.
The headstones go on for miles in rows and rows,
names engraved, cut into cold stone,
voices of those gone whisper softly,
but I journey on.
I seek
a stone
that bears my name.
Statues of angels turn and weep,
their tears wash me like gentle falling rain,
in the distance a mound of red roses already decaying.
This my resting place- I should be dwelling in peace.
I lived a short life and died young,
and in death I am beautiful,
but I linger still.
I was
a poet.
I seek the poems,
I wrote my words in blood,
in journals my many poems still exist,
words written that should have been buried with me.
it was my wish . . .
________________________
Writer's Statement:
The first thing you will notice about my poetry is that I like to write my
stanza's anisometric, that is, composed of unequal lengths. I also like
automatic writing without conscious control. I have the ability to put
myself into the poem, I am right there with the words as I am creating.
My poems tend to dwell on the sadder and more morbid aspects of life.
As the early romantic poets like to do in their poetry, I also like to write
in the school of drowned-in-tears style. Often my poetry is mournful and
takes the reader to a cemetery, a graveyard. So, I am also writing in
the style of the 18th century poets whose melancholy words dwelled in
darkness. This is known as the school of graveyard poetry.
In this poem, I am the ghost of a girl, a poet, who died young. She
cannot rest in peace because her poetry is lost to her in death. It was
suppose to be buried with her but was not. So now she will spend eternity
searching for her poems that dwells in the realm of the living.
__________________________
January 14, 2017
my mind is screaming
merely mimicking my lost design
my heart is bleeding
memories of a dissolved time
With the scorned child, I thought gone
the next stage of life has now begun
Feeling lost within my own doom
feeling as though I'm surrounded
Crowded within this room
screaming at the top of my shattered lungs
Not a single soul wavers
no one bothered to look up
They walk right through my scattered limbs
Leaving behind their muddy scuffs
Dancing upon them
Like leaves blown onto the street
Late into an autumn dusk
Trampled upon are the ones not seen
And on top of my punctured ribs, they stand
As if designated to their blind feet
This decaying plot of land
Porous and indented
with rubber soles imprinted
A pathway for others and nothing more
My torso became fused with the floor
my hand stretched to the sky
Grasping for any signs of life
My own existence I now struggle to find
But no plea no cry no sorrowful why
Passed through my lips are ever heard
Never acknowledged, not a single word
No value in me
Do others see
So I find myself in the dirt
Questioning my own existence
And it was in this very instance
Because the thought that I do not
was so Persistent
I prove to myself I exist
Because where else
but one's self
Would an owned thought live
So self I have no matter how distant
Self equals existence
But does it prove that I live
what is life but the execution of one's mind
Thinking about it and then creating it into time
So just maybe my problem does not lie
in the acknowledgment that I can not find
But in the value I have placed within it
And through my childish eyes
I view myself with the value I was given
And through these eyes, I see not
The value in myself or my thoughts
Thus with time into reality i create loss
Now the question has changed
and the new question raised
is how do I find value in something
where previously no value was placed
Who I am need to be reappraised
My childish eyes that once gave
A view of my worth
established at birth
Into this blackened dirt
They shall be laid
With newly found worth
Love for the child I gave
For value in her, I placed
And upon the replenished earth
A foundation was finally laid
I walk, rising from the dirt
A path that I have made
Forever Changed