Long Disarrayed Poems
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Poet's Notes:
My poet's notes must precede the next Echo Poem as well because the poet
has not given me permission to publish her poems on my site. I can, of course,
reference her poems without restriction. So the TH in the title here is short for
Treasure Hunt. To really enjoy my poem to the full (although it does stand
alone as well), I suggest you read Lora Colon's Poem called 'Panic' on
Poemhunter.com first. PH is a great site as well and I publish both places.
Just Who Is He - AND HOW CAN HE SAVE YOU?
(The Poet responds in fear to a fearful plea for love. Is love ever easy?)
Just who is this man that your heart's looking for?
I know I am longing for some clarity,
In spite of connections, you always want more,
The dream is fading he could ever be me.
And how's he to find you when bridges you burn,
Hiding your warmth, with a candle, in a cave.
You've chosen the dark (that now blocks his return) ,
Is it a companion you seek or a knave?
What path should he look for, the one with wax dripping?
Would it cheapen the game to offer a clue?
Sad to say but I feel confidence slipping
The desperate words of your poem are true!
Still I can't ignore the panic you speak of
Though, I say, frankly its source mystifies me,
In times not long past I proffered Noah's dove
When the ark of your life was missing at sea.
You suggest that we substitute knight for night
In the hope that this just might end your pain,
But I'm doubting this lack's the source of your plight,
Could the cost of saving you all be in vain?
Are your poems to us simply contrivance
To see other's hearts just for you disarrayed,
Keeping your heart to yourself wrapped in silence,
While the world falls apart, in failure, dismayed?
What are the dangers you say that he's facing
Or private pain not to be paid for your art?
For it could be his real life you're erasing
And for what, just the vagaries of your heart?
He's down on his knees, he's covered with bruises
Look, he seeks you where nobody else would dare!
In his heart, it's you, no room there for ruses,
And when he finds you, could it be you can't care?
How many times must a scripture be read to us?
So many ways they suck em in to follow and trust.
We're led to believe that heaven is made of gold.
I say heaven is without don't trust what they`ve sold.
The purest of hate, most evil is Wiccan turned catholic black in red.
The weak, the blind, the burning glazed in dread.
All sheep follow the next, like that life of a drone.
The simple mind cannot help itself if it`s left all alone.
The priest, the pope, the father's, and every single bishop.
A fact them fu*kers spread suffering, I've had enough.
No longer can I just sit and have faith in a holy religion.
There's one thing I know, and that`s they have never given...
A holy father, or a graceful joyous place.
My mind expansion is like that of cosmic outer space.
Misplaced every single person that I loved that has died.
I know cuz I've tried, and tried and have only cried.
Most times I was wretched in my life.
But I was awakened so I'd realize such strife.
How many fathers would kill their own son with such brutal torture just to be a God.
Surely you must find this interesting, wicked, and odd.
You should look harder when there's much more mayhem.
Why do you continually contribute and constantly pay him?
The same song for 7411 years.
Is so weird, as the sight of the Seer`s
How many times can the same story be the savior of man.
Every age span gives life the same fu*king hand.
I've been to the place of my real grace,
It is not what you think.
It took lots of time,
It tore the deepest of pain.
For me to vomit the master of the my insane.
Took it all in then realized my misguided path of destruction.
They perform black magic under these cathedrals of corruption.
It was me who was wrong to have been so disarrayed.
Where was your God each and every time a child or woman was betrayed.
By a church of child molesters and the torturous murders of women throughout it`s entire existence,
There`s an absence of god`s love and his power he displayed Egypt, no interjections like exodus with no interference nor his holy assistance .
As a child and a teenager I used to attend a mission-hall,
Which had an outreach to the homeless of Edinburgh;
And every three weeks until I was about seven,
They would give the last call so that god could your soul deliver.
They said at the end of every sermon,
Every three weeks in the evening,
“This is the last call!” and they meant ever,
‘Cos Jesus could return any time for the believing.
I felt so intimated by it, this unkind presence of mind,
That I could not properly sit on my seat,
But I knew that they were insane with melancholy,
And that it was the real dynamics of life that they could not heat.
I refused to chat with them after services and at the youth club,
About what I believed and about the in and outs of my thoughts,
But poignantly sat down with the Youth Fellowship leader once,
And talked to him about what in me life had very clearly wrought.
When I said outrightly that I did not believe in the Second Coming,
And that life was for keeps, give or take a few possibilities,
It was as if his world crashed down disarrayed in shambles,
As he was shattered by my philosophical sway and confident amble.
He realised fully that I was damning their last call,
The pressure of it and how it riled, writhed and tormented;
That it was for no good reason, for no universal moral principle,
For no disciplinary cause and for no complimentary angle.
So he arrogantly walked away from me, rudely with passivity,
Not aware of his own need of polity, sense and direction,
But it was a triumph for that mission-hall boy worker,
To react to an objector so firmly and not himself recapture.
They were generally unresponsive and indifferent,
To intelligent objectors who had a righteous way,
Because this left them with their day-to-day lunacy,
With reality dressed for them to face another day.
That mission has changed today into a Christian centre,
Bright and refurbished and selling lunches in a cafe,
And I am proud of its journey, how far it came,
Because the transition was by no means lame.
PAPERS I TEAR OFF
I write some times with my blood
When I speak to you about brutality;
Heavy boots trample breaking bones
Heads roll in the streets smearing the sands in crimson
Heart bleeds and words flow
Could they burn the scoundrels?
And some times with my tears;
When love overflows my heart
With wings unseen they soar high with my dream
Sings melodies hear solely sober souls
When the words caress the papers twinkle
And breaths life into them
Some times I paint with hues of my heart
When the Sun scatters golden tinge in the ocean
And disappear behind the horizon
Leaving only the awful rumble
The giant darkness swallows the ocean
Lonely ashore in the hazy void I hear the breeze buzz
Some times I construct structures
With disconnected thoughts entwined in brain
Disarrayed arrangements of strips of broken glasses
Fussy and glossy they entice
Mystifying takes to a world hidden
When I detach from the pad
I tear a page of my heart
See your fingers smeared in blood
Do you get the smell of my intense love?
Does your heart bleed for me?
ASOKUMAR.K.A
Your golden hair like Jason's fleece
Flows and streams, now disarrayed, yet neat
Waving as a banner at once to the beat
Yet with promise and rapacity so replete
How your eyes sparkle behind your lids
How they must glow and how they must flick
Flash when they open so wide and blue
Yet now closed, as fire trap't by flue
Your arms now lift, delicate fingers wave
To banish the world of monotony and pain
They so loose and murmuring true meaning
A life I view 'thout your simple, sweet reasoning
As you move, loose rapacious rampant glee
From a world of spirit - simplicity
Your hips they do sway, speak condemnation
Of all misery hereto, to which we seem hasten
Conniving voracious creature which harkens
Is banished and cast off, made but microcosm*
Leo, great lion is as nothing to your rhythm
Struck off as venality to your creation, your schism
The human so simple so caught up by miasma*
Is at once transfixed, in place, in paroxysm*
This viewer at once poised, caught up in his pride
Is now gravitating, and to thee I must slide
Knowest you how wonderfully you exemplify
What is contrast to left - so right
Nay but you don't, and such is thy grace
You dance so light-airy, make perfect this place
Shining hair and glowing eyes
Re-laxed posture, abandoned pride
All memory is cast away, aside
As you dance in beauty, perfection, arised.
* Microcosm - A world in miniature.
* Miasma - A noxious atmosphere or influence
* Paroxysm - A sudden attack or violent expression of a particular emotion or activity
*** The image here represented is supposed to be a girl dancing. Leo was a suitor of hers, rebuffed by the dancer, who enjoyed herself, while dancing alone to "It's a beautiful life," by Ace of Base
Splitting open the rough rocky ledge of my garden,
a sapling grows at the edge of the broken pathway.
A lone bud blooms unnoticed with the color of spring
within my heart with the alluring fervor of florid love.
You waft past me on the wings of zooming zephyr,
blowing a sensuous storm of passion through me.
I hold the ruffled petals close to my confused heart,
lest they fly away to the obscure recess of wilderness.
Drenched in the diffused drizzle of twilight shimmer,
you walk away from the withered garden once green.
Your stride of neglect tramples unaware the flower,
its crumpled petals swathe my disarrayed heart.
On the splendorous crown of my halcyon heart,
shimmering with the silver sheen of the argentine night,
you gleam suffused with the sequins of mesmeric moon.
I try to feel the tempting touch of your elusive charisma,
but you glide away out of my sight like the autumn cloud,
across my articulated sky I’ve carved only for you.
Down the verdant vale of my cascading heart,
your footprints trace the trail of disappearing desire.
As I walk on the deserted garden path going nowhere,
the remains of my love languish in psychic wilderness,
longing for the enthralling embrace of the stardust,
drizzling with the patina of your grace, I see tarnished.
From the ebony edge of the opaque night falling stealthily,
storm clouds surge with flashing thunders of tearing strife,
splinter my sky studded with the shards of dream.
From beneath the dispersed debris of distraught desolation,
I perceive my depressed yearning discern the chaos in my heart.
After Alice almost forgot her exhilarating experience
in the dream of her visit to the wonderland,
her imaginative mind drove her often outdoors onto
the open expanse of the undulating landscape
that rolled before her dreamy eyes with animated fantasy.
One night as she was spell-bound,
gazing at the star-crowned sky,
she felt she flew beyond the galaxy
and fell into a wormhole where
she travelled faster than light
from one point to another disparate point
in the space-time continuum.
The survival struggle thrust her
into the abysmal warren,
capturing intrepidly her fading frame
in the fleeting flow of the flexible time.
The disarrayed pieces of her mind were thrown
into the debris of dismal confusion,
she was unable to escape from the chasm,
even if she arduously attempted ad infinitum.
She lost the concept of the present
as she traveled time to the cosmic distant past,
witnessed the glare of the Big Bang
and the birth of the billion suns of the milky way.
A far away dwarf star pulled her then
across the curved space of vacuity
to the future where she saw the Big Crunch,
shrinking the universe
into a singular God particle.
Traveling mystified in the tunnel of time
through the wormhole,
as her psychic alcove merged with spatial infinity
she was sucked into a black hole
that bent her self-control
and deformed her perception of time.
While she was losing mesmerized
the sense of her entity into nothingness,
and started to gravitate toward the point of no return,
she came out once again from the trance of fantasy.
Defenders Endangered
Citizens unite spirits; choose the better part!
Life, God given, stolen by greed’s black-heart.
Industry progressed far beyond the pushcart.
Thus, setting some selves apart as better…smart.
The endangered protecting the endangered –
Compassion fettered by solutions gartered
The courageous, methodically hindered,
Lacquered lives, wildlife “murdered”, man endangered.
Watch helplessly, complaining; or take action!
Bail out nature ravaged; write a new caption.
“Defenders of Wildlife go for Gold Bullion.”
Shield dying manatees, turtles, and sturgeon.
Animals flailing, ruling leaders failing,
Minds disarrayed, inside folks are crying.
Did we get to this place wanting and buying?
Priorities, pocketbooks…are folks lying?
Take it to court to find solutions in short.
Killing is no game…business…or sport.
Drilling in the gulf BP must abort.
Then pay to all people for life they did thwart.
Struggles in nature hurt in various ways.
The chow chain is altered…less food at buffets.
The airways go stinking as wildlife decays.
Meanwhile the culprits squander words on sashays.
What will it take to make clean up occur?
Will a boycott of products stop endless banter?
Cook by the campfire; let adventure flicker.
Keep sights on God; infrastructure may fracture.
Lust not for things, but make God man’s desire.
Cut back on comforts; let creativity inspire.
Love one another; make family your empire.
Or face the last days and the cleansing with fire.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
May 29, 2010
Poetic Form: Rhyme (A series of four line monorhymes.)
Disarrayed sands
dislodged from timeless domain,
dropped by chaotic instants,
settle ceaseless,
bemused
on stratified shelf
of languid life,
disorganized
in moments moving,
dismantled
with dispersed dust
of petrified perturbation,
the truth of trust
suffused with sanguinity,
resting on ruffled ripples
of disordered discontent,
oscillates…
In bewildered efflux
of delinquent dismay
everything changes,
tousled,
mystifying alchemy
of metamorphosis
reveals real pretense
of traumatic transmutation,
tormenting…
Disorderly squall
drives sweeping depression
through the void
of despondent whirlpool,
the mangled mind
drowns
in distraught nothingness
disheveled,
splinters the leitmotif
of ethereal emotions,
embedded,
confounded cascade
of consternation
carries them away,
unconcerned…
My sandcastle
on shrunk shore of yearning
tumbles down
in confused clutter
of disorientated debris,
in divesting mayhem
I rise revived,
shape-shifted,
from the sands of time,
discover in an instant,
enthralled,
the dormant flute
of sensuous symphony
play the melody
of ecstatic essence,
entranced,
in convivial concerto
reverberates
the last refrain
of melodic memory,
euphoric epithet
of time-framed essence,
eternal…
MICHELANGELO'S HANDS
When eyes delight upon a work of Michelangelo—gut wrenching art--
Creation by a mere man, from his enchanted hands
explode results of David –perhaps a heavenly message to impart
To the earthbound, scattered world flung far in lands
mountain wrapped, plain dirt plains or seabound rocky shores.
Vagabonds, they come to marvel by foot or cart. In awe they stand
before the stone made man. Walking through the door,
drawn to David’s splendid daunting beauty—his far gaze
imparts to the viewer-- in that instant, in this life there is nothing more
of beauty needed to be seen. Years pass, nights will follow days
yet thoughts of this wondrous creature never waiver, never fade
but haunt delightedly. What manner is there to praise
the artist for a gift so long lasting? Repeated thoughts played
reflecting David's beauty --and played again—durable throughout the years,
Clarified and Magnified in time, not diminished--when mind is disarrayed
suddenly a glimpse will flash—through grief’s unbidden tears
David will stand in mind’s eye, unchanged , ever manly strong--
beauty possible by stone conscience unblemished by dreadful acts or craven fears.
Thus it is --creation of a man who does no wrong.
Perhaps it is the reason Heavens blessed the world with Art
which reaches all-- both rich and poor--announces to the throngs--
Look to men of stone to find the rare and pure of heart.
Victoria Anderson-Throop ©
11/28/12