Long Ductile Poems
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Written: July 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: "Be still, for the silence of God is the language of the soul." by Rumi
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I find my refuge not in clamor,
but in the pabulum pause between storms,
a meritorious maelstrom subdued by resolve,
where each heartbeat tackles dyspnea —
the lungs, twin sanctuaries of ductile grace.
Not all peace is pristine.
It is the palimpsest of scars deep in the psyche,
an arthroscopy of loss and lull,
each echo adumbrated in incarnadine hues
and scantlings of self painstakingly reformed.
From the outside, I might seem a yokel
stumbling into wisdom by accident,
but I have seen through the gadzookery—
the flapdoodle on polished tongues,
the hackneyed hymns of haste.
My ischemic edema has vanished,
peace thrills me
keeping my zeal is my prayer with each breath,
awe-inspiring, breathing mutters,
"Inhale—exhale.
I avoid the ornate vessels stillness.
I acquire it from shattered glass gleam.
And what of the noise? The crowd
that claim triviality as a virtue—
those who build their temples
on paucity and preach ergophobia
as a warning, wisdom.
I glide past them with quiet steps.
Extemporize no sermon,
But still I speak in zeugma’s elegance:
I bear burdens and breath,
loss and light,
quiet and question.
In the apiary of mind,
I do not cage the bees—
I waltz alongside them.
Let misanthropy molt,
let tarantism yield,
let even xenoglossia be translated
into the soft syllables of inner peace.
I am not an iconoclast seeking acclaim—
I shatter only what steals my serenity.
Peace is not antediluvian,
nor an oxer too high to overcome.
It is ductile—malleable—
crafted from the scantling echoes of life.
This is not pabulum wisdom.
This is the sovereign self,
the mind unbound from its anxious crucible,
coruscating in its quiet rebellion—
agog not with frenzy,
but liberated in its freedom.
"And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing -
seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge, you will need, be formed -
till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere,
O my soul." (Walt Whitman, 1819-1892, A Noiseless, Patient Spider)
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silence is like a beautiful flower
a rose blooming within my heart. . .
true silence is not about turning off the noise of life
like the television . . . radio . . . music
or turning off the computer and cell phone but it is more
it is the hunger of being just me
and having my own secret quiet- silent place
for me it all happens with meditation
meditation means bliss . . .
it is not something that is happening outside me
but deep within . . . it is a hunger I must feed often
I will call it an "inside" spiritual journey
a journey toward silence
I cannot take you along with me
or share it with you
you must make your own journey . . .
all connection with the outside world is broken
and all bridges back seem gone
the whole world disappears
it does not exist in my silence place
I think of my yoga mat as a magic carpet
that takes me where it will
the silence is profound . . .
yet there seems a wind blowing me up and away
no worldly noise penetrates
I need courage . . . I must let go of all fear
and I float to the center of my mind
where I am a bird singing in the distance
just singing . . .
I am a cloud full of rain ready to burst
then, I am the rain falling
I am a flower with petals opening in the sun
and I drift on a smooth ocean heading for my true north
in utter and beautiful silence . . .
____________________________
July 22, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/'my hunger for silence'
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1223-382-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to Strand Select D Contest
Brian Strand
Third Place
(Inspired by "The Persistence Of Time" by Salvador Dali
The bare bough and the brown bench
hold the warped watches like wet satin
with the metal losing its toughness,
the tree forgetting its foliage.
The sunset sky stretches into fluid stillness
where time dissolves into the cyan sea.
The golden cliff rises behind the reverie,
at peace with the quiet crumple of time.
The sleeping creature on the sands
sprawls as a pale brutal form
with the burden of collapsed time.
Memory endures the design of ductile recollection
as the mirage of elastic time
slips through the sands of perpetuity,
losing its rigidity, its mechanical domination.
Surreal vision turns time into absurdity,
yet morphing into fascinating mirror of illusive fluidity,
a metaphor for the triumph of memory over time.
Time in ebony night stops to flow in aloneness undefined,
where infinite pathos in the congealed instants wanders
on the shadows of the past, void perception in seclusion,
gets shaped by strata of darkness, framed in psychic canvas.
The dispersed grains of darkness drizzle down silently
from the cauldron of the infinite blankness of eternity
that my sky starts to shape at the edge of ductile dusk
since the beginning of my time lost in the crypt of isolation.
The silken tapestry of the black blanket spreads slowly
as the twilight dissolves at the hinge of the hazy horizon
like the timed rainbow melting upon the sinking skyline,
where the silhouette darkness dances with the flowing night.
Sonorous sound of silence echoing ethereally in night sky
wakes up the sleeping stars one by one to sparkle bright
on the bejeweled crown the amorous ambiance adorns,
as the moonbeam strands weave dulcet dream of you for me.
Each stardust-sequined silent night I wait awake alone
for you to emerge lively out of my dream like an angel,
walk through the pining corridor of my craving mind,
as I let my thoughts drift in the emptiness of night’s silence.
I look back at the dusty trail of memory,
in the reflecting time of the twilight hour,
see in the pediment of the distant blue hills,
cascading down from the hazy horizon,
the young scarlet sun burst to spread
the surreal splendor on the landscape latticed
with the carvings of meandered streams,
verdant meadows, transparent ponds,
thriving thickets and emerald vales.
My youth embedded in naïvety of juvenile exuberance,
fluttered on the wings of indigo songbirds,
scaling the cerulean sky like my multicolored kites,
flying free at the fringe of the fleeting clouds,
that made enigmatic shadows adrift on the topography,
sculpting my fantasy into nebulous shapes,
so expressive in the intricate play
of the opposites, light and shade,
like the pattern slanting sunbeams created
on the far flung foliage of the thicket
where I ventured to chase the butterflies.
The infantile motifs engraved in the ductile young mind
lie buried now under the dust of time,
that blew across the memory lane of the uprooted life.
Walking the last mile at the edge of the falling night,
I now trace back the faint footprint trail,
to the fading eroded plateau of the past,
sweep the piled up dust, trying to retrieve
the scattered pieces of my youth,
shrouded by the mist of obscurity.
August 2, 2020
Contest : Dusty Old Memory
Sponsor : Constance La France
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by Tom Wood
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I) Sojourn of the Alabaster Mind
I careen through a world of chatoyant light,
Each step is a mirror of halcyon lore.
The pavonine sky and a chimera flight,
Projects sage shadows on an Elysian shore.
A clamor of atlas, a ductile tickle
Elixir of wonder, still need to fickle—
To pursue the penumbra, to not be blind,
And a sojourn for the alabaster mind.
II) The Necrotic Hour
I maunder across the clangor of despair,
A stertorous breath in the stygian gloom.
No nepenthe soothes within egregious snare,
Each cough is a pyrrhic echo in my room.
The airhead mocks my once-mellifluous breath
My Oculus dims in sudden fever death.
No eloquence lives in this loathsome abyss—
My nemesis: the sickness can't be sheer bliss.
The dispersed grains of darkness drizzle down silently
from the cauldron of the infinite blankness of eternity
that the sky started to shape at the edge of ductile dusk
since beginning of time when its primal time was created.
The silken tapestry of the black blanket spreads slowly
as the twilight dissolves at the hinge of the hazy horizon
like the timed rainbow melting upon the skyline clouds,
from where the satin darkness flows with the fluid night.
Sonorous sound of silence echoing in night sky ethereally
wakes up the sleeping stars one by one to sparkle bright
on the bejeweled crown the amorous ambiance adorns,
as the moonbeam strands weave dream of you for me.
Each stardust sprinkled night I wait awake fervently
for you to emerge out of my dream like an angel
and walk through the craving corridor of my mind,
as I let my thoughts drift in the air of night’s allure.
Written : August 10, 2019
May 15, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice D
In the pediment of the blue hills rolling from the horizon
young eastern sun spread surreal splendor on landscape
with carvings of meandered streams, verdant meadows,
transparent ponds, thriving thickets and emerald vales.
My youth embedded in naïvety of juvenile exuberance
fluttered on wings of indigo birds scaling the cerulean sky
like my multicolored kites flying at fringe of fleeting clouds,
in their adrift enigmatic shadows etched on the sprawl
I saw my freak fantasy take nebulous shapes I marveled,
wondering what they meant, they were so expressive
in the intricate play of the opposites, light and shade,
like the pattern sunbeams created piercing the foliage
in the forest where I ventured chasing the butterflies,
or like dancing design the lengthening sunset shadows
the trees made on the pond rippled at sailing swan’s wake
I followed swimming away from the seething summer heat.
The infantile motifs engraved in the ductile young mind
trampled by the footsteps that have walked me so far away,
lie buried under the dust time blew across the uprooted life.
Now at the edge of falling night I trace the faint footprint trail
to search beneath the dust the frayed tapestry of my youth.
December 11, 2018
2019 Poetry Marathon Final Placement
Sponsor : Mark Toney
The splendorous span of my fervent firmament,
twinkled with the tinsels of the cerulean night,
where my yearning gleamed with transparent tinge,
suffused with the sequins of the silver moon,
sequestered within the stream of stardust.
The beguiling breeze rippled in mesmeric moonbeam,
with its cadence my heart beat danced,
made the mystique motif of rapturous jewelry
for my dreams to be embellished,
and for my life to revolve in the kaleidoscope of joy.
I dreamed of your ductile touch so tempting,
impregnated with intangible charisma,
until you drifted away out of my entranced essence,
across the seraphic sky of my dream,
like the fading autumn cloud of shapeless charm.
From the ebony edge of the dusk of despair,
the surging storm with thunders of tearing strife,
splintered the fragile facade of the sky,
and the shards of the demolished dreams,
dispersed in the debris got buried in the sands of time.
Trudging the weary path in the tawny wilderness
to the cool cauldron of the tranquility thicket,
I now try to absorb the senile sense of serenity,
in the niche of my mind I strive to stow,
create in my colorless heart an emerald meadow.
I walk the final mile of the ordained journey,
in the remaining hours of the twilight glow,
I illumine the dark domain of memory where the lost lies.
Waking up from the transient trance of deceased dreams,
metamorphosed, I live another day, mocking the dead.
Written: September 9, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Rob Carmack
Quote: "Lovers have heartaches that can't be cured by drugs or sleep, or games, but only by seeing their beloved" By Rumi
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In the garland of ailments, we sip nepenthe,
anodyne tinctures in elegant flasks—
murmurous promises, beauteous masks,
each fard a façade, each pill a palimpsest
of pain rewritten in mellifluous ink.
Pneumology sings in stertorous sighs,
dyspnea dances under the aegis of relief.
We stroll through the lanes of this lush haven.
The breathtaking tablets gaze into bliss.
What trendy medicine pills and supplies
Supply human beings with many ways to support?
I share on the matter of preventing slurs.
The breakdown of moiety and the rise of risk.
For even the most ductile clay
may crumble in the quagmire of misuse.
In the seraglio of spurious bliss,
the simple and the iconoclast alike
grasp the absurdity of escape.
Acherontic powders, hexed and hissing,
wafture through the penumbra of parties,
where flapdoodle masquerades as rapture.
fear grips the veins—
a jussive urge, impetuous and egregious.
We extemporize joy, inhale incarnadine dusk,
and resile from reason with pertinacity.
turbulent dawns, wan and woebegone,
usher in ischemia’s kiss,
a paucity of comeliness,
a summary of sorrow.
The lush becomes lurid,
the sumptuous turns stygian.
Even the most miraculous odyssey
may cease in necrotic silence.
Meliorism in time to come
Yet still, amid the desiccation,
a scintilla of optimism coruscates.
The riparian soul, lithe and lit with Love,
may manipulate a raw moiety of meaning.
Through the shield of empathy,
the one who heals
may reclaim the palimpsest of self.
Not all who inhale are lost—
Some merely seek the empyrean
through alternate doors.
Let us not belittle
the addict, the patient, the seeker.
Each belongs to a consanguineous ilk
of yearning, of zoetic ache.
So let us offer not just palliation,
but propinquity,
not just summary judgment,
but the sacred burnished balm
of understanding.
Let Love be the panacea,
let compassion be the coruscation
that flickers in the penumbra
of every pharmacological night.