Long Erodes Poems
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Written: June 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
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The Phantom Choir
In the quiescence of last Sunday,
Prophecy heralded the hour past two,
I heard a whisper at hibiscus dawn—
a seamless voice I swore I always knew.
In blissful flutter—it said night was wide,
Chrysalis sorrow stirs a bed for fools,
that in the hush, when hearts collide,
The lost willows are left to wade in pools.
Facing the kernel until the street thinned,
And my shadow’s sepals bled away,
Rusted voice strings within me spoke again—
It's hymn frills poised for slow decay.
The Hollow Pact
Will I wake to descry my cracked mind,
emptied of all its sharpened teeth?
Will murky echoes break their binds,
Or gnaw beneath the sheath?
The alchemy battle sparks, but I am dust—
wispy strands, a soldier tied in flimsy chains.
Each idea erodes the periwinkle ones I trust,
while the weight of stress remains.
You graze me with a maze—why do I stand so still?
Resurrection of the soul—so why shake your hands?
But dread can have its way to fulfill—
The transcendence of love is lost in vicious demands.
The Third Mourning
Wise chakras buried beneath the walls I built,
the zen voice still scrawls its wordless plea.
It concedes my yantra’s vulnerability, my guilt,
peers where peacock pleadings wane into a spree.
It hums inside the tremors of sapphire light,
I close my eyes as it runs over lily-filled shorelines.
Bits of lunar-glazed silver dust grow in quiet nights,
and procrastinated pledges become lies.
In my dour dreams, it tells me not to resist—
“You know that silken shivers favor sound.”
Amid cyan azure peace, I learn misery persists,
for flickers of love fear the burial mound.
The Acoustic Waltz
In nocturnal dryness—sing soft verses in the dark,
claims the enamored inked words are not hers.
She plucks cerulean hymns without leaving a mark,
The tune of her carved kohl was lost in slurs.
She sways in the russet yarns of neon glow,
bows beneath the ricochet’s wild haze—
a phantom waltz in katabatic motion, moving slow.
a cosmic voice garden, too faint to truly be a maze.
Her pocket holds a ring of black gem glass,
won as a child’s dare, a piece of smitten ink.
She warms it, sighs, and watches it pass
through flaming flecks—hands that fight to sink.
Champion of Creative Freedom
The mind is a boundless realm, where thoughts take flight,
Craves the open sky, bathed in freedom's light.
Confine it with rules, a cage for the soul,
And stifle the spark that makes humanity whole.
Creativity's flame, a beacon so bright,
Burns with innovation, banishing night.
Art, music, and verse, a symphony bold,
Challenge the stagnant, stories yet untold.
Think of the sculptor's dream, etched in lasting stone,
Or the poet's fierce quill, where injustice is overthrown.
From unfettered minds, revolutions take wing,
A vibrant tapestry, progress' joyful ring.
Advocate for Boundaries
Untamed freedom, a stormy sea,
Can drown reason's voice, a chaotic decree.
Without boundaries clear, a compass to guide,
Art descends to chaos, where meaning can't reside.
Vulgarity rampant, a cacophony loud,
Erodes decency's ground, a shroud for the proud.
Should creativity trample on all that's held dear,
Traditions and values, held sacred for many a year?
Imagine a sculptor's chisel, carving hate with each blow,
Or a poet's warped verse, where seeds of discord grow.
Freedom needs guidance, a gentle hand to hold,
To channel its power, stories are wisely told.
Champion of Creative Freedom
Boundaries, yes, but not with an iron fist,
Let them guide, not suppress, where true genius exists.
From the clash of ideas, new truths come to light,
Diversity's chorus, a symphony bright.
Let dissent be heard, a questioning tongue,
For progress thrives where challenges are sung.
Censorship's shadow, a chilling embrace,
Stifles the garden, where innovation finds its place.
Advocate for Boundaries
But freedom unchecked, a garden choked with weeds,
Where potential withers, on the fertile ground it feeds.
Let responsibility guide, a filter refined,
For the power to create, a gift for humankind.
So let us find balance, a harmonious blend,
Where freedom ignites, and guidance befriends.
For creativity's flame, a force ever vast,
It needs a channel, a purpose, to last forever.
Both Champion of Creative Freedom and Advocate for Boundaries in Unison
The unfettered mind, a treasure to hold,
A canvas for stories, both brave and untold.
Let us nurture its power, with wisdom as a guide,
And create a future, where humanity may truly confide.
When you find your early your already much to late all this time now you over compensate
A rush towards the front so we can crawl to the back always flinching from the timely attack
anticapation explodes towards the surface flooding out release its only purpose
Timely ruin erodes the youthful heart corroding the edges lets it fall apart
age and wisdom go hand in hand the curse of life has only one demand
youth and vigor go hand in hand but at that point we dont even understand
in the end we return to the land all these things we were crumbles away into black sand
A hard life takes a serious toll no one to help you madness takes control
lonely hearts lightens the soul to run the great race headlong towards the hole
some live life as a perfect dream while others mostly cry and sometimes scream
good deeds leave nothing to redeem we all lie in dirt or so it would seem
time and space go hand in hand we all must suffer there every command
pain and strife go hand in hand alone we fall and alone we must stand
in the end we pass to the land until we fade and crack turning into black sand
writing this down its quite hard to think today could be it id be gone in a blink
pondering the end leads to the brink no matter how high ones soar everything must sink
it seems to be a very grim notion no matter how hard you swim your consumed by the ocean
live like some mad commotion but time moves straight it knows no other motion
life and death go hand in hand no matter who you are you see others life’s are so grand
fools and liars walk hand in hand each of us all carry these life’s long brand
until the day we return to the land once particles of icy cold lifeless black sand
all of us are dieing only some know when cant control the future but we are were we’ve been
the endless void a thought Iam not akin ill go when I go and not until then
perception is something you have to be in to see our lives stretch and then grow thin
So many hits we take in the chin but the harder I’m hit the wider I grin
because one thing is certain on your journey you’ll be hit over and over again
shame and guilt go hand in hand for all our troubles the end cannot be planned
love and loss go hand in hand we hold so tight by the thinnest strand
until we sleep in the bosom of the land when all of this returns to black sand
"The Winter's Lullaby"
Choking noble light held by the hands of Fate
As deceived Persephone enters Hades gate
The burning suns falling through the universe.
Despairing and alone not a coppers worth
A bitter cold blankets Gaia's tears in a frozen sea of glass
While the stupefied intoxicated serpent drowned with a laugh.
Undulating sands barricades into immovable glacier,
Infectious prison walls destroyed the strength of redeeming savior.
Chariot of the flame plunges into the water’s bed
Fate’s tepid scarlet scissor hands sever the music thread
Astaea’s darkened soaked mural melts with eternal dread
Seeing red, alluring sirens sang as the music bled
Unfathomable lamented shrieks surged as the music tore
Obsidian tributaries erodes the forbidden door
Eros scorned wound feeds the ravished horde of succubi
Remote hollow temple bell wailed the closing cry
Captured in the dance of loves and hates tempest cyclone
Drums of madness orchestrates into the perfect tone
The infernal flame explodes from the mouth of Tartarus
Driven oblivion crescendos for the pending chorus
The stentorian cracks of nefarious shots being fired
Frantically gasping for the final breath of faith hope and desire
Tragic petrified tears from soundless screams of the choir
Condemned whisper of the drum crucified on barbed wire
Cold candle rests under the gaze of the vastness
No kiss or love to awake the entombed princess
Crimson emaciated curtains descend upon the floor
Fathomless, eviscerated, veiled; the music is no more
Form:
Written: April 10, 2024 For Edward Ebeh Contest
“Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”
— Rumi
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In society grasp, individuals fade,
As group dynamics falter, satiation wane.
Anomie is the state in which we reside,
Void of meaning, where shell may subside.
Man dwells in the domain of existence,
Longing for purpose—a tale to share once.
He pursues punter goals, a noble quest,
To descry his sanctuary, where he can rest.
Sans clear vision—a peculiar goal to pursue,
He wanders, devoid of any discernible clue.
A protocol to follow—a structure to defray,
He seeks a clear path to lead the way.
It is in the heights—that he finds his worth,
A divine connection, a sense of rebirth.
In a world of mayhem, where chaos reigns,
A sense of chaos and rebellion in our veins.
We're in an era of disorder and hopelessness,
Where a sense of alienation thrives with idleness.
Streets brimming with an air of dread and fear,
As the supremacy of law is starting to disappear.
A land ruled by untamed and careless,
Peace and order are baffling awareness.
Durkheim unveils a modern, cosmic community,
Where people or teams cease to have impunity,
Stuck in a condition of "anomie," they dwell,
Devoid of crucial social interactions, they tell.
An individual, adrift, follows a restless tide,
Planless self-empowerment with no guide.
An aimless existence, devoid of worth,
As delight lies in future, not in present berth.
One ought to consider their inevitable fate.
The insignificance and loneliness state.
He would undoubtedly elapse insane.
Or spirit might seek the numbing arcane.
Crisis and violence, madness untamed,
Revolution's fire, the world inflamed.
In sync with events of insignificance.
Unleashed automobility, a hedonistic dance,
Individualism allure, a tempting chance,
Grip of anomie and despair erodes at a glance.
Conspicuous consumption, a fleeting thrill,
Yet unsustainable, bear beyond, still.
In a sphere bereft of spirit light,
Where meaning fades—hope takes flight.
An oddity exists in trans-political time frame,
There is no repercussion for deviance claim.
THE INNER VOICE OF MARK BIRROS II
From world war two in the Atlantic
I hear the drowning cries of men,
climbing out as in spirit from waters
that lap the steps of the harbour wall ;
time erodes as the sea -
washing up these thoughts that linger
here and on many beaches,
thoughts that stick and have the stench
of used oil around them,
the name on a memorial
does not reflect the horror ;
the surf rejects such cogitation ;
for a moment, ' try again '
the gulls seemed to say,
' let go ' said the movement of the ocean,
but I cannot, I simply cannot
for what transcends these waves
and breathes out the universe
is love, the love of a father.... ... ...
The old clock ticks away the day
that haemorrhages the evening,
and like a night- nurse at the bed
as growing lesions slowly spread,
the crescent moon would nothing say
to see the patient pass away ;
the stars call out but they are late -
what metaphysics spring from that
while in my soul eternity
is smiling like the Cheshire cat !...
A presence haunts me as that touch -
that hugs the heels in failing light,
with eyes that peer through space and time
and follow me into the night.... ...
The pine wood has its secrets -
I am one of them now,
like the columns of an ancient temple,
straight and upright
where no priest intercedes -
I trust it with my life,
I am theirs and they are mine,
growing inside me, sturdily and strong,
transcending their roots with my secrets
to their archetypal heaven... ... ...
As if a change of consciousness was meant,
against the pull of ego, the body
inwardly swept up in spiral ascent,
spirited away from me
from all the world below,
from all that I would ever be
that anyone might know ;
raised the cloaked arm
of my archetype
to draw the void across my eyes,
and I did rise to heights of bliss
to see the world from this -
dancing in vortices, tiptoeing on pools
as through a mesh, devoid of flesh ;
our world is an illusion -
a carousel to light,
as in the midst of heaven
we ghost on through the night... ...
As rippling horizon
douses fiery orb,
you are at your
most alluring.
Ethereal,
diaphanous limbs
stretch out,
reach for me,
beckon to me.
Barely audible murmurs,
laced with
forbidden promises,
cross the distance
between us.
Whispers become
more insistent,
more urgent,
more pressing.
Begging, cajoling,
pleading, coercing,
demanding that I come to you,
that I give myself to you.
Eventually,
inevitably,
relentless appeasement
erodes my resolve.
Heedless of the warnings,
heedless of the risks,
I succumb completely,
totally and willingly,
without compunction,
without restraint.
Wrapped in your embrace,
rapt in your presence,
I submit to your whims.
So implacable,
indefatigable,
I'm utterly entranced.
You draw me down,
encourage me,
guide me,
bid me explore you.
Probing your inner sanctum,
I crave you,
love you,
know you.
Your scent,
your taste,
your sounds
fill my every sense.
I inhale you, imbibe you,
devour you, as you -
in turn - devour me.
Your very essence engulfs
every inch of my body.
Breath snatched from lungs
as passion escalates,
threatens to consume me,
promises to consume me.
I thrash atop you,
beneath you,
within you;
borne aloft
on waves of ecstasy.
And finally,
finally,
when I have
no more to give,
you cast me aside.
Giddy,
exhausted,
totally spent,
I roll over and watch,
helpless,
as you pull away.
Trembling
outstretched hands
cruelly snubbed.
Desperate pleas
callously spurned.
And then you're gone.
Our time together
was so brief,
so fleeting,
so transitory.
I'll never forget
our impassioned tryst,
but you won't even
remember my name.
Jealousy's venomous barb
pierces my chest
at the thought of
you with another.
I have no wish to share you,
yet I lay no claim to the
Daughter of Poseidon.
You belong to nobody...
...but...
...you do belong to everybody...
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(C) May 2017
Bit of a departure for me... before you think I've gone all "Fifty Shades of Grey", the whole poem is metaphorical.
When I met you, you were already a broken vase, sharp shards hidden beneath your cold and distant skin,
But I was still whole, believing love was the force that makes two souls forget their unhealed wounds.
I mistook your silence for gentleness, and your distance for the depth of an unknown and mysterious sea,
I thought if I bled enough light, you'd find your way back to yourself and maybe even to me.
But love isn't salvation, it's a slow drowning when only one swims, and I sank with your name in my mouth,
Like a prayer no god ever answered, for you were too busy with your perverse games.
Sport was your habit, but so was playing with others' feelings, and I, naive, didn't know I was your favorite victim,
You emptied me slowly, silently, until I no longer knew which part of me was yours and which was completely missing.
You didn't shatter me at once, but wore me down like water erodes rock, until I became an empty cave, without echo,
Now, when I look in the mirror, I don't see myself, but someone who tried to repair you,
Forgetting how to survive her own pain, this love that won't let go is a hand around my throat,
It tightens when I try to breathe, for the truth is you're still in my heart, no matter how much I try to forget you.
I'm tormented by the thought that I believed in love's healing power, when in fact it can be a slow poison,
That seeps into veins and poisons every thought, every hope, leaving behind only bitter regrets.
You're like a melody endlessly repeating in my mind, a painful refrain I can't stop,
And I'm just an out-of-tune instrument, still trying to play a melody you've long forgotten.
In long, cold nights, your memory is like a ghost haunting the dark corners of my soul,
Whispering unspoken promises and unfulfilled dreams, and I, captive in my own pain, still hope for the impossible.
For although I know you're toxic to me, like a drug I can't quit, I continue to search for you in every stranger,
Hoping that one day, I'll find my way back to myself, or perhaps to a version of me that never met you.
*Henry Ford developed plastic from soybeans for cars. It degrades!
Art As Activism II
Imagine no longer the sounds of seagulls squawking
or splashing through frothy foam in cool ocean waves
receding as your toes grip onto the wet white sand
Embracing the warmth of the yolk yellow sun
as the sea breeze gusts and the tide gently flows
Shores of majestic sandcastles neath burnt orange sunsets
Now imagine this scene as burnt orange polluted skylines
Alas, owing to the bacteria battles in wastewater spiking our oceans
Beach erosion that finally cannot self-correct
Imagine oceans as deserts and deserts soiled oceans
Tropical storms reshaping their landscapes
Sandy seafloors brusquely barren
Imagine telling your grandchildren
that once upon a time we fished in pristine streams
The ocean waters sublime sparkled in turquoise blues
In June the moon shone in bright pink hues
Big blue sky from rich cobalt to azure ignited
That the ebb tide was a fervent seaward flow
and a bird called albatross never digested debris
in his own home by the sea
That almost every piece of plastic ever made
still exists
That we’ve violated our seas with sea litter
via ocean liners dumping into deep waters
That our actions befouled the oceans
That you the inheritors, the next wave of nature protectors
have nothing left to protect
Gone earth’s beauty
Along the shoreline erodes the walk
The cause climate change, the effect risen sea levels
Harsher storms of vengeful severity,
nuclear testing melting sand
into gritty green glass
Clarity
Earth has given plastic turtle shells and rubber trees
Qualities we can mimic*organic and pollutant free
Tallies tell tales of more plastic
than fish in the sea,
Futile! Floating refuse tripling
crippling wildlife
Manmade warming undeniable,
unconscionable and irreversible
Mariner your actions perilous
Plastic found in fish
In us!
Isolated by a quietly devouring madness she sits,
Curled into a foetal huddle in the wreckage of an unmade bed
Her knees jacked up to her chin, her eyes shut - translucent battened hatches
Her lips parted, childish, hinting at wistful vulnerability,
And the silent hope that her soul might be set free, and escape through
The tiny gap between...
...those gentle rosebud lips
In her ears, nestled like white plastic pearls in the swirling shell of her lobes,
Sit the miniscule microphones, blasting escapism and beauty
Into the desperate crevices of her heart – each soaring note a fresh
Droplet of water to soothe the drought that erodes her soul, day by day...
Music, her intangible solace, the swansong to her raven, the reason for every
Reluctant breath that scrapes down her tired throat
Without it she would be dead
The music is her closest friend, each song a vibrant ballad for her broken heart –
It serves as a tangled cacophonous balm to soothe the sharpness of the remaining
Serrated edges,
It smoothes out the crinkles in her soul, which resembles the dry concertinaed muddle of
A snake’s rejected skin, transparent and crumbling at the ends
Music sets her soul on fire, pulls her back from the dizzy brink
The singers’ voices rumbling and snarling in her mind, tigers in a gladiator’s ring, they wage
bloody war
against the demons that prowl the dim-lit corridors of the waif’s subconscious…
…they protect her from the gloom…
Now, as the fading beats draw to a close, she opens her eyes, the lashes fluttering
Like sooty butterfly wings,
She stretches, drags her unwilling mind back from the frosted northern heights it fled to,
She focuses her whimsical eyes, still damp with tears of yearning
And reaching up with reluctant hands she removes the silent earphones and lays them to rest
beside her bedside…
…to await the new challenges of
tomorrow.