Long Fatefully Poems
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Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening,
In the melancholic waltz of memories awakened in rains,
Through the night stretching its hand like an old bell-ringer,
Ringing the bell of departure and appearing desolate in the mirror.
A veil of sadness weaves the starry vault above,
Where the moon, in silence, watches over mortal frailties,
On this fertile earth, yes, once it was fertile,
The echo of steps disintegrates the soil in strangers and wanderers, fatefully.
Oh, sister in destiny, proud land of heroes and poets,
Now you are the stage of a tragic act divided into many separations,
The brotherhood that was said to unite us, quietly dissipates,
Oh, mother, my homeland, how we sold our hopes for silver!
The air is laden with a heavy burden of heavenly pallor,
From the fields where wheat grain by grain whispered songs to the sun,
No longer pours gold, but only regrets, thoughts that fade,
In all we try to have, the shadow of the nameless ones lingers, who.
We live, simple people, with broken nature and torn souls,
Under the sign of signatures on forgotten and voiceless papers,
We struggle between walls of indifference, singing only in the boundless,
While life drains from us, vomiting the poison of bitterness.
Peacemakers of sweet whispers, now hoarse in pain,
Apologize for an unjust curse that can no longer be washed away,
A nation born from dreams and fierce struggle, slowly fades under humiliation,
As if the ancestors were only ghosts in the heavy history.
Mad poet, who dares to write in verses an elegy,
When our house is a game, a bet lost in our own room,
Now, even the dead in stones bow in a silent prayer,
For Romania that wears the gray coat of helplessness and payment.
But do you hear the bell that separates time from immortality?
A prelude to what is to come, over everything that once crackled,
It's the evening of the last ball, where our steps are counted in stars,
From dawn, we will be only Romanians from everywhere, in an endless song of regret.
Perhaps, tomorrow – it will be desolate here, silence will speak more clearly,
And we, with hearts in chains, will start a bittersweet exile,
Farewell, lost brothers in the relentless wheel's motion,
Goodbye, motherland, I throw you a last kiss, in the wind, a farewell.
Thru maritime miles of minions in motion
We hedge our opinions while pledging devotion
To serving the Captain and sharing our smiles
Through barrels of onions and flea-bearing trials
But even the pirates who pose in a rumble
Are learning the merits of those who are humble
The path of our choosing where sinning is pleasure
Is better for losing than winning a treasure
I plunged overboard when I soared off a plank
At the point of a sword and a sore lady's prank
The captain's first mate made her daddy agree
That my fate was a date with the fish in the sea
I knew she was baiting my body at brunch
To catch me in waiting and serve me for lunch
All pirates are worthy to fish and to feast
But no one should make me a dish for a beast
From well on the brink to a splash in the sink
I fell in a flash for a female fink
I knew she was watching me fall in the tank
And laughing discreetly with Daddy to thank
I should have resisted the words that she said
But when she persisted they went to my head
I told her I loved her but so did my mate
Who never returned from his very first date
It seems bloody retching but fatefully true
When somebody fetching is fatal for you
You flee from the danger but fractured you find
That pretty young stranger has captured your mind
You think she is true but you never can tell,
Her saltwater stew is a bitter farewell,
A mob in her keep is the poorest of help,
Who force you to leap in a forest of kelp,
Though mad as an adder I drifted from reach
To bob like a bladder in search of a beach
The Great White beside me was my willing host
To have me for dinner and eat me the most
Then something resembling a storm with a tail
Came surging at me in the form of a whale
I lost my composure and when I passed out
She tossed me all over to sit on her spout
Upon this brave lady who skirted the water
I fled for my life from the ship captain's daughter
She brought me to land on the girth of her blubber
To flip me ashore like a lousy landlubber
From deep in the sea to a seat by a seal
The freedom I keep is a cheap kind of deal
The beach that I sleep on is sunny and hot
So happy to be where my honey is not...
Hail to the thieves
that retrieve
lost trees.
Hey! Where do you disappear?
Hail to the piercing taste of a pear.
Hey! Why do you gaze at me so?
I don't need reality unless it's mine.
Talk to me.
Talk to me.
Take your time and sigh.
See the world redesigned.
Then let it go.
Sell sunbeams in a crisis.
Talk to the stones that turn.
Touch the rhythm and burn with it.
Celebrate both victory and defeat.
See what's featured in the cosmic menu.
Among all the amenities I obtain you.
The art of grabbing without touching.
The art of dreaming without falling asleep.
The art of loathing without telling.
The art that picks the hip from the heaps
of all their winnings.
The art of elusive light.
The art of being close tonight
and disappearing tomorrow.
The art of 'have-a-nice-day'
with a finger on a trigger.
The art of getting miniscule
and then growing bigger.
The art that unites all nations -
the everlasting
misconception
of communication.
05/06/2016
(c) Maryna Tchianova 2016
Ukraine
Inspired by http://www.wikiart.org/en/rene-magritte/the-art-of-conversation-1950?utm_source=returned&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=referral
* * *
Sacred and profane love by Titian (1514)
Love divine
How it burns when it falls from the sky -
how it hurts when the water is done.
How it rains with the words half-denied,
When the world looks for fabulous suns.
How it aches when the feeling's away
from the roads that are fast and are clean.
How it roars when the lights are insane,
how they fatefully touch our skin.
How I pray for this love not to fade,
How I look for your eyes in the woods,
How we crave for emotional shade,
In each other we find our roots.
Profane love
When the touch dumbs us down -
when the shadows arise,
When in passion whe drown,
when there's evil disguised.
When your kiss, black as night,
slowly turns on my key,
when your arms, full of might,
burn my fragility,
When we're fruitful and hot,
when we're lost in our dreams,
When we're tied with love's knots,
So profane we might seem.
06.05.2016
Comatose To Life
Somewhere on a small island called Penang, historically known as the Pearl Of The Orient…
There is a heartwarming tale of how tender loving care revived a comatose patient…
The patient is a fully qualified Florence Nightingale about to launch her nursing career ..
Full of hopes and dreams, excited about achieving her goals in her chosen career…
But the cruelties of real life was fatefully unloaded on her one unlucky day…
A twisted sense of fate saw a motorcycle accident that cruelly left her for dead..
But her strong will to survive and fight was something no doctors could have forseen…
She being in a vegetative state, those experts think they know enough to proclaim…
There’s no hope of full recovery, poor girl, and it is best to pull the plug on her…
Given her extensive injuries, her vegetative state, it’s best not to prolong her misery..
Her ever loving aunt, her only mother she had known, was resolute in her decision…
Come what may, her favorite niece will have her undivided love, care and attention ….
No one knows the depths of agony and the despair this loving aunt quietly suffered…
The loneliness and the infinite patience, only a mother maternal could have done better…
Through 2 long years of unending love and tenderness, against all negative perceptions..
From the expert doctors to the disbelieving relatives, she tirelessly persevered in her actions..
Today her plucky comatose patient is awakened, though she is far from full recovery…
What matters is she is alive, she has made it through, though there’s need for counselling …
This story is just a beginning for Janice Chuah Chai Ming, it’s the start of a long recovery journey..
This poem is just to document the power and the intensity of love and perseverance extraordinary…
For Chuah Bee Hong, the loving aunt who quit her job to devote full time for Janice’s recovery..
Prayers be with you and your loved ones, good deeds like this deserves only good in life’s glory..
http://www.thestar.com.my/News/Nation/2015/11/13/Nurse-makes-strides-after-waking-from-a-coma-Hit-and-run-accident-robs-Janice-of-bright-future/
Behold the pulchritude overhead exalts to about a spread.
It is o full swift which greatly outstrips thunder and gale added,
Yet ocular to sigh from more than a score of hillocks afar.
It is yet not as harefooted as my head can proceed thinking,
Wending in raining sands anyway in the world; I am, warping.
Eclipsing, rising flowering is stalking to a lightning hark.
Fit ratherish hebetates the wit seeing the fleeting on-dit.
Wights excitedly get unaware and err without a merit.
Thunderstorm is a marvel, a thrill, and opposite to a pit.
To expand the concept in top glass, I can only compound it
To a bit, as Oak's nether jut loud rackets; I lief bracket it
To daunted lit fibrils in an electric, animated chit.
Grandiosity and haste of german "Blitz" allure me pretty,
Puffing sinew of great intensity as exit gratefully.
No wonder Homer, a sage, enkindled Zeus with it slatefully.
Withal, Gandalf scragged up a demon by a bolt, hit it fatefully.
I fumble in night to kiss spits heard in my inner olio.
To fancy, a mountain of clouds on the stratosphere sits and flows.
Ergo, zenith and nadir fascinate each other, pitch and tow.
Lightning is jars of macedoines of grits afloat as dominoes.
A scad of millesimals in a galaxy: shrunk, shot, and blows.
Such dragons breathe snows wee of infinitesimal ratio,
So snows sock the gullible cherub in me so as hue arrows.
A bolt o real as it speeds, is so so vivid; No nod, it glows.
A man tranquil in a head, able or wicked, it's good to know,
Mental heaven to if it is full facile to trow; Thor follows.
Form:
A movable or immovable barrier,
That functions as an entrance-exit carrier;
If, thus, easily the door concept is defined,
We may be, to peripheral spaces, confined...
Do we reflect that the door in its sphere includes,
Dramas of the woods with many plots and preludes;
That contain cradles for the newborns to roll on,
And coffins of the dead their remains to hold on...
Can't you write volumes on the words: open the door?
Of a child, youth, old, well, ill, or any other?
Don't doors show the moods of humans who open them?
Happy door, sad door, calm door, angry-door-mayhem...
Like - I am the door; He is near right at the door,
The doors will be shut; God will open up... a door,
Close your doors and pray; Jesus at the door with a smile,
Doors opened, closed! How many doors in the Bible!
Doors can be made with twenty-four-carat gold gird,
What difference does it make to a frail caged bird?
Few words of hope I convey to the prisoners,
Amidst iron-doors wipe the stigma of sinners...
Don't the homeless in the streets sleep so peacefully?
Even with hundred locks don't some fear fatefully?
There were societies never used doors and locks,
With many hardest locks, our lives are full of mocks.
Above all, doors within, are made to heed voices,
Of the oppressed and the depressed and the voiceless;
Do we shut our inner selves forever indoors,
Or do we feel, free, to open for them our doors?
24 July 2021
DOORS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
If lovers of lovers had a story self-reflect would look upon a river and share old wise tells
Would it perhaps be nacrracsitic or shallow
Or knee deep to jump in
Idealism or fantasy I say turn the page
If my child was that of divine whisper among the Hampton of the Heaven’s
Thrones and berries that of the fine wine should one bless among each bread basket
Yet to say to learn of perfection that of affections attain by the vision to learn of
Another language of communication would be Inferior to not that of a touch that of
Apparatus as a kiss of hand of risk morning good bed
Sleep of a morning covers the way that it wraps around her body would be a gift
Send from heaven
What wakes turn morning into not such a another day
but a beautiful bluish day I said her love
Sight and mind give me a vision would be perhaps be common sense
If gentlemen attire is to catered to her love passion assure the passage of the storm
Apure and tell me how deep is one love
If continuum was a option would one value the option perhaps would one said
Eternal fatefully gracefully awakes or would old wise tell of such
Passion that awakes
How rare is Tuberose and Delphinium growing together
What beautiful texture and sense it make love among stars
Perhaps Apuleius could sing a carol tell if cupid arrow ever MISS the attire
Those that ask are welcome tell me if fashion matters?
I question not of love but ask
does love every grow old
Seldom does the darkness fall,
In either lonely room or banquet hall
That the memories purchased at Youth’s expense
Come back to me as fair recompense.
For when Time steals in with stealthy tread
And alludes to the secrets that lie ahead-
Pointing to the balance of what is left,
My heart turns away feeling bereft.
For those memories made, though truly held dear
Through Time’s slow workings become unclear
And their value then has changed somehow
To a lesser worth of what they should be now.
My heart in such moments of quiet reflection
Is wont to succumb to introspection
And to question the worth of those memories earned
When the hands of Time have fatefully turned.
Soon the longing creeps in for another chance
To relive the days from the Past’s expanse,
To live once again the days of yore
And go back in time to the days of before.
In so doing I think I would find
The hidden source to some peace of mind.
I would rewrite my future if the Past would allow
To find the happiness I think I lack now.
I’d want to relive my youth in splendor
And make new memories more dear and tender;
To relive my life the way I once thought
And perhaps to find the things I once sought.
But just as before I’d be back where I’d started:
With Time stealing in and the Future departed,
And the paths I chose to follow back then
Would lead me to wonder all over again.
Galactic curls in spirals swirl, entwining twisted mystery,
where time unrolls in blackened holes, no longer bright and blistery,
but writ like runes on starry dunes enclosed in cosmic history
Galactic dust, from novas' gusts, congesting empty spaces
once fatefully flung beyond the tongue of burnt out astral traces,
may recompress and coalesce in distant times and places
Galactic dwarves, like ancient wharves with silent planets mooring
yet still in spin though long done in, hide flares no longer soaring -
magnetic webs of eons ebb, in thermal fusion roaring
Galactic tides warp space divides, call forth sublime creation
while bending clocks in rippled shocks, unfolding time dilation
that seems to crown the flowing gown of pulsars' pulsed gyration
Galactic stew, a seething brew, midst background noise and chatter
like Chaos reigns, the sole remains of missing antimatter,
with just a trace to form a space-time, curved or somewhat flatter
Galactic glue holds something new: dark energy and matter
that interacts and counteracts the ancient Big Bang splatter:
a cosmic soup of strings and loops, a universal batter
Galactic life's replete and rife 'neath lactic milky wafer,
though solar gales leave unseen trails of cosmic rays, the strafer;
but nonetheless, one must confess, it seems there's nowhere safer
Submitted 21 Aug. 2016
Indian Summer
Gregory Firlotte
Indian Summer lingers for a while
with a cascade of warm sunlight
caressing crimson, gold and russet leaves
with deep honey-colored rays.
The air is quiet like a whisper
and the earth still smells of late, late Summer grass
and a delicious heady scent permeates every sense.
Corn shocks stand and pumpkins sit majestic in hay-strewn fields
awaiting their autumnal purpose.
Crows caw in the distance as if to say,
"Look! Look at the splendor of it all
before it flees in cold November winds!"
Tender, sunny days slip into cool twilight quicker and quicker,
and well-loved and well-worn quilts are pulled closer and tighter
in an embrace that signals the bittersweet exchange
of one season with another.
It is a time to nap in a snuggled solitude
and with a thousand blazing hues hovering overhead
from leaves that must fatefully drift downward to earth
to rustle in piles around the footfalls
of anyone who has ever dreamed deep orange dreams.
O, Indian Summer! Yes, Indian Summer!
Please stay, we beg.
Let the warmth of your gentle hand
touch us just a little longer
as we walk in meadows and along paths,
still intoxicated with golden, sunlit yesterdays.
copyright © 2017 Gregory Firlotte