Long Forlornness Poems
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As I roamed into the steakhouse,
I spotted him slashing steak.
He looked up with his dispirited stare,
His despair coherent to me.
He summon me to take a chair,
He had a anecdote to unfold,
About the day his spouse left,
The day love revolved to abyss.
He delivered her the works he had,
His body, soul and heart,
Her addiction got the best of him,
She backslid; he fell discrete.
Off she went on a spree, appear like,
A daze of narcotics and booze–
When he faced up to her, she said,
"Fine," and ran off–just think
Of the agony it caused this man,
His eyes folded into his face,
Tears so actuate, harsh and brutal
They are salting him in place.
Yet he turns up at the steakhouse,
Forlornness not his thing,
Through those depressed eyes I can declare
He’s longing for happiness, although
Dealing with the tragedy of losing
A woman once very delightful,
A woman now astray in her sadness,
His sorrow under her feet.
By the early years of that ancient decade, the 70's,
I'd tired of my obstreperous tomboyish games:
kickball with the neighbor kids, sledding in the winter,
desecrating the peacefulness of our street's grave yard
with our bike races, tag, and hide-n-seek.
And I tired too of the pastimes of my season preferred:
chasing siblings with a hose, giggling and gleeful,
swimming at Weed Park,
and my perpetual swinging through those long, sweet sunshiny days
longed for during classes in my school.
Old friends grew up.
Boredom anon crept upon the remnant of my childhood.
At times - through infancy and beyond -
I'd been beset by a feeling of loss
over something not yet sought.
It was something kin to loneliness, but no. . .not that.
More a sense of gloom - a sorrowing for what?
I still don't really know.
Despite the days of inexplicable forlornness,
I grew more and more cavalier
throughout the days that came
between those odd forlorn days
because my old timidity, in fact, had waned. . .
Another face, fairer, appeared.
It waxed and glowed - assured -
until those “days - in- between”
had finally surpassed the melancholy ones.
I learned to stifle monotony and squelch the blues.
I became a "doer" of too many things to name
as I went gliding through with the Gibbous moon.
Soon enough, a fullness had arrived.
And now it must disseminate.
In the years to come, I'll be wondering this. . .
Will the shining face I show the world wane too,
and will my youth's strange darkness re-emerge,
eclipsing what light remains as I drift,
having come full-cycle,
into my final
crescent phase?
5/21/14
Submitted 3/30/16 to PD's Any Poem # 38 Poetry Contest
“The rays of setting sun design the unframed dreams
in life’s kaleidoscopic snapshot.” – by Poet
The revolving wheel of the ceaseless time
rotates the contrived kaleidoscope of life,
the riveting patterns change persistently
in the mélange of motif enmeshing the mind.
The chameleon colors transform transiently
the visage of mind’s varied landscape
into the ashen essence of burnt forlornness,
or the beguiled feeling of emerald exuberance.
The dispersed dreams drifting away to the past,
float on the cascade of fantasy stream,
meandering on the topography of the present,
carved out of the bedrock of ebullience.
My emotion replicates the wings of butterflies,
fluttering on the ripples of blissful breeze,
and before they all waft away to obscurity,
form for me a flying formation of fulfillment.
I take my lonesome journey with hope
across the greening wasteland of despair,
or along the glittering garden path,
lined with blooming saplings of bursting colors.
I then perceive my closed mind unfurl,
unveiling the receptive canvas of sensuality,
painted with shifting colors of sublime beauty of being,
creating the kaleidoscopic collage of euphoria.
_______________
March 11, 2023
Theme chosen : Kaleidoscopic
Contest :Writing Challenge - "K" Words
Sponsored by : Constance La France
For A Brian Strand Premiere No 1215 Contest
A Palace of Aloneness.
This palace of aloneness is not my home.
It's bricks know only the time of run-off bygones.
Transition past it's thousand entrances
Impaired with creeping ivy
Into it's stately communion hall
For the dead and the living you'll end up.
Look out it's eyes towards blurred views
Draped in so longs never to be clearly revealed.
Gawk at it's floor to ceiling shelves infinitely crowded
With ô so decidedly swollen hearts
Captive inside tightly sealed jars.
To dust them is not my task.
Here, cabinets are filled with illogical medicines
For conditions without extensional cures.
A repository for good and bad intentions.
You'll know as soon as you feel it
That you are there.
I'll take no residence in this palace
On the dark side of it's interference.
Secure no long or short term stay in it.
This settlement has no neighbors
To cheerily comfort with a smile.
No happiness locker, no blowing kisses.
No escape if you accept lodging here.
Move on, let weighty doors close before you
That have no real escape.
About-face before it's dark shadow becomes you.
Recapture only evidence that matters.
There is no recouping backwards.
Offer up your redress to tomorrow today.
Flee past this palace of forlornness.
Avoid it's thorns upon your ankles.
Clutch your heart from head to toe.
Keep your future safe to ascent again.
Stay out and away look up to heavens above
Even now they are clouded with silver linings.
Life, so many, I don’t know how many lived in this land
How many lived in this local world? Here, can you see?
But I can feel their past, oh, incredible, this atmosphere!
Very magnetic, always brings me here. Never felt before
Never felt before!
Never. This place is a super mind. A high real eternal life
That is what I am looking for in life. But burning my past
A thousand-year-old graveyard and the church. Oh, Time!
This feeling and impression take me here. My inspirations
No, not the inspirations. Not just that. – Different. Untouchable
Old age. Yes. In ancient times. From. All were dynamic lives
Hmm. They left their experiences, loves, and sufferings. Here
When I come here, I live in their lives. Magnetized my mind
Oh, Life! Life! Please! Open, open the door to these lives!
I want walk and live in their life, in their lives. Give it Time!
Give it. I need, I need to get their noble lives. Live the past!
Because this atmosphere is not human-like. More than. High
Very high
I cannot recognize
The origin of this life
I hope
I will be buried
In this amazing life
I want to die
I want to die
In this graveyard
The frolic boughs of trees tremble,
butterfly-latticed leaves flutter
in the trail of summer squall,
where the feisty forest plays with foliage.
Don’t make your mind
a sprawling forest of forlornness.
In descending dismal dusk,
with the flickering shadows of flora,
let it sprint and play.
The ballerina crests of waves roll,
with pearls on pitching breakers
under storm-splashed sky,
with tempest tempo the sea dances.
Don’t make your mind
a still sea of sheet glass.
On the surge of upwelling tides
of the tumultuous times,
let it float and dance.
Perched niche of nest crashes,
the scared chicks fly away,
after the midnight storm
the lonely bird soars in sapphire sky.
Don’t make life a homeless bird
of broken wings.
In the threshold of splintered times
from the ruins of wrecked hope,
let it rise and fly.
Quartz shine of sands makes mirage,
frail face of cactus hope crumples
in the cradle of dwindling dunes,
the wasteland wind sings in the oasis.
Don’t make your heart
a desiccated cauldron of desert.
The lilting lyric of emerald oasis
in blinding surge of sandstorm,
let it intone and sing.
Be true to yourself,
remain what you are meant to be.
The mind will play and dance
with the shadow of despair,
the deserted heart will sing
the song of ecstasy in sanguine oasis.
The wrecked life will rise
from the debris of distress,
if you are what you are.
Written: October 05, 2023
___________________________________________________________
Where the paradisiacal angels reside.
A myriad of creatures, ebony and betide
A dinkum dissolute and a discreet divine,
A degree of dexterity, a denizen decline
Amidst the mahatmas and zeitgeist calls,
An indweller quests for lyricism thrall.
A martyrdom route, an incubus chase,
Eristic battles in the realm of grace
A proponent of verity, a wraith of anile,
Sought to indwell the hearts of enamel.
A sip of soma, a savor of seraglio supine,
Agnostic beyond, for the geist did shine.
Destructive metempsychosis, a mortal plight,
Internal battles, seeking inspirational light.
In the realm of the departed, desolate cries
A crybaby tears, but awe-inspiring skies
Departed souls, once heartsick and heartsore,
Find solace in the trust they restore.
For in the internal depths, a spark ignites.
And as the decedents rise, their souls bear flight.
Absolve afreets, the anxiousness abides,
Embrace the beatitude; sublimity resides.
Rawness of a sentimentalist, troubadour song,
The immanence of duende is pantywaist wrong.
In the realm of the spiritual, the snarl of sin,
Is replaced by beatitude, the soul's win.
Spotless and unsullied, cleansed of all pain,
The spiritual journey is the ultimate gain.
They sully the cosmic force with opulence.
Yet, the sunny glow of bliss starts radiance.
A troll in the netherworld, forlornness abounds,
In the cognition of theosophy, the soul rebounds.
Inspired by Iron Maiden’s song Dance of Death
When the transiting sun shined enchantingly,
spreading color spectrum in the chameleon sky,
I saw once the masked figures of ingenious craft,
walk with me enticed on the broken garden path.
At nightfall, I didn’t hear their footsteps prancing,
while their masks dissolved in the depth of darkness,
I saw their shapeless hollow faces
that chilled my spine immobile.
In the desolate domain of eerie milieu,
under the ebony shadow of the opaque sky,
on the murky hideous landscape desolate,
the nocturnal creatures danced lifeless,
stalking me as sinister night riders,
that slithered in the sly from the creepy forlornness
of the scary wild where I followed them entranced.
With the arcane image of death concealed,
as feral creatures of deceptive charm they lurked.
Like the sordid silhouettes of lethal menace
they stealthily sneaked with the shadow of dark danger
into the quintessence of my placid life.
They sipped my soul’s nectar from the chalice of squalid night,
enticing me to join them in the dance of death.
After the party ended in the middle of the fatal night,
the shapeless figures left one by one.
The psychedelic lights dissolved into gripping darkness,
the spiteful wild air rippled with the cadence of death.
Then I saw the figures return, floating in the rhythm of ballet.
Chiseled from the blocks of deadly darkness
their fragile frames configured from the vicious void
assembled to fill my lonesome emptiness
that danced to the music of death.
I sensed me sinking with my morphed essence
within the flowing trance of the mystique night.
I heard the distant bell toll faint for me,
the music of life’s violin stopped in an instant
within the time transcending depth of silence.
When my time flowed to the stilled past, I wanted to relive,
I felt the invisible cold grip take away my last breath,
until I emerged from the spell of trance,
when my soul arose from the fathomless unknown depth,
where I had been hypnotized,
making music in infinite solitude for the dance of death.
Dear diary!
One who bears the brunt of my adversity,
And my misery, you condone with affability.
There and back to make an affix,
Of an apparently gifted anomalies.
Night so long and yet so short
Threatening with its dreadful silence thought.
Providence, my heart sought,
From my "seems-unending strait",
Which hath made me desolate.
The day, I wish, ceases to break
Its torment, I could make a clean break.
For obscured I am in obviousness,
And lost I am in no one's guess,
'Cos my lovelessness hath made me less.
My seamy life, I shall lay to rest
For I need own a love nest.
Whence from forlornness, I will be harboured
And to its grace, I'll pledge my flesh and blood
But with my diary, I'll move abode.
A lonely figure twirls itself, concealed
by blades of wheat as clouds float through the sky.
The form, a boy, looks up from golden field
and sees the clouds as wedges of cream pie.
He hides despair as if it were that wart
beneath his sleeve. A no-fuss, lonesome lad,
he thinks of things most wonderful to thwart
forlornness. . . He rehearses being glad.
Skipping to the thicket, near a brier,
he spies some lovely flowers; standing there
he uses the demeanor of his sire,
pretends to hold a Bible, thumps the air. . .
and preaching to forget-me-nots, the boy
imagines what might be. . . imagines joy.
For Chris' Anything goes!