Long Gnarling Poems
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Flame of life flutters, tide wanes sans reason,
Death drops shutters whilst life sinks in a pit,
The day looks dull, dark clouds when hides the sun,
Night gets moonless, cloudy and stars are no more lit.
Life's breathless breasts hide failing heart beneath
As if to mask a universal truth,
Creeping unseen, Death gnaws with gnarling teeth,
And still, the dying life dreams of her days of youth
And returns home carrying no suitcase
And leaves bare hands, all unfinished hopes hemmed,
As loveliest words get frozen on face,
And as some rarest poems may just die un-penned.
As some of life-long goals remain un-scored,
As one-sided love remains mute, wordless,
As life’s set sailed to float across un-oared
Lo, it suffers a new sentence to sail clueless,
Death cometh, two un-dotted times to dot,
To bring together two random journeys,
Sepulchral silence falls, church bells toll not,
As the air thickens and freezes, as doth chilled breeze.
And ye Life, like kids’ paper boats collapse,
Mere puddle it takes to soak it and sink,
Not a great storm to tilt as paper snaps,
Death hassles thee O Life to kiss thy own last brink.
Much maligned Death, thou art no enemy
Of Life— a darling friend of so many,
Ye walk with Life, so light thy levity,
And yet, for such largesse, ye get not a penny!
To thee Death, the morrow’s but next moment,
Thine future tied on a tenuous thread,
Ye live half-shut eyed, instant to instant,
And still, the last goodbye of thine is such a dread!
So, Death, feel thou firm as my fervent friend
Not to forget, we’re a Siamese twain,
Be my morrow till my life’s very end,
Together die shall we as one bound by a chain.
_______________________
Ode (musings) | 03.05.2012 | life, death
Note: the fourth line of each quatrain is two-syllable longer (a hexameter, with apology to Alexander Pope*).
* A needless alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
- from his poem An Essay on Criticism
I have spoken much -
my trivial record of the hours.
God has not troubled me much,
while ants and termites continue to terrorize nations.
The ugly I have found to be beautiful,
and the beautiful ugly. The root, the gnarling trunk,
and the dying leaf know me.
On the highway, crows pick over a possum.
The meat is gone, bones cracked open.
An eighteen-wheeler roars toward them.
They lift into the sky and hover unperturbed.
The rig's smoking stack passes just below.
Again they descend to the flat carcass
and resume their conversation
with the possum.
I recall as a boy, I stood
by a window looking at a sparrow just like this one.
Every feather could be the same, even the mien and stance
of the bird – the same.
I had never thought of myself as a tree, yet all my life
I’ve been branching away from first roots.
and now thank God, I am become - homely.
My air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds.
Under my dreaming head a pillow stuffed with whisper.
Ghosts do not trouble me,
what does not seem to change bothers me.
god has not bothered me much
he said
ants continue to terrorize nations
the ugly I have found to be beautiful
the root
the gnarling tree trunk
they believe in me
what I see - I am
he said
it is hard to cope
only writing crazy poetry
keeps me sane
an eighteen-wheeler roars
the rigs smoke stack passes
just below
wings hovering
descending to the black top
to the flat carcass of a possum
a beak resumes its conversation
with death
i recall as a boy standing by a window
looking at a flock of sparrows
sparrows just like those seen now
every feather could be the same
are the same
he said
the air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds
most pillows are stuffed with whispers
gulls scream
the sky is all theirs
yet it is not enough
ghosts do not bother me
what does not seem to change
that bothers me
thee deep seated hatred gnarling
at ones soul beckoning eating away
of the sheer foundation of self
a terrifying entity alive and well
searching the innermost calm
of a peaceful being believing in
the purity of goodness only to
behold the hidden shallow virtue
of demonic human angst being
carried out between the realms
of envy curled up beyond a quaint
sudden rapture gathered above
a sinking notion of the death
of human compassion hindered so
to the point of no refuge from envy
forced to end ones on life in return
comes across quite appealing rather
than behold the mere notion that envy
has crawled inside the attic of your mind
hatred employs wrath murdering my soul
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
My handful of dust -
and your fleeting glimpse -
stir billion starflakes at night -
swirling insanely
intrepidly
in dissonance and delight -
shadows of perpetuity
gnawing, growling, gnarling malign
glimmering incandescently
in whispers of moonlight and brine
Awake
screams the sun, gold untenable,
Awake
bursts intention, alone,
Here, here
breathes essence, indelible,
and Renders across the bone -
Give me the spite and the daring -
break me away to the wild -
my life and my time, try Dissevering
with tendrils of passion beguiled -
hold heed the time pass irrevelance
my soul in a bottle of clay
that none of your burning ambivalence
can suffer to.. melt away
reaching for glorious nothing -
swirling across the void -
in shingles of consummation
revivified and -
destroyed -
culprit -
redemption -
oblivion -
imprint is torn apart -
and hope shall have no dominion
in an impregnable heart -
My handful of dust - and your fleeting glimpse -
A soul now dismembered complete -
And universe - fervid with entropy -
Charred palpable - and - indistinct...
I do not bother God
with too many questions.
I watch with sardonic interest
as ants continue to terrorize nations.
The ugly I have found to be beautiful
the root
the gnarling trunk - everything
under my hands and feet.
What I see - I am.
Writing poetry
keeps me light-headed,
I break words open to free their souls.
I am crazy for all things broken.
The air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds,
most pillows are stuffed with whispers
I know this
as much as I know your restless dreams.
Gulls scream their savage songs
because the sky is all theirs.
Ghosts do not bother me
what does not seem to change -
that,
that alone bothers me.
Carrying the fever and heat
of love’s first flame,
I set out on a journey
expectant and anxious,
sealed and tight lipped,
all emotions bottled.
From port to port I journeyed,
travelling in a little love vessel.
What a heavy cargo of dreams I carried
with the scent of memories perfumed.
Did a black cat cross my path?
Behind all veils of cloud,
hope lingered
My spirit…. pulsating inside.
My senses….
waiting for the moment of beatitude!
Skyward I flew
floating through the air
to land, finally in your trembling hands,
dreaming of a nameless delight,
bursting out at the earliest moment.
With my heart beats rising hoarse,
you slit my mouth,
pulled my soul out.
But,
gnarling at my face,
mercilessly you tore me into bits.
and threw me into the bin!!
In the Westerly wind,
slivers of me flew about like ghosts,
unable to get back to their graves.
After whirling naked in the gust of wind,
pieces of me fell down one by one,
to lie inert on the ground,
gasping for the final breath.
Did the firmament tattooed by stars
mock at my pitiable plight?
Wood sapped Energy succudancing up gnarling roots
grasping trees of life
erupt to full parasitic bloom
within millennial Great Transition
blaring autumnal winnowing of karmic stamina.
Fire brings full-flaming confidence
derived from summer's thirsty rain of seed-
recessing roots
plunging and emerging
rich deep regenetic learning:
Communing forests blanket mythic understories.
Keep going back, back further down,
before space emerged from tempered Voice
to once within our EarthTribe Time
when Trees of Life pushed out
from gravitas of boldly hidden
coincidental embrace.
Villages incarnate from fire-lit stories shared,
and love of Other
bursting nature notes
dancing Earth's Permacultured Opera.
My chords and chorus sing through ears
I hope to synchronize with gratitude,
sight with sound
becoming with being
longing with belonging
bi-rooted functions
uncovering emergent Tao
co-engraving information of Positive Teleology.
What grows primal
feels irrationally magical
crystal-fractal;
green-leafed anonymously silent saplings
waving from and for ancient cliffs of paradigmatic rock.
Stoned paradigms of ancient Orthodox
sing echoing synchronicity,
dancing rocks within my rolling mind
learning how to rhyme with age,
unfold color fragrant grace-carnating
Great Transition Time.
How refreshing is this sweet summer night
Crickets sing of the folly of man
While wolves howl of his elusive grip on power
Somewhere, in the darkness, a fire burns,
Propelled and kept aflame by a loner,
A loner, who like me, deems of existence
At night as being too magical to waste it on sleeping!
Into the darkness I dive, hoping to find the ladder
Reaching up to the moon so that,
I do get to admire the unseen beauty of Earth!
Pray, into the darkness I creep, while subtly,
It overpowers me, and I find myself crawling on all fours
Laden with shiny black fur, with teeth gnarling at nothing
And with a heart yearning for the one who made me thus!
Into the darkness I charge, guided by some inhuman guide
Till I reach the top of a cliff, and find him there,
Waiting for me and musing, like me, of the moon's ladder!
Why, the night's taste is delicious, more so, when laden
It is with surreal love, why, wish I to remain as I am
Overpowered by the might of supernatural loving
Wishing I to embrace eternity in such a way
Enmeshed in a labyrinthine relationship, from which
I shall never escape!
Why, like it usually does, the dawn shows itself to reveal to me,
The human world, devoid of the Night's enchantment!
Splashing, thrashing, wetly crashing
rages the rolling sea,
like a dying serpent swirled
in waves of misery!
Through stormy gales and black of night,
these sailors from afar
seek out the dim, faint, speckled glow
of heaven's Compass Star.
But howling, howling, madly scowling
swells the deadly squall
with spite and ire in its briny veins
to damn them—damn them all!
So far away from home and hearth
their ship has sailed the seas;
its men seen sights of boon wonders
with deft and seafaring ease.
Trapped by the foaming, deadly squall;
the wrath of the ocean
rocks their masts and strikes at their hull
like Neptune’s winged griffon.
Gnarling, gnarling, viciously snarling
the squall’s stormy tempests
strike and savagely beat at the
ship’s wooden bow and breasts.
Alas! Alas! All is now lost
as soul after drowning soul
lose hope, panic, and then perish
with HMS The Merry Troll!
The stormy tempests of the squall
sink, swallow, and devour
up all without rue or ruth: so scorn
not the squall's wrathful power!
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