Long Grayness Poems
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Written: June 20, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
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They rose from the stygian seam of night—
a labyrinthine legion, leering with spite.
Their voices are a clangor, a caterwaul choir,
breathe a windy haze, with eyes as molten fire.
I saw in their faces the archetype dread,
the chimera of grief, the brood of the dead.
They came with avidity, eager to rend—
to tear me asunder, to fetch me to wend.
I stood beleaguered, though weary and wan,
My spirit is a dulcet aurora at dawn—
I polished a piece of cloth, a slight deed.
But it glimmered with mettle and creed.
Countless are beasts; masks are ever clean,
They tempt with color, deceive in the scene.
But kindness, though fragile, is empyrean flame,
an ephemeral elixir that none can defame—
They writhed in grayness and rasped in despair,
Their susurrous curses dissolved in the air.
For even in ruin, in sorrow’s wide store—
a hand that still cares is the myth we implore.
So I met them with silence, scorn, and a smile,
each step through their terror a capacious trial.
And though they remain in the corners of lore—
I walk with the knowledge: they ruled me before.
Young harlot is the most honest of all
a fist of coins for a dollop of flesh
more honest than the soil and rain
that turn opera into palettes of cackle
blood blossoms sprouting from grayness.
Some Johns offer flowers or budget cigarettes.
A bouquet of mirrors and cancer-she thinks.
While she nibbles the stems off their souls.
The tongue - her pungent weapon of brevity.
Old harlot is the least honest of all.
Masking a puffy face with budget smiles.
Holding flesh together with time's disintegration.
Flecks of waning stardust minced by gravity.
A ball of yellowing yarn-beneath whirling paws.
A mist of grey enters through the gate,
stealing color from the rose.
The leaves and skies a darker shade
when invited to enter its gloom.
The tears one sheds, welcome malaise,
and raindrops against the window.
Memories of smiles and sunlit days lost,
squandered on the mental rain.
In long-ago days, melancholy was thought
a somewhat bitter charm.
Young girls, distraught behind their fans,
found fragility's aura within its arms.
A weighty mist, its sadness no longer sought
Its medical term is Depression
a psychological, genetic, medical condition.
Time passes slowly until melancholy ebbs and then leaves.
Too soon, it will return to those who wait.
May 8, 2023
for "Anatomy of Melancholy" poetry contest
by Craig Cornish
City rain
Has a sound of its own
Not loud, not soft
Yet you
Can sense it
Even when the windows are closed
A quick pitter patter
Bouncing from the sidewalks
Into
The streets.
When it rains
A lethargic grayness
Hovers overhead
People rush for cover
Anxious not to get wet
A thousand accents
Pierce the skies
Umbrellas! One dollar!
One dollar! Umbrellas!
At night
The City
Crawls to a standstill
Empty reflections
At every traffic light.
The young walk in the rain
Fist clenched
In deep pockets
The brave accept
What falls from heaven
And the old
Patiently watch
The rain
Wash away
The sins of the City.
Darkness peeks beneath the shadows
Melancholic doubt, dread
From silent sensation, built by depression
Falling down from up on high
Where there is grace, where there is chance
Darkness drives away the intense hope
Prepares dreams for loss
Erases the innocence from the smiles
Beneath layers of twilight
Where stars glimmer in the ebony night
Darkness imagines the faces of a moon
Echoing serenity, soothing
Forcing the mind to remember the truth
Hastening the kiss of gloom
So nothing else knows the neglect of suspect
Darkness embraces the ugliness of despair
Whispers obscurity into the dusk
Blends sadness and fear, lingers in the tears
Where anxiety flounders, fails
To take away the moments promised, courage
Darkness reduces the colors so vibrant
Clever hues in violet and sapphire
Moments stirred by scarlet and sweet amber
Thoughts perplexed by the grayness
The dirtiness of the foggy grim, so dull – so dim
Darkness urgently prepares the mind, the thoughts
For the moments of sorrow, the harm
That comes alive in the grief that knows no relief
The death that dismembers grace
Disguises the beauty and masks the praise
Darkness complicates the joy that inspires
Eclipses the compassion and laughter
Conceals every thought of encouragement
Cloaks the dream in ambivalence
Muddles the feelings that make a heart thrive
Yet, darkness – in all its black splendor
Cannot disconnect the soul
From the wonder, the hope – the knowing
That love is alive, abiding inside
The one who knows the One who is His light
The light frees the darkness from her muted breath
And leaves the soul comforted
By the miracle of a faith that survives the darkest night
I just found out how skin of day
breathes in the grayness of Fall sky,
as moist eyes fold to drop away
on moonlit puffs that slowly die
like mirrors crashed into the air,
a splendor gliding down below,
while tradewinds' draft glides off somewhere
biting the night with sharpened jaw.
My fingers trace sweet memory
calling Jack’s name in every bloom
while angels restore the glory
of traces born from love’s heirloom;
I pause… his Light perches on trees
where we christened fire tasting rum,
and though wonder passes through leaves
the days will sift joys, dear husband.
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For Susan’s ‘ I Just Found Out’ Contest
*As narrated by my female cousin
after her spouse passed on*
Written: February 19, 2024
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Loving with a lucent locus is Lissom,
mooring a mystic's sibylline moves
as Felicity finds me, I float forward,
fusing both fantasies' fused yaws,
a rendezvous with time
rejecting zigzag of a jigsaw mind
love acts as a "kinematic" spark
your pulse kept me vibrant
a wave of love washed over us
yet, venom was tossed onto me
without my love, you won't survive
I am an artist shaping your fate,
our bedtime talks are ethereal.
Your loving bird of paradise
flies from earth to sky.
fuchsia fragranced feathers.
beauteous bliss, priss-phobic parody
enhances mental sensuality.
rain sings a warm tune tonight.
I'm trapped by my heartbeat calm.
I find serene places akin to cascades.
lowering my long-standing anxiety.
I unleash angels' shadows.
who redeems me from deceit?
Fulfilled fears, ritualistic romance,
split subtlety spreads semantics
true, clear steps to achievement
love: related to "pretend" and "extend"
means can indicate a cease
where symptoms swirl
honest answers might seem harsh
watch a wild waltz; wind is winsome,
reconsider before choosing
the dynamic nature of love
is subject to a sporadic storm.
Her heart longs for a reunion,
Ignore grayness of twilight
drifting in scented love letters
crafted on the smooth seashore
stored in translucent glass vessels,
featuring ageless verses
the jars shall traverse estuaries,
that brought her to his hallowed Isle
dotted with perennial blooms
gemmed shells evoke tropical muses,
tomorrow, she'll be by his side,
held by harmless sun-kissed kalon
I sense your silky swell serenading me,
fleeringly, with feeling
your imagination has created me
a vivid version of amethyst and deep sapphire,
voicing in verse, vibrant verve unfetter me
Your intriguing muse has a bright spirit.
Midnight and,
far from my town's bright lights
in darkness of sky, I find solace
in darkness of sky, I seek freedom
I looked at the glittery trail of stars
the satellites moving as if stars are racing
the pleiades looking like a small ursa major
I lay my head on the grass
before fog comes to obscure my view
before it's grayness takes all over me
I look at the stars, spot constellations
Wishing if I could fly through them
wishing if I could go and visit a planet
wishing if a planet that can carry the weight,
the weight of my emotions
the weight that pulls me down on the ground
there's a freedom in the night sky
meant for dreamers, meant for believers
I want to dream, I want to believe
that I will be fine
midnights, and I run away from the town
to seek freedom in the starry night.
SHARING MY GREY HAIR
“About the Journey”
Lots of things happen in this life
That Gray hair is a symptom of.
Trust, they did not come cheaply.
And it does not prove me be wiser.
However, it does show evidence that
I have been forced to deal with change.
Not that I should bog you down with
What may have caused my grayness;
Yet, I intend to tell you, that
I survived plenty of daily and hourly
adversities.
Let us call them
“Gray hair, making moments”.
Grateful I am still, for life, sparing my life!
I have become more observant.
And more aware of death.
My gray hair has taught me
not wait for death;
Nor set any date.
But let death wait on me.
As I survive yet another blow.
I am yet stubborn and relentless;
But with each blow that it is not fatal.
I bargain with fate and have time again
To mingle with my youthful mind.
Mingling with my natural mind.
Inspires the co-mingling of my God mind!
As I recollect which of my gifts
I love the most, or;
Which experience has helped to build
A sturdier foundation of character?
I can now better prepare myself;
By acknowledging my shortcomings.
As I voyage clairvoyantly into my inner self;
I am a child again; Feeding upon the Pablum of
God’s expectations, A taste of the hereafter.
I pontificate upon my flaws and
carry on in correcting them.
So, with you, I share, “my gray hair”.
Beneath the stretched-out, nocturnal firmament, thoughts overwhelm my being,
Questions unassuaged by answers, echo of the void,
About forests of the future, trees with waiting roots,
About children from untold dreams, with smiles that cannot be found.
Those books with pages lamenting for the ink's caress,
How they remain closed in the drawers of oblivion, begun and never finished,
Phantoms of words unspoken lay heavy on my parched tongue,
Stories conceived in the soul open new worlds, but they don't birth them.
I'm haunted by these staffs who've been unsummoned, unallowed to exist,
Every failed step, each heavy silence laden with the inability to voice,
In every unequipped dream, in every yearning pieced with the unspoken,
On the blank pages, in the unorchestrated symphonies of the insatiable heart.
I will not understand, in this dock-life laid out in seconds,
What the call of the clouds that never rained on me would have been,
Whether the stubborn stems that insist on rising to the light, the sources of laughter that winds haven't carried,
The readings that could have been savored, the stories that should have been lived.
Garlands of uncertainties will become my crown until my last breath,
And perhaps beyond the barricade of existence, where the violin's flames extinguish,
Questioning remains hidden in the soul's chamber: have I spoken what needed to be spoken?
Is it enough what I've dug out, spread, or has everything submerged without echo, in forgetfulness?
Every dusk brings me these torches of thought not taken to the end,
To paths untrodden, to stories on destiny’s lips, unembraced,
To unsanctified lives, to fairytales woven into the heart's depths and then lost,
And I immerse myself in the solitary, vast question of the silent chamber: what might have been, if...?
But in the enchantment of this waltz of time, of birth and disappearance,
In the grayness of these thoughts, these fleeting reveries that transmute into melancholy,
I discover a translucent mastery, in the unseen that extends its hand to me,
And in the fog of what will forever be hidden, I find a magical way to be.