Long Hailstorms Poems
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When nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
Her tears drag down like hailstorms -
leaving welts across her face.
Her shrieks & cries for help -
have driven everyone away.
Perhaps it's been her silence, though -
thats earned her such a grief.
Or possibly her drive-
that's sought for beauty; buried deep.
It likely, could be foolishness -
(for) she's chased such childish dreams.
With expectations far too high-
(of) those who far exceed her league.
Does she not get she'd be better off-
if she'd ever shut her mouth?
Or will she ever understand-
tears won't save her through droughts?
Her words have rendered useless-
never mattered in any way.
See, if shed learn her place, perhaps-
a man might wish to stay.
April had not always been open for change
as her name would suggest on the surface
too dark were her youth and gloomy mind
shaped by seasons of torment and abuse
as she festered under cover of loneliness
Only her un-stable moods suited saltation
from reckless mania to agonizing arrest
when springs in her step led downwards
relentlessly squashing any attempt of joy
she longed for winter to cover her remains
It was not for lack of trying to blossom
but any buds of happiness wilted before
sap would flow freely and left her with
thorns scars lacerations purulent wounds
that oozed defeat misery and abandon
Winter scape granted no pretty snowflakes
only icicles like daggers and permanent frost
an avalanche covering a veil of false composure
would not thaw long enough to melt her grip
clawed at resolve sent a pick axe into her brain
‘Pull yourself together’ but the strings were twisted
‘grimace happy smiles but don’t look in the mirror’
yet for once she disobeyed and glimpsed reflection
where August held her with love and honest regard
he who himself had suffered for only being himself
Hailstorms continued to grant tempest and thunder
but a lightning bolt changed the aperture of doom
opened up unimaginable courage and togetherness
at last they found love meaning and understanding
tied hands and hearts together to seal their wedlock
11th April 2021
April Poetry Contest
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
The name April refers to opening up
The name August means to hold in high regard
in dogmatic stillness, since uncle died
he's been traversing the phantom dimensions
from endless skyscrapers to artic edges
through hailstorms of indignation
but then he met the pondering moor king
lost in abstractions of his cane castle
and blocked his everlasting glance for good
it was then, when mist(er)y girl showed up
eerie and blossomless, just like anathema
and took the hillside rambler by the hand
astonished spectators watched the lovesick couple
as they descended to the subway of hollow earth
crowded and restless, markedly hectic
everyone thought it's just a plain buffoonery
but no one could break the mundane restrictions
and all once for disrobe that badly sewn uniforms
then, the catastrophe - cyclonic catharsis
earthquake caused by the centipede march
sent the ones with fiery hearts down the drain
likewise the tin soldier and little Lady
and sentenced them to be lone again
By Phan Tan Hai
Turning back, glancing sideways, stepping in, being
pushed out. A waterfall of bodies shoving,
crowds surging forward, lines of frightened people
pulling one another—walking, running, leaping,
waves of people trampling over each other,
flowing like rapids, like rivers—no time
to look ahead, no time to look beside,
no time to look beneath their feet; someone
presses from behind, someone urges from
the front, shouting. I stand at the margin
watching, amid hailstorms hurled across,
storms of curses flying through the sky,
across the streets, across forests and mountains,
across winding paths, across layered valleys—
no way out. No way out, I search
for you, pensive, blurred, waiting,
no way out, in clouds that gather and break.
Please look back toward the margin, where
those with no place left on earth stand,
where I hold out my hand, palm up,
asking for blessing; then turn it down
to keep a little warmth, shivering. Hurry,
hurry a little more, before the human
torrent sweeps you away, and then one day
we will close our eyes and remember the
moment we ran beyond the boundary—hurry,
just a little, before the clouds
scatter. I return to sit and weep, bent
over, writing lines of poetry on paper,
on the wooden beam beside the bridge,
on the square brick of the sidewalk,
on the window glass before my house, hoping
dimly that one day the human torrent
will push you back, and you will find
my words strung across the sky, across
the streets, across forests and mountains,
across winding paths, across layered valleys—
no way out—and I sit among
mountains of words, mountains of words,
mountains of words. But it is late:
the page once held by someone has been torn,
the wooden beam by the bridge has broken,
the brick has cracked, and I am here
picking up each shard of shattered glass,
piecing together each fragment, each broken
word—and you, my original, innocent soul,
where are you, where are you.
I am standing at the margin, at the margin…
Frozen stars in the shadows of changing seasons, the pain of love engraved in acrylic gold
Swirls through the sunlight, draped in somber mists, the echo of endless memories
Of a timeless love story, I feel the frozen sigh of a suffering sunset
While the warm mustard dew of shifting fog gently caresses the sapphire fringes of silent seas
Singing sober melodies on the rain-kissed horizon, heavy with onyx tears of anguish
Like a black rose wilting, mourning in a mahogany coffin, locked with painful memories
Embalmed in shades of hailstorms, somewhere between split gusts and winds of sorrow
The dismal sunflower remains captive, a dusty souvenir with the grayish green of a shattered September
For every autumn hides a story, lost among the dark sights of dripping leaves
And I will always bloom from an opaque mirage, listening to the forest fading, whispering sad odes
To the melancholic wind, feeling time flow through my veins like a river of regrets
Memories melt into colors of fermented must, and my thoughts wander through labyrinths of fog
In this symphony of sadness, words dance on the knife edges of my troubled conscience
Drops of nostalgia trickle down the windows of the soul, reflecting a past that no longer exists
And I, a captive spectator in my own mind, watch as the fabric of reality unravels
Leaving behind only echoes of a love that once was, now lost in the waves of time
Thus, I float through the sea of melancholy, clinging to fragments of memories like lifebuoys
As the horizon drifts further away, and I sink into the depths of my own consciousness
Where frozen stars and wilted roses form constellations of an inner universe
Pulsating to the rhythm of a broken heart, but one that still beats, still hopes, still dreams of eternity.
Romania's Last Ball
We have become tenants in our own country like shadows without border or name,
Our flour yields nothing and the bread no longer rises from the flame,
Foreign interests grind us down like a worm inside the core of a ripe apple bright,
And the destiny of our people has been broken... and no one took up its fight.
The Phanariots lead us with hands of wax and with oaths that are easily swapped,
They change their faith like neckties and their forgotten promises are dropped,
Humbly we apologize that they have not tormented us enough in this short life,
And they teach betrayal to the young... with a sweet voice... and with a deaf and hollow knife.
We no longer have factories and we no longer have land and we no longer have a voice,
We speak our own language in another tongue and words are no longer our choice,
Only the beautiful shame of a people preparing itself for exile and for wandering,
And even the graves are packing up for the road... in this agony and squandering.
Mad poet what words do you still mutter about a people that will not yield,
When we have become beggars and servants on our own native field,
The living and the dead mixed together ready to emigrate at the break of day,
A de-Romanianized Romania... counting its children... who no longer want to stay.
The fatal bell is heard on the evening of the last ball and the final night,
Times of fury and of hailstorms are coming down on all our children's sight,
The high and mighty dance upon our ruins in their cold and festive wear,
And we watch as our country... is sold... and lost... and disappears into the air.
Safe travels people lost on a bet we never knew that we were making and giving,
Farewell mother country... farewell... a word we speak but cannot believe we are living,
Perhaps tomorrow there will be emptiness and all of us will leave with broken hearts to roam,
Romania... the last ball... and the orchestra... keeps playing... keeps playing... far from home.
“Some stars are frozen within the shades of shifting seasons, yet the grief of love, etched in acrylic gold, whirls through the sunlight, dressed in grim mists, echoing endless memories of a timeless romance” Quote By Poet
I feel the frozen sigh of an aching sunset,
as the warm mustard dews of moving mists~
softly stroke the sapphire fringes of
silent seas, singing somber songs
into the rain-kissed skyline,
heavy with onyx tears of angst,
like a withering black rose,
mourning within a mahogany casket,
locked away with sorrowful memories,
embalmed in hues of hurling hailstorms.
Perhaps somewhere between splitting gusts
and gales of grief, sullen sunflowers remain trapped,
as souvenirs dusted with greying greens of a broken September.
For every autumn holds a narrative,
lost between the dusky views of drizzling leaves,
and I will forever bloom from an opaque mirage,
listening to the fading forests~
whisper woeful odes to the wistful wind.
I woke up changed
but love stayed ~
for my cluttered consciousness
escapes into the cosmos,
where the Flame-June stars
are christened with
healing hieroglyphs
hibernating within
your heartbeat
mimicking the murkiness
of this mind that
noiselessly misses
the metered magic
you composed cautiously
into redolent reality
with acrylic colors
from dawn after hailstorms…
and I drown… O beloved
I swallow my ink...
stained with your scent
in lucid dreams
steeped in seared sienna
wrapped in stimulating silence
as faith meets me fearlessly
beneath the kiss of an angel
that left me lethargic
longing for the levitating light
of a sultry sun that
clothed me selflessly
unspooling the urge
to pirouette through peace
that looks like homely solitude
as hope rests in the
saffron soul of clouds
where your rhymes return…
so trace me amidst the
trail of thoughts I find
myself weaving
with wildflower wishes
into the glistening sky
glazed with
passionate promises
caressing my pensive skin,
while I plead
with the awakening moon
to teach the tuscan
tones of my phoenix sun
to soak my silhouette ~
a saving grace beneath my hair…
but these feelings
are not severe symptoms
of persistent exhaustion
or spiritual emptiness
this is the sound
of my pulse ~
a piercing ache
to feel the lips of
an empathetic empyrean
to breathe siren’s bliss
into the arteries of angst
like waves undressed
unreservedly obsessed
with the thought
of being seen and saved ~
a prayer perfumed
like a dream designed
in citrine gold crystals…
*Inspired by the art "Flaming June" by Frederic Leighton
Tim had entered the state of a corpse while
the chorus assaulting his purulent soul festered
Callouses on his corpus callosum pretended
there was no connection just chaos exhumed
Corpuscles splattered astray ice in his vessels
in the same vein of demise as so often before
He stood at the pons dissected in cerebellar
disconnection nauseous detached from brain’s stem
A sequence of rapid succession seceded left overs
Hailstorms of concussion hailed hell freezing over
Snow gathered fast only that the crystals were black
Thunder and lightning electrocuted his passions
A squall out of nowhere invited rapidly raging squalor
Violent tempest arrested in sunken emotions
Blistering blizzards invaded the shelter of survival
Flooded with emptiness he crouched in the corner
of his neuro-toxified mind complicit of oblivion
He had tried the loneliness of a desolate desert
but then sand storms seeped through his pores
poured increasing abrasions towards ashes from dust
A vicious assault broke all defences’ containment
as he listened to the dispatch of an exploding skull
Caustic corrosion dangled from sockets of blinding sight
Tim attempted to drown himself at the oasis only
to find the mirage dispersing convoluted conclusion
But whirl winds returned him to the point of departure
He lingered at the crux of pontificated bridges
crucifix in hand and resolved to jump from the past
Ready to escape from judgement he stumbled and
fortunately the overpass had collapsed due to the storms
Faced with the murky slate of destruction he
gathered the debris and waited for fate to abate
04th October 2018