Long Inactivity Poems
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In the whispering silence of a moonlit night,
where stars wink like old friends,
I drift along the river of my thoughts,
an unbound stream of consciousness,
Flowing through the landscapes of potential and purpose,
where dreams dwell like forgotten treasures.
Most of us,
shadows of our true selves,
live in shallow waters,
afraid to dive into the depths,
Creating busywork,
weaving webs of distraction,
as if afraid to face the stillness of our own souls.
Oh, how we toil, like ants in an endless march,
building castles in the sand,
Not because the work is urgent,
but because we do not know the art of being.
We are craftsmen of the banal,
architects of the mundane,
lost in the frenzy of doing,
When all we yearn for is to float,
weightless and free,
on the river of life,
to be carried by its gentle current.
Imagine a world where laziness is a virtue,
where idlers are the sages,
Where shaking off the chains of duty is a path to enlightenment,
To bask in the golden glow of a sunset,
to savor the sweetness of a moment unclaimed by time,
To relax into the embrace of existence,
to find joy in the art of simply being.
I do not preach a life of total inactivity,
for such would be a disservice to the soul,
But rather a life where each act is a dance,
each gesture a poem,
imbued with meaning and grace.
Let us not be prisoners of our own making,
bound by the chains of needless toil,
But the artists of our destiny,
painting with the colors of purpose and passion.
For in the quiet moments,
where the heart beats in sync with the cosmos,
We discover the true rhythm of life,
a melody that calls us to slow down,
to listen, to feel.
To be busy is not to live,
but to be alive is to flow,
to ebb and surge with the tides of meaning,
To find the balance between action and inaction,
to dance on the edge of potential and peace.
So let us embrace the wisdom of the river,
to be lazy in the pursuit of joy,
To be idlers in the garden of dreams,
to cultivate a life that blooms with significance.
For in this dance,
this flow of consciousness,
we find the essence of our being,
And though the world may rush around us,
we shall move with the grace of those who understand,
That the river of life carries us not to the shores of accomplishment,
But to the ocean of our own infinite potential.
Untitled
We dance across the heavens, like shining stars,
to the never ending beat of our universes heart.
Its song, time – sometimes – becomes dull, grey,
aches of sentiment, in the throes of lofty sentimentality
that becomes red dew, flowering over the cornea, of a rose
releasing its sweet fragrance, ever so slightly, lightly
down the sides of its imaginary nose.
Sentiment, envy, desire, so anther life goes.
B. J. “A” 2
April 18th 2003
Untitled
I stand on the edges of a desire,
a desire to be all that, – in this life –
I have never been, – in all likelihood –
could never be, for it is not in me.
Yet, in me, it is, as I read biographies,
autobiographies, ancient histories,
I see the dream – illusive as it seems.
Heavy sheets of liquid crystal hang,
fall before these old brown eyes.
Only, the telling comes in ripples
that dot the landscape of reflections
painted upon the cold black surface,
of a pavement that lays before me.
A sad portrait is painted every day,
it comes in the reflections, of those reflections.
Life has flown me through valleys richly
carpeted in jewels, emerald green and serine.
Life has dragged me over rough, ancient mountains,
dropped me over sharp edged, rugged cliffs.
Life has hauled me across screaming creeks,
down raging rivers without a paddle.
Life has thrown me into the fires of hell,
upon plumes of smoke, sent into the ether.
Life has guided me into heavenly spaces
where one will find beautiful places.
Life has shipped me into the shadow less abysses
of blackness where light of night stars hang
in the endless skies where one opens eyes
B. J. “A” 2
April 19th 2003
Untitled
Life lived – looking back –seems to have been as poverty laden
as the life that lays before these tired old feet – its faden
with inactivity, motiveless, motionlessness passages of time.
The richness in both – lost to another time and state of mind.
And who really may care ?, about the poverty in both.
And who really may care ?, about the richness of both.
And who really may care ?, about the memories of both.
And who really may care ?, about the life or death of both.
With Easter at hand.
It seems the hand is the only one who cares.
Assumed death ?, assumed resurrection ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 20th 2003
What a year – Tim was just a little boy of 25 – naïve and
Lost in ‘innocence’ a critical time bomb waiting to happen
Blue-eyed he listened to Nena’s 99 Red Balloons flying high
While Band Aid wondered whether They Know it’s Christmas
Sticking plaster for an ignorant conscience
Plasters cast for broken souls and hunger
Summer Olympics in Los Angeles the world disunited
As the Soviet Union boycotted the Festival of Youth
Hollywood and Universal Studios Footloose competed
With The Killing Fields for consumption and Oscars
Dancing in full view of the Apocalypse
Khmer Rouge and Holding Out for a Hero
Miner’s Strike in Great Britain with Margaret Thatcher’s
Heavy handbag crushing legitimate opposition’s pickets
Reagan became ‘acting’ president and Space Shuttle discovered
That we have only have one lonely planet so we must muck it up
Cold War awaited nuclear freeze and
Hiroshima was declared a minor aberration
Metallica roared Blitzkrieg inferno and Armageddon
Iraq fought Iran and guess who was supporting whom
The US supplied Saddam Hussein with poison gas while
In Afghanistan they supported Taliban and Mujahedeen
‘The enemy of our foe is our good friend’
Coalitions must change freely in axes of evil
George Orwell comes to mind with Eurasia Oceania and
Eastasia altering alliances but then history must be forbidden
It can mislead young minds and wars have to be waged
For the sake of gory glory and self-righteous delight
Who reads books anyway and why and for what
They might seduce us to hail love and compassion
In 1984 Tim longed for flowers in hair scribbled Peace signs
On flare bottom jeans 20 years past The Sound of Silence
Had not mustered the courage yet to challenge the inevitable
Collusion of his inactivity with happy murder for money and oil
Slowly though he finds his belligerent voice and
Concludes that the 80’s offer more than nostalgia
There sneaked a micro organism into the lives of human kind from elsewhere,
Who made it intruded is still a mystery, yet it’s fate of the world
That life on earth is engulfed with thorns and bruises?
They say: It’s from bats, some say: it’s a shoot of ‘Bio-war’,
No doubt it’s a sinister game and human lives are the ball, hit and shot,
Thousands of goals have been dropped and there was no cry of joy,
But ‘cross the world there hath been flow of tears and fears.
The human lives, tainted with creepy killer organism, seek shields of defense,
And there around the Round Table Conference clicked a thought of ‘Social distancing’.
Provinces and states raised the alarm of crisis to avert throngs and mobs,
It hath been a portent for the imminent disaster on the face of earth,
A ‘day of shut’ hath been imposed on the lives as precaution –
No politics, no religion, no caste, no race and ego shall be the law,
For the blood is the same red with tissues and organs for all.
The day began with the legal menace ‘cross the country,
And the wheels and bags were restricted screech and rustle,
The rich and the poor entered their ‘house bags’,
And there seen empty roads and streets except faint travelers.
Round the clock people’s saviours were seen sweeping and spraying sterile medicine,
Life-saving doctors and nurses were seen in spring-up action,
And those infected folks were brought under the treatment of the life-savers.
Behind the legitimate bars of seclusion from the pandemic infection,
There was seen a life of silence for a noble cause,
It was not a total inactivity, but a self introspection of social distancing -
A pledge to chase the epidemic killer virus away from human kind!
Media of service ran thro’ hazards and perils brought into rooms the day’s tasks.
It was a joint fight against COVID -19 beyond human restrictions,
And each of us shall be a victor ‘gainst the epidemic violence.
Neon cased, luminaire, a work order about crystal chandelier
Neon cased, luminaire, a work order about crystal chandelier
Neon cased, luminaire, a work order about crystal chandelier
(Verily, this is rueful) you are only mine
farther shimmering, the glow is only mine
Within a halted time, elapsing the glitch
the memory and the earnest beseeching reach
Album cover landscape and hushed up Himalayan lullaby
Why the mindful departed with the left wing, and Ay!
Never land in Netherlands without the Norwegian home bound try!
Transparent a high in the foggy high beam , so high, up the sky!
Mystic moon river, thou shall never be a croon, a moonlit sun, o my!
In exile, revitalizing river , trained and maintained, lasting in eradicating a cosmos
cosmos and the cosmic, interstellar, a sensible old fashioned Oshkosh, perhaps a Ross!
Never to covet, never, never, never!
Ruminating Eldorado, gone with Shepherd, orchard a say!
A moonlit sonata and a streak of moonlight may ! Brazen Fenugreek and the Greek Gothic day!
Perhaps a light at the end of the tunnel , (forecasting atlas , dream reader's digest a!)
Grass root, barefoot, an odd and an audacity
Up the sky, an indecisive cry, limitless, unwholesome,inactivity!
Intertwined a mayhem alone, with the alone, an ayah for an usher color, glum and glee!
Cosmos and the cosmic, interstellar, a sensible old fashioned Oshkosh, perhaps a Ross!
Never to covet, never, never, never!
Ruminating Eldorado, gone with shepherd, orchard a say
A moonlit sonata and a streak of moonlight may !
In exile, revitalizing river , trained and maintained, lasting in eradicating a cosmos
Cosmos and the cosmic, interstellar, a sensible old fashioned Oshkosh, perhaps a ross!
Never to covet, never, never, never!
Copyright Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2023
(Influenced by a song of Tahsan Rahman Khan)
As I roll out of bed tomorrow
I’m gonna say goodbye sorrow
Fare thee well Mr. Cynicism
See you later Mr. Pessimism
Adios to Mr. Skepticism
Exit negativity, enter positivity
No procrastination and inactivity
An idle mind is the devils workshop
That’s why I’ll exert myself nonstop
No more misery and depression
As exuberance replaces dejection
Success is around the corner
It’s coming now and not later
Victory is surely heading my way
No matter what people may say
I quit banking my future on luck
Time has come to break the duck
A new dawn has shown its face
My home will be a better place
I’m a potential winner, a true born victor
Within me lies a superstar, a megastar
No I’m not building castles in the air,
I’m not dreaming, I’m not hallucinating
I have to earn my place in history
Put a good ending to my unfinished story
My story is about confidence, not arrogance
I advocate humility, not vanity
Trials and tribulation come and go
Sticky situations are not unique to you
But we all know as well as you do
You need hard work and determination
For the youth, education is the only solution
You’ve got to make the decision
To extract yourself from destitution
Leave nothing at all to chance
For fortune favours the brave
No sweet without sweat, no pain, no gain
Each time you fall recollect and try again
A dream doesn’t become reality through magic
Lazy genius is not only sad but also tragic
Stay focused, keep your eyes on the prize
There is no substitute for hard work
There are no secrets to success
Only in the dictionary does success precede work
We are all gifted, skilled and talented
Unshackle that innate ability
Let loose that latent capability
I’m gonna prepare, plan and plot
Execute and give it my best shot
Until the day that I hit the jackpot
Are you sitting down? Sit here, momentarily in this chair.
Let me convey to you something so very important.
Your body is unhinged to get mended will be a feat.
You must consume these pills, then obey those rules.
Forget your mannerisms and the way you even reason.
Everything you’ve ever celebrated is going to dissolve.
Pray to your messiah now with each waking day.
Your body must succumb for it to ever recuperate.
Everyone has an opinion but none have answers.
Sickness, pain and anguish with each petite step.
Tubes, needles and poison are the only solution.
Unhealthiness is hard to overcome, “please go away”.
Concealing the expressions in my hands sobbing, aching,
Occasionally wishing my conclusion was already here.
Foresight that the next day will only elevate anguish,
Swiftly I must awaken for this a new day has come!
“Why? Don’t force me! I ache, this future bleak!”
Inspiration came I knew that I had to ascend, reawaken.
Why today? I know why! It’s the assessment time.
Pressing forward, desiring worthy news to discover.
Optimistic that when his mouth agape I will be clear.
The inactivity induces more angst then the distress.
With many souls here, when did this supervene and why.
The seating room so crowded yet I only think for myself.
No longer distracted by my ailment I now pray for them.
Each can get through this let them envision my resolve.
Be firm, be courageous mustn’t sway from the objective.
Please lord; give these others the strength to overcome.
Being an unmerciful road, I hope the masses fare as well.
Throat knotting up and my eyes begin to fill with tears.
Hearing his voice petrifies my soul and yet encourages.
Walking in smiling, his exclamation so wonderful.
It’s gone, it has disappeared, finally time for me to rejoice.
Form:
My skin crawls as I watch a hand,
disembodied,
reach yet again into the Tollhouse bag.
Bright, artificial yellow. It burns my eyes.
Countless chocolate chips are shoveled down my gullet
as if crumbs to a wretched, starving creature.
I’m only jarred out of my sinful haze by catching si th r of my reflection.
That face staring back at me - I don’t know it.
Dry, lifeless eyes,
the expression of a corpse,
chocolate smeared on the edges of my mouth.
Disgust rises like bile in my throat.
This stranger lives a soft life.
Hours spent lounging by the fire,
fleshy stomach warm and sated,
screen filled with ads and the inane,
I have never known struggle.
The world blazes with fire
and the screams of dying children surround the soul,
so I employ synthetic numbing agents.
Blue light has seared my nerve endings into inactivity
while glucose rots me to my core.
Do my vices truly dim the pain of helplessness?
Or do they simply induce a coma of false innocence
until I’m able to face the world?
“My” face stares back at me,
haunted and hated.
I am vitriol,
bottled up and consumed.
For consumption is the only skill we have left;
purses and devices and anything worth a cent are
boxed up,
framed with silver tongues,
and shoved down our throats faster than we can blink.
And we take the poison,
digesting it like the obedient cattle we are.
Not even thousands of victims can rouse us from our stupor,
willingly chosen to numb the conscience and the void
yawning from self-inflicted purposelessness.
Ibuprofen for the guilt of privilege and powerlessness.
I choke on the silver spoon from which I’m fed these pills
but find I swallow regardless.
After scary Halloween and its ghoulish pranks
November dawns with all-saint’s and all soul’s day
Carrying a pious note in the balmy wind
Along with the haunting memories of our dear departed
November parades herself in a riot of colors
The trees get dressed in robes of gold
The earth flames in scintillating autumnal glaze
Unique is the season with no other to rival
But brief is the tantalizing beauty of the land
On misty mornings, the aureate leaves burdened with settling dew,
Shiver in the wind n' cold and tumble down
As they fall one by one, I hear a silent melancholy note
The pain of parting connections from their mother trees
November is also the season of a plentiful harvest
The granaries are filled with stored corn and maize
People thus enjoy the fruits of their labor
The hard-earned dividend of their yearlong sweat
Children and adults go for apple picking
And come back home with baskets full
On trees hang the opulence of golden pears
Nesting sweetness beneath their crunchy rind
To far off places, fly the feathered folks
Beasts retire to their burrows and sheltered dens
Soon the sun will go on a long vacation
There will scarcely be a sunbeam brightening the land
And winter waits impatient for its icy cold embrace
Thus, November is a month of transition-
From the feast of colors to the monochrome of white
From the bright sunny days to the greying cloudy sky
From vibrant enterprise to the torpor of inactivity
From death and decay to the hopes of resurrection
November.6.2022
~ Placed Eight~
November Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
Things look differently in hindsight
Objects, ideas, and people can take on a life of their own
What once existed serenely now rears up on its scaly haunches
Breathing a most fowl and unpleasant exhalation
An all-encompassing shroud
Like an impenetrable fortress of fog
Draping the countryside of one’s grey matter in an even duller demure
The palate, once a tapestry of color now left drab and undone
Like a piece of paint peeled back to revel the undisguised underbelly
Traces of things left to yesteryear—no hope of return
From the lifeless clutches that are the all-too apparent circumstances
Flesh gone cold from inactivity and the onset of life’s winter season
Stripped bare of all life, color and action
The longing that awaits one upon this arrival is quite unbearable
The kind that weighs you down, like an anchor
With waves a ’crashing, tearing at the very life line
Memories wash ashore with debris
Leaving cracked fragments of one’s life among the remains
Replete with the cavernous hollows that is solitude
One grasps at swirling phantoms in the night, always a step behind
Left with nothing but the painful yearning for something to fill the ever growing void
The kind of mass that devours all things that radiate
Nothing escapes its covetous glance
Like a ravenous galactic black hole
Everything is lost in its path
Growing like the sole vine in a once bustling building
Slowly ensnaring, brick by brick, the very foundations
Entangled in the rubble of rotted wood and concrete
Nonchalantly passing by unassuming photographs
Hazy memories now long forgotten
Remnants are all that remain