Long Indiscernible Poems
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Ode To The Hourglass
E'er spent in the margin of its clutch of us,
We breathe its granules in nighttide befallen,
Wanderers adrift campaign design to thus,
Daytime withdrawal of star hole we crawl in,
Be of that horizon art great plentitude,
A minuscule scope be a grand solitude,
The vast separateness, still, purposed value,
Withal, dissolve in its depths, I and shall you,
Sands prey unto gravitational split palm,
smattering contributions from character,
exfoliates abruptly the sedate calm,
genteel indiscernible that surrender,
the retired bit is given in chambered rest,
that visualness measuring of time's quest,
allowing the said duties of weightiness,
do the essential action of sublimeness.
2020 March 02
Howmanysyllables;
16 lines x 11 syllables per = 176 syllables total
there thrums a void I can't discern
the pounding echos thru my chest
this hollow, empty, longing breast
it beats and beats but will not burn
how does a pulsing 'neath my skin
keep perfect tempo all these years
so coursing blood from toes to ears
and working wonders deep within?
how does an organ keep employed
SO much work while staying strong
yet make me feel, emote, and long
for things and people I've enjoyed?
how could it be my fist-sized heart
can wield twelve megatons of love
while joined with others like a glove
though beating half-a-world apart?
how can it be that hearts of gold
can be debased with just a word
and twist with malice, undeterred
on one sad lie that it's been sold?
how is it that one change-of-heart
can make such difference in a life
embracing loves instead of strife
through kind examples set apart?
why is it that a heart's remade
by one kind act of love or grace
or just ONE smile upon the face
of someone who has come to aid?
hearts are more than just a beat
they find their work in ALL we do
while plied in loving, false or true
of others, kindred, cold or sweet.
a heart of hearts can take us far
yet, even pumping, often breaks
and how my own so dearly aches
to feel the burn and know a scar.
oh then I had true flames, thereof
but now a void where once, desire
as tears doused, long ago, the fire
and all the heartbeats giv'n to love.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Pick A Title, Volume 9 - Enclosed Rhyme" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
"When our dance of love became frantic, I faltered, and you danced on my grave."
***
"How did it come to this, my darling one? We may never know the answer, but with the rain in my eyes, you look so beautiful in red."
***
Every direction only led further from you. Every decision was the wrong choice. My desperate pleas of reassurance were only distorted by the air between us. The harder I fought for you, the more quickly you slipped from my grasp. Every word was misunderstood. Every act was taken at face value. Every feeling was indiscernible to the naked eye.
I only have five senses with which to love you, but they lied each time at the critical moment. The desire to be understood is what led to language, but my love for you could not be conveyed by sound or image. Tomorrow's historians will look back at our path of destruction and see only hieroglyphs of war between two sworn enemies.
I never knew that the spark of hate was a slow avalanche of infinitesimal missteps that one day grows to kill you with what was once called love. That, with tears of confusion in her eyes, on cold and unfamiliar terrain, your lover, battle-dressed and mud-soaked, could hold a shaking knife to your throat, once so tenderly kissed, and scream down at you words of fury laced heavily with longing and pain.
And all you can do is bleed out love and hope for one last chance to write her name in the snow.
To challenge, to confront, to make a reader squirm
with annoyance, is part of what poetry is about.
Each reaction unpredictable rather than thrust upon.
The poet sows a seed, a catalyst, striking a match,
not to inflame and engulf, but merely to light
the kindling in the mind with jangles.
The poet is not to blame for reactions
built perhaps of a guilty conscience,
or a wounded mind on the rampage.
Sure, the poet often aims to confront,
to lay bare, to dare nakedness
worthy of exposure.
But the sower of seeds does not drag plants up
to germinate and grow, to prosper or flounder.
Nor does the sower know if bramble weed seeds
are mixed in with the plants he sows.
The sea of sensibilities is unfathomable.
The reaction spectrum is vast and indiscernible.
The chocolate tray has soft and hard center delights,
Sneak a squeeze if you like, or simply turn the page.
Music is a little piece of foil at the bottom of the oven.
Got torn off and burnt.
Cooking things like fish and vegetables.
Music is like a tray of food.
A tray of toast and a napkin too.
Is good enough to chew.
Music is a tasty numbness.
Yummy asparagus, and clam chowder.
Clamoring and smiling.
Music is a messy tray with crumbs and spills.
Music is whatever is making me crave chocolate.
Music is a spell that makes me feel like an apple with a bite in it.
Music is having a buffet of indiscernible sludge.
It’s all delicious.
Messy, crumbs, and falling apart biscuits.
Maybe I’m just hungry sometimes.
Music.
Last night’s casserole.
We don’t know much about these things.
But sometimes they taste nice.
God revealed indiscernible void in my spirit
Exposing my costly worthlessness through His truth’s eyes
Granting me eternal life of love that satisfies---
---Thus, I trusted the Saviour* declared by Scriptures’ writ.
God can fill the indiscernible void in my soul
Omniscient, He rightfully knows my innermost need
Through His omnipotence, my lack He does feed indeed---
---Making me completely whole to reach stewardship goal.
God always meets indiscernible void in my heart
As He forgives my confessed selfishness’ misery
Bracing me upon His peace-filled blissful victory---
---Prevailing over afflictions of haughtiness’ dart.
God shuts the indiscernible void in my faith’s sight
Upholding me to vanquish skepticism and doubt
Freeing my mind from disastrous unbelief’s clout---
---While I praise and thank Him midst gracious reaching-out might.
*Luke 1:47 And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
Dear God,
Thanks so much for filling the void in my soul, heart, and in my whole being by Your love. Thanks likewise for sending me Your Son, my Saviour Jesus Christ to give me life everlasting by my faith in Him. It is my prayer that You please enable me to share the Gospel with others so they can be filled with Your salvation peace, joy, and security. In Jesus' name. Amen.
For those who are not yet assured of heaven: Put your faith in Jesus Christ, the only way, truth, and life. Ask Him to forgive your sins as you receive His gift of eternal life.
September 20, 2019
3rd place, "Pick A Title, Vol 9 - Enclosed Rhyme" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh; judged on 10/3/2019.
In the bread house, I see, and hear a family of four break bread together. The knee-high son, sits under the mother's armpit, and dad sits across from her. The baby sits in a high chair, seemingly the only one aware that he's the head of the table. He pounds his fist, when the morsels don't come fast enough from his mom's fingers, to his mouth. The knee-high son is so happy, that he sings completely indiscernible lyrics of a song he either learned in daycare, or from some bizarre, unidentifiable species on television. The dad occasionally helps calm the baby down: occasionally. The mom is content. She eats. She consoles. She feeds. She eats. She is their moon; she keeps them on a fixed orbit.
In the bread house, I see, and hear
families break bread together.
A knee-high son, sits under the
mother's armpit; dad sits across
from her. The baby sits in a
high chair, seemingly the only
one aware that he's the head of
the table. He pounds his fist, when
the morsels don't come fast enough
from his mom's fingers, to his mouth.
The knee-high son is so happy,
he sings indiscernible words
of a song he either learned in
daycare, or from some bizarre, thing
on television. Dad sometimes
helps calm the baby down: sometimes.
The mom is content. She eats. She
consoles. She feeds. She eats. She is
their moon; she keeps a fixed orbit.
I watched her fade away
her fabric was rinsed too much,
beaten against a stone too much.
it had bleached her out of herself.
The paint of her presence
has bled away in the sunlight
she has become almost indiscernible.
I knew her when I was a boy
she was so alive, electrified
with vitality.
Every eye sparkled that looked her way.
No one should dry-up and blow away
in slow motion like this.
Yet that older lady was still a girl
behind a tattered yellowing gauze
of surrender.
I recall her dancing lightly
over the roof of my mind
I only wish she had flown higher,
dared herself to fall even.
The Miracle of Sound
In the spaces of the atmospheric current
A flickering of heat and fire intersect
They spark up to create a melodic unison
And blend in to build a resounding symphony through their crackling noise
Their flames penetrate the tremendous vicinity
And outside an indiscernible hum prevails
The hum pierces the sound barrier
Making claim on its presence
Differences voices outside clamor for attention
Fighting to be heard like a chorus of chirping birds on a glorious day
And blend into a cacophony of sound
Then melting into harmonic ecstasy
Undulating rhythms ebb back and forth in the gentle auditory continuum
A gentle lull buzzes into the distance
Softly rocking the listener to sleep
Bells chime with every sweep of the breeze and the listener feels at peace
The waves of the ocean roll towards the sand
And emotions are soothed
How hypnotic and tranquil the sounds cane be...
Leaves swishing...
Raindrops drumming...
It is another proof of heaven's treasures for the world
Another miracle to behold...