Long Ink black Poems
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You rightly, quite politely, criticise
my efforts at composing “pleiades”.
What’s rare about revilings such as these
is, blaming me for leaving out my “I”’s.
The reason isn’t tricky to surmise.
My arrogance supposes I, with ease,
can conjure (with unthinking expertise)
whatever I may please. Please don’t despise
my failure to peruse the contest rules,
for carelessness (the calling-card of fools)
is what possessed me. That, I can’t disguise.
Each time a fresh and feisty pair of eyes
lands on my folly, one more pride-cell dies.
Its silver magenta
is shimmering warm-white
in damson-dark center,
ink-black like summer night;
if clay turned inventor,
it might spawn this dawn-light.
Each morning, the sun rises, full and bright,
but in the day, I'm not entranced - only in the night.
The sun may be loving. The sun may be pure.
But, I yearn for a twinkling, more demure.
I beseech the sun to undress the stars
as lovely Venus lets fall her gown for Mars.
Blushing star, you're hiding something from my eye.
I know your fire burns, though you're so shy.
A billion eyes fall on you from the earth -
show me, mine are the only ones of worth.
I reach up to you with my hungry arms.
Let my eyes caress your secret charms,
that the two of us may love and play
on harp strings - each shimmering silver ray,
until, in one rapturous cry,
we find ecstasy in the ink black sky.
Last night, Lisa, Peter, Leeza and I were in her father’s 50th floor study watching New York City. It’s a corner room with glass walls from floor to ceiling. He likes to watch the city himself and has a small, 5 seat sectional couch facing the view.
The left wall window looks across Hell’s Kitchen to exactly where Sully Sullenberger crash landed flight 1549 in the Hudson river (it was 3:31 pm and no one was home). The right window overlooks Central Park and Upper Manhattan. Lincoln Center, almost dead center of the corner, looks like part of a toy train-set.
The view is a wheeling, ever changing and mesmerizing panorama. Well lit ships, barges and boats move glacially against the ink black Hudson. Jets in expressway-like holding patterns (Newark Liberty, and Teterboro airports left window - LaGuardia, right window) blink, like waving angels, helicopters buzz below like insects and the traffic, far, far below, forms a living chain of red and white lights which can erupt with nugatory hues of police blue at any moment.
While we watch, we’re playing a game of “Would you rather.” It’s a game of situational trade-offs, like “Would you rather listen to the same 10 songs forever or have to watch the same 5 movies forever? Of course, most people say the movies - because they last longer and there would be fewer repeats.
We take turns asking these critical questions - pausing, occasionally, to point out things below.
“Would you rather be in a crowded elevator with a bunch of noisy high school students or pinned in with a bunch of judgemental, middle aged men? The girls chose the students, even though high schoolers can be mean. Peter chose to be with the men.
“Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with 5 million dollars?” We all chose love.
“Would you rather hike or camp?” Both were unpopular if they involved going to the bathroom outside - which creeps the girls out.
“Would you rather give up your computers or your pets (forever)?” THAT was a stressful one.
.
.
My movies: Clueless, Rushmore, Moonstruck, Shakespeare in love, Dr. Zhivago
And for my sweet meditation- I am listening to Vilvaldi,
the four seasons concerto, wild and quite dreamy;
and I am soon lost in a daydream of flowing creeks,
singing birds, whimsy and fantasy illusion.
A mosaic, a tapestry, a fresco,
and I am walking this entangled maze;
a labyrinth of green lush vinery,
the moon my illumination.
A spirit guardian leads,
me to a garden;
a place of posy, wild flowers, a paradise, a dreamland,
and a little cherub angel child welcomes me to rest.
It is like Heaven here in this Shangri-La land,
yet my innermost heart weeps;
midnight ink black tears,
for I know this child.
Oh, horrible the memories that wrap me in darkness now,
it is my sister love, lost to death in the web of time;
clouds gather dark, hazy and misty and Vilvaldi plays,
his rhythmic, harmonious violin.
____________________________
February 6, 2017
Poetry/Narrative/A Dreamworld Chimera
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 873-004-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Chimera World
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
Third Place
Awake,
by, stillness of the soul
I journeyed in on hyperbole
carrying on without extol;
I found myself alone without
the privilege, of unsent clout;
Placed inside a *Dark Universe
I never heard the stars rehearse
astray inside a sky, immersed.
I felt I was beyond repair,
inside this black hole of despair.
Boundless and bent each muscle strained
like tapestries of night unchained.
I .... the artist without restrain
dipped my brush in sorrow without shame,
choosing ink-black, for spitting rain;
Flecked stars of heaven, * Cherry red
yes, I'd been mistaken for dead
for I had lost my homestead.
Dark blue for the background, great hue
for a girl who was black and blue!
Awake,
by stillness of the soul
I journeyed in on hyperbole
carrying on was my main goal.
By the seaside, where bird's nest
I sketched a solitary crest
for it was there that I felt, I was at my very best !
Swept by waves of nostalgia
Afloat on longing tides
I assessed this oyster compound
where my heart could not abide.
Aphrodisiac pulls of Neptune
were as lava cooled to stone
What use were pearls of luster
when one had no collarbone?
Heralded by sea trumpets
kelp banners flying high
Sentinels of sea urchins
with pink coral by their sides
Calamity, with determined madness
shoved sponges from his path
Provoked by clam injustice
Spurred by mollusk wrath.
I searched for an escape exit
from that cruel, moronic clam
This myriad ideology,
naught but an oyster sham.
When a seahorse bobbing aimlessly
moved closer to my side
I unhinged my oyster carapace
and grasped its roughened hide.
I was jolted and I was jostled
as I settled on its back
Calamity watched in amazement
standing frozen in his track
When an agitated octopus
released an ink black kite,
a galaxy of starfish
sank into the brackish night.
I focused my attention
on my lost and nervous steed
We were climbing ever upward
at a most alarming speed
Breaking through the surface
I swallowed back a scream
Afraid of finding Calamity
I found it all had been...a dream.
Naked Subjugation
Last night I wandered past your total disregard
And walked forlorn
Stark insecurity amplified
Still I walked , my usual forbearance uncomplied
Upon furthermost the distance between us elongated
The sustenance of forgotten stores inside me generated
I was venerated - nay subjugated
Of these morsels congregated
And fed me through those ink-black nights
In dew fall of the quiet
Inside unheard the rebel riots
As my breath became a billion
As my fears that I embraced
Loosed themselves and fearing fled
Melting in the murky bellows
Did I find my standing there...
Naked but for meekness laced
Forgotten was my fear
I needs you did not anymore
Nor your disregard this doggone day
Not dejected as before
Only sin has me surrounded
And soon encircled disappears, decays
Unclothed in limped insignificance
Nothing said ..
So still your body lies
Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2017
A Haunting Waltz
As I recline, wearied, on this eve so dark and dreary,
Whispers in the shadows, tales of Victorian eerie.
The moon, a spectral lantern, spills its ghastly glow on cobblestone streets,
Where specters of yore, in corsets and top hats, discreetly meet.
Beneath flickering gas lamps, secrets deftly concealed,
In murky alleys, truths unfold, a clandestine reveal.
Gloom, thick as velvet, cloaks the halls of this Gothic terrain,
Sorrow and madness entwine in a macabre dance, a haunting refrain.
The ticking clock tolls a mournful chime,
Velvet curtains shiver, echoing a ghostly rhyme.
In the parlor, a specter, veiled in lace,
Dances with memories, a waltz in somber grace.
Haunted whispers, ethereal threads through tapestry and lace,
Betrayals linger, a venomous embrace.
Raven calls echo in the ink-black night,
Tales of sorrow and lost love take ethereal flight.
A portrait on the wall, pallor of despair,
Capturing the essence of a soul laid bare.
In this Gothic Twilight, where shadows conspire,
The heartache of ages, a symphony in the choir.
The sepulchral beauty of the night unfolds,
In corridors of despair, where grim tales are told.
No respite from melancholy, no escape,
As the past entwines with fate's remorseless tape.
So, I recline here, in this realm of the morose,
Where echoes of the past in haunting prose.
In the dark Victorian era, where shadows reign,
A macabre sonnet etched with sorrow's indelible stain.
-Edward
It stood there
looking empty and old,
neglected and sad
with windows shuttered,
covered in shadow
both day and night,
hovered over
by trees whose branches
disguised the house
and made it seem
a part of the
overgrown landscape,
completely surrounding it,
keeping strangers and unawares
at bay.
It stood there
shrinking from the present
almost lifeless,
a house with no soul
no face, no breath,
as if it started out as a ruin
and was determined
to remain so for all time,
unwanted, unkempt,
shunned by passersby,
its roof looking tortured
its doors uncertain
as to whether they opened at all
and no one knew
and no one asked.
It stood there
talking to itself
in a silent conversation
that no one heard,
talking about things
that used to be
as though the Past was in the Now
and the Now belonged to the Past,
and who would dare
to knock on its doors
or tap on its windows
to see if anyone would answer
or show their presence
to the world outside,
a world gone by.
I stood there
on many a night
along the side of the road
just endlessly peering
at this lonely old place
wondering, waiting
for a light inside
to be turned on
at the same appointed time
emanating from behind
heavy and yellowed lace curtains
that looked like tattered spider webs
in only one crooked window
and one window only
hung with spidery lace.
I stood there
on those moonlit nights
bewitched by this house
listening to calls
and breaths of wild things
that roamed all around me
under ink-black star-filled skies,
but no light from moon nor star
could illumine
this clapboard-covered curio
from another day and age
concealed by branches, vines
and bramble,
bushes and nettles
and mystery.
I stood there
wondering
who turned on that only light,
who roamed the house by night
who walked its tilted floors
who locked its uncertain doors
who hung the curtains of lace
who built this unsettling place
who called this abode their home
and how many hallways would they roam
and are there secrets that lived inside
and what was the bramble trying to hide,
was there anything for it to reveal
anything for it to tell
this house haunted that knew me so well?
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
that pause a tears tumbling
or words that gods would rip from reality
for none to repeat
words that crumble
under winds slip
Yet i could write of eyeless Yeti's
words that unfurl like a water dipped petal
words of fear
like a shadowed figures
inhuman smile
greeting from the top of the stairs
words planely plain
i always sit at the back of the plane
ever heard of one reversing into a mountain
with a whip of my wrist turn sword
into words
Words that peer from beneath
tear stained fingertips
as another blow lands next to my ear
S
--w
-a
n
---n
--i
---n----------n-----k----n
--g and s-----a-----i-----g into lines
as the mist just misses
the ink black still
before the grey and the numb
give birth to the static