Long Islets Poems
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When I appear there Nature seems to
Dance and dance and dance,
When I disappear she is prone to
Weep and weep and weep.
Withdraws all clouds from sky to set a
Splendid scenery,
So that me rising from the river
Afresh may there espy.
Whether it sun or shower or snow or
Storm, when I arise
To set my arms, the setting Sun
Certainly will be there.
Women who go to the river for bathing
Choose my choicy time,
So that there they may bathe in warm and
Yellow sunshine time.
Now here a plant blossoms and blooms and
Soon another there,
Here Spring is reappearing, with her
Bring all beauties back.
Nature is dancing with her rhythmic
Steps and divine smile,
Why can't I row a boat here swaying
To and fro on waves?
The valleys wear their flowery carpets,
And the mountains are
Once again clad in colours, such this
Sylvan scene is set.
White cranes are there always on serene
Haunted islets sit,
Or stand by whiter cows there grazing
O'er the lushy green.
Suppose some Beauty glance and dance in
This wild atmosphere,
Then surely that's a dance to see, when
Mother Nature dance.
So Nature takes the pen out of my
Hands and writes for me,
May that there me, the clouds and cranes and
Cows and waves witness.
On cloudy days, practically there will be no sun to see. But it was my insistence that when I rise up after bathing in the river and look up to the sky, the sun should be there in the western horizon for me to worship. If it is a heavy raining day, I will select the time to go to the river according to when the rain will have a possibility of abating. Even on the heaviest raining days in the east, nature is benevolent enough to uncover sun at least for a few seconds. I will select this time to rise up from the river with my eyes closed and fervently wishing for father sun to be there when I open my eyes. With closed eyes when we look westward, standing river fresh, I don't know what makes it happen but the sun will always be there though sometimes be for only a few seconds. It is like this life-giver listens to fervent wishes of his off-springs and grants them.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
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Hour hands clock back sixty minutes of Autumn
Round about this same of month every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum
a sensation of jet lag (with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme, nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as hoe hum
fortunate, this chronological seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kempf cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and booring into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea – gram ma mother earth glum
where live yikyak wired vanguard trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down behavioral sink went – me mum
bling bloviation, once worth matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset, when athwart pilot rum
man strait ting and bickering with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans defiantly thumb
ming nose, where body, mind & soul weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got high-jacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs, which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace, resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis space/time continuum did devour.
Black hole event horizon indeed kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched the band wagon of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted to oppose this minute accord.
I'm an ashen dove,
fading in zephyr
of wine valleys,
saturating in fog
upon enchanting hills,
draped in
grape-green silk,
where fantasies of forest,
sprout cynthia moon
of a bygone
medieval saga,
amidst heavenly
eventides,
and wailing weeds
prick my shadow,
infusing iced intentions
of the puppet's paradise~
floating in islets
of shackled bones.
My wings are
made of violet wool,
fluffed with
blueberry cotton
and stitched
with the fabric of
amethyst satin,
but as soon as
my tiptoeing feet
touch the
seafoam grass,
it stings my silent
glacial flight,
making me bleed
in chloroform-
dipped letters.
If love was a
rosy matte comet,
I would carve
pastel orchid smiles
amidst kismet-coated
cherry blossoms,
with frozen floral paints
and forgive
beige betrayals
of aqua sirens,
to which the
scents of evermore,
sweetly succumbed.
But maybe,
jasper tinted
jasmine petals,
are sewn with
poisoned thistles
whilst being
dispersed upon
the chambers of
midnight raindrops,
and those
soulful stars
in your eyes are
a mere mirage,
flourishing
false silhouettes of
a perfumed
saudade in
nocturnal negligence.
So, pardon these
bleeding metaphors
that echo sombre
sun's soliloquy in the
hazy kiss of gloom
and follow me
to the teal towers,
where this
fluorescent flesh
slumbers in enfolded
spruce leaves of
sequoia sonnets.
For, when the last petal
falls as poetry,
my soul would be
alive in wistful runes,
mourning in a
doleful decanter,
whilst eyes
would frown
in fragile promises,
wiping diplomatic
dust of dolent delusions
and knitting mists of
manipulations,
carelessly sinking~
to soil of feathered
dandelions.
Where nurtured seeds
of jade reflections,
still haven't ruptured
every pixie dust of hope,
in their life's
dormant decession,
reminisce me
as an ivory moonrise,
fluttering beyond,
dahlia chains of sunshine.
Written: January 2nd, 2023, For Ink Empress Contest
Rumi verse" Sing to me in the silence of your heart and I will rise up to hear your triumphant song"
________________________________________
Life is a symphonic cynosure
a charming composition
sung in tune noisily in tandem
merriment liberates us
spread the tunes of life
a ready-made ubiquitous syntax
moon voices Jukebox heart
Iron harps croon the days
I used to walk Elvis line in his heyday.
Twilight dream orchestrator
soars on silver wings
across the eerie sea
past raven-singing islets
race the clock
swap hourglass sand
reset to our first trip,
let's foster solid walls.
Life is a bittersweet symphony.
Love, laughter,
and silent dreams
In verses, rhythm begins
Steering us via life's curveballs
a calm ballad may be feasible
dreamlike memory
dusty paths to neon-lit roadways
catching dreams, sailing
weeping as a lone harp
I'm queueing until death
to travel as a country song
via onomatopoeia syntax
a metonymy, twangy melody.
paint hope on breeze
as moonlight amid trees
or pearly umbrella stars
dancing in cosmic black sea
dark orchestra conductor
revive ancient music
until ivory beams last.
Life is a melody to be sung
play it gently as a drumbeat
life serenade in riptide
years notes strum
cosmic tapestry links us to poetry
spirits dance in unison,
life is akin to writing a song,
with our key and tone
each life has a meaning,
we pick the theme and chorus
a song bearing our name
an inclusive rhythm
life's a tune.
That day before I crossed you
I saw the Thames
Where Wordsworth stood alone
To pour his heart upon the wave.
And I open mouthed wondered
By the banks
Of endless history
For ever intransigent
On the Thames eternal transience.
And then I met you
After the bus
Had traveled miles beneath your tide
We looked back
And there this brown expanse
Of water wide
As the eyes could see,
Too brown to be a natural sea
I questioned your identity
And with a certain pride
My guide replied: "The Danube."
And I saw for sure
Tchaikovsky's peaceful waltz did still endure
But something more
A greater depth of human history
Buried under mud.
Here is where apart both still meet
All the earth in one retreat
One kaleidoscope of time
Through layers of cindered years
Burnt not by flame but heaven's tears
Through igneous fortresses and lime.
Here is the salt older than my blood
Here is the soil ancient as my flesh
Into rocks composed, I am superior mud
To all this to terror to my eyes
I am the king without my paradise
Did some slaver from these banks
Of tired wars slipped out to bay
To join the new crusaders ranks
Conquistadores guilty of Africa's decay?
I seem to see their shadow still
Moved by a tidal malignant will
Bringing the Caribbean rim to tribute
Before Urals and Caucasus and brute
And here my silver, gold and dream
Rose in the darkness like minerets
And from the chimney stacks did scream
The curse of islands and blue islets.
The years are gone, their burdens gone
Above each tide I sing a vestal dawn.
Out of blush, the sail is lifted by the sunset
On an icy fjord one winter day
Hope for a bright lantern
that lets you safely through
The coast is full of islets,
rocks and dangerous waters
What happens in between - it happens
Self examination, changes and choices
Standing in front of a challenge, a crossroads
A misty landscape
- how important can that be?
Blacklacquered nails navigate the situation
Frustration destroys calm
- becomes restless and irritated
Grasp unanswered questions
through generations, lives and experiences
There was no planned process
A giant step in the right direction
in rugged and unclear terrain
17/09/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Crossroads Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
2nd place in the contest
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Two
All night her troubled sleep buffeted the makeshift ramparts
The flip-flop flop flop flop of her tears undermining hearts
The plaintive cry of the lone crane seeking the flock heading south
When it paused on her pubic lushes’ warm geothermal parts
Some thought she’d un-crossed her legs during the chill of the night
Though the islets and reed pockets still held their primal sight
Others heard her moan and groan in the dark of their tight sleep
While strapped sailing boats shook their mast-heads testing their
frail might
Full many clusters of menacing clouds came hurrying by
Hoping to caress ripe bosom and swell lap on the sly
Some girl gazed past misty curtains and saw Ol’ Khayyam rise
On hillock shoulder where he pitched his tent to the dim sky
No lover so loyal as that lonesome lass from Lahore
Everyday as she gently treads to her job on the Mall floor
Her dark diamond eyes carved into milk-white blushing cheeks
Her tulip lips part for the tent-maker’s son of Nishapur
And all the glory of an opening night at La Scala
Break through to greet Bonjour to our Lady Traviata
She blinks her stricken eyes to turn fountains to water-falls
Then rippling tummy and lolling breasts belt: Viva Aria!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
There are times like these
When the blue is almost blinding
Suffocating
I am tired and I just need a place to sleep
Sleep so I don't have to spend more time chasing the other six Colours of
The Rainbow
I see blue in the sandcastles I built
Wet sand between your toes
Wet sand inside your eyes
Wet sand that comes crashing down with smack of my hand
It comes crashing down with a fury
It comes crashing down with a grin
Not a tear
Not a smile
It's all blue
I see blue in the sun streams glancing off water
A pint of water perhaps, a pint of devilish heaven
And still the tidal waves roar
Untamed in their heaven
Unrest in my bones
I see blue in the lost islets
On the horizon
In the dusky lights they appear to me
There is almost nothing between us
I can reach out and grab that piece of blue I can keep
But there are
Miles and Miles between us
I see blue in the notion
That I have created something I can't keep
Deepened spaces I can't breach
And changed the person I am supposed to be
Blue is the Colour for
Me
Someone has said that every generation
Has its golden lipstick era
Philippines is not like that
It's always beautiful and stunning
A special beauty for all ages
Glittering golden beaches
Somewhere in every island corner
Of thousands islets in the Philippines
More so its unique lineage genealogy
From the primitives to the occupants
Conglomerating all races into one
Making the brown race formidable
A diasphora race around the globe
Sharing joy, talents and services
The culture, the food, the hospitality
Affecting the leaven bread of the world
I invite the people of the world to visit us
What the Philippines can offer to all races
Come, borrow the wind to fly
To the magical land that shines
As white as the pearl of the orient seas.
I am worried every time the sun
hides behind the mountain.
For the sky and the land will both turn dark,
the shadows will wrap the surroundings,
the birds will go to the twigs
and leaves for shelter to rest from flight,
and I will hear the deafening silence.
I am anxious every time
a crepuscular hour arrives.
Because the image and color
of the sea will fade,
twilight will devour the islets,
the ocean waves will wave farewell,
and the dance of the blades will pass from view.
Until I look up at the space above.
Then I realize the lovely face of the moon,
that the light comes not from the beacon
but right from my very eyes instead.
And the shining star that I’ve
been dreaming of is in my gaze at heaven.