Long Lachrymose Poems
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Feelings flood in seismic waves when soul mates drift apart,
fits of anguished sobbing tear stained stress a shattered heart,
doleful voices splutter we were doomed right from the start,
passion in its twilight is this weeping rainy day,
deep regrets so lachrymose for love that slipped away,
mellow drama’s woeful tragic plot or empty play,
morose violinist raises eyebrows with her tune,
couples in dispute whose wild scream wakes the dead at noon,
how that first flush eerie sadness wrecks their honeymoon,
heartache piles on heartache ain’t that a crying shame,
all that friction counts for nought as partners share the blame
I’ve spent many nights lying in the dark
This time is a period of self reflection
A journey that I’m all too terrified to embark
I’m naked on the examination table, performing my own dissection
My insides are poisoned with abhorrence and self doubt
I cannot see the good in myself
I know this can’t be how you hoped I’d turn out
My spot for accomplishments and good deeds is but an empty shelf
I can put my all into becoming someone better
I start to be happy and enjoy the finer things
Then I wake up in a sweat and look down to see the fetter
It seems as though I never severed the strings
This cycle of mine is a never ending tale
I open myself up and hope to be contented
Then I let the sorrow creep in and make my efforts derail
I have cursed myself to be forever tormented
Despite my reoccurring lachrymose state
I will always keep pushing forward
I will not allow this suffering to be my fate
I will fill my dreams with hope as I sleep peacefully in my bed
Midnight,
Hoots and despondent howls
From crevasses of puking earth prompt weakness at slumber
Webs!
They encircle the pin-line threads of silence, viciously muted,
Drawing porous patterns of maladroitness
Dawn,
Loose drops of old water, cusp-sized, blend with the rays of the
Rising sun, smelting our principles.
Images,
Lachrymose consternations congeal the blood in our brows,
Stifling the grace of blinking lashes
And we lose patience.
There’s a new-nurtured ruggedness
Which opens the snouts while we yawn.
In the distance,
Moonlight, sapped, means nothing with her downward gaze.
But the sound of maudlin drums hastens closer and nearer.
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 9
for her
who looks most beautiful in red orna
i’m carrying the best wishes of those lilies
blooming on the iron-grill
When the blue-lotus is becoming more intense
within the rain pipe
i’ve lost the gate-pass of my earthly-birth
this world of secret inclinations and intentions
written in the letters of wild-jasmine
here to take a step
there is the ring-worms
to extend the hand
there is hydrophobia
so many nicknames for the boat-sinking
so many infiltrations
here the information from akrur catered much more
on the skin of masala-muri
than on the misti-dai
much more dance of the algebra
when by the hands
stolen from the sheep-herd
i’m sweeping the fallen leaves
it repeatedly comes to my mind today
that many market-price does not see me alive
even-then each powder-puff is scripting me
on the soap-water
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 10
then
owing to the pollen-grains
i can’t become a good goal-keeper
even a morning
overcastted with nimbus
does not walk
catching the finger of the clap of the thunder
courtesy the james-clip
in her malkosh is playing on
the caw
the news-paper hawker
the maid-servant
though with some different bonding
with some different lighting
so much lachrymose on the cover of the opposite-water
as if at the gate of the candle-manufacturing-plant
some one by the capsicum get attached
the well-being information of the bison that breaks easily
and after stealing some over-boundaries
from the store of the un-timely spring
mingles with the pages of physics
a ratnti-kali-puja
that’ve got titillations from the nail-polish
through the act of walking
i’m
as i can guess
going to become drunk-mad
Form:
He puffs in the nightly brume
His noctambulous proclivity
He calls it, a force of habit
Something automatic
Tonight is especially morbid
Atrabilious even
As he hunches gaunt
Over her headstone
That has grown verdant
Of many a night waxed lachrymose
The midnight wind is severe
A morbid creak fills his ears
He calls it his familiar
His body enervated
A chiliad of nights and tears
Have taken their toll
Gaunt from endless prayers
Then an icy apparition so clear
A familiar, sum of his fears,
Appears, standing in the midnight air
An icy depth and an icy glare his familiar
A formication forms in his chest
As usual no words exchanged
The wind blows the mist away
And soft rain begins to fall
And the owl begins to howl
She is gone, she is gone!
Never Too Late To Say "I Love You" Until...
Futile lamentations reverberate along
corridors of times long gone, this papa
tearfully apologetic revisiting his base,
fitfully lachrymose torturing unrelenting
voluminous wrongs against thee dearest
precious daughter aware poetic/ prosaic
ministrations cannot substitute bonafide
nor ameliorate cumulative forsaken joys
requisite to bolster compromised delicate
innocence exhibited upon begetting deux
darling (wool worth more than fine spun
gold) healthily nurturing priceless progeny
two quickly grown to young womanhood
priceless offspring, whose treasured quasi
nubile kindled joie de vivre far surpassed
petrified plaguing yours truly (particularly
during pre/ post pubescent phase), outlook
grim to take life by the horns, nee apathetic
pestiferous psychological, frankly zapped
wracked, plagued aversion to live steering
any natural borne autonomy, (within meek
minecrafted muffled mortgaged self) bereft
existence, (albeit manifesting during latter
sainted days of boyhood), a death grip vis a
vis anorexia nervosa (robbing, stunting, and
halting critical puberty) against attaining my
maximum potential, nee then and every sub
seek went till present day truncating, stifling
raining aftermath of torturous, noxious, jinxed
insufferably hellacious, (hence reiteration to
cease livingsocial, rather antisocial) under_
scored, ordained, narrated by whirled series
of unfortunate events, (without courtesy of
Lemony Snicket), which passivity degraded,
exacerbated, fouled... gradual punctuation to
adulthood overridden when me as man-child
never tested survival, but found this scrivener
beating hasty retreat defeated by emotional
illness demarcating the Waterloo which I
fitfully fought when mandatory ultimatums,
measures, dictates...forced eviction within
cocooned hideaway (such as bedroom at 324
Level Road), which parallel repeated when
decamped at 1148 Greentree Lane, the latter
poisoned your welfare, with dire declaration
of toxic dependence (Zison's harshness) fed
deprivation, and desperation, while ye bore
brunt of emotional, financial, mental...fallout
indelibly etched within impressionable
Tabula Rasa, now the anguished suffering
ye unfairly experienced.
AU REVOIR!
While we dwell to this dreidel,
I seek to know before a sear,
Even in the most ineluctable dandle,
The fruit to which may indeed bear;
In the imbue oblivion, I tell a riddle,
Most morass yet merely in fear,
For the sake of fiduciary wheedle,
Let me share with you my compadre,
The reason for this lachrymose!
We seek solace, I seek a motley,
Of a jejune yet quite leonine__
I’m carrying a huge cornucopia;
__And the temerity to extirpate
The gloaming quiddity, the fireflies.
With my cries not perceptible;
And this sandbag is too heavy a burden;
The earthquake of demands,
With the hallucination of needs,
Have starved my conscience Mekeba!
For I do not come to you by chance,
By chance found you in my utopia.
To be a man calls for a hybrid of habits,
The fluctuation which efface intrinsic,
Hapless of a jaded impaired grift.
To be a suitable snitch in the sight,
Of your serene pugilism with skylark,
A batty revelation of chains of choice!
An honest opinion of soft sips.....
A turpitude scent of petals niche,
The jurassic meld of mundane’s prig.
In my desolate the burning throbs,
The anxiety to revert my paunch,
The antithesis of the flamboyant story;
The entangled facts from the realities
This is the precarious situation smelling,
Around the jungle with fear or shame.
The ornery of your aesthetic breach,
And they vaunted to a great suffice,
Tales of a teller telling them in a folktales.
Everyone with his own dilemma;
In the gamut of this conjecture,
Who will help me muster this burden?
I have reached the dovetail for perfection
For I’m no longer a peer, so I see different,
From the way I saw ages ago in oblique.
This pot of inferno has exploded and this fire,
The inscrutable fire has engulfed my head,
I’m burning in clandestine fray....
I’m in moribund and so I bloviate for help,
In this helpless world that help only the dead!!.
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the vulgar appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
My muse,
a sea of weeping roses,
free-flowing in tune with
smoky frequencies,
as storms of fear
rest in the heart of a sunken canvas.
I ponder~
why does the blue of the ocean
roar like wrathful thunder?
Why does the sun bleed searing sins?
Perhaps it is in the way
the earth rests in untouchable s i l e n c e,
watching the trembling twigs of
tormented trees,
tasting the toxic tints of life,
while ink still questions…
Can you hear my heartbeat?
I am the fragrant feather
of an untamed spirit,
still sprinkling stars in metallic gold
across fading colors of hope,
for I still see unlocked gardens
above fogs of melancholy,
to walk above
clouds of velvety wishes.
I care not for a remedy
to seal these screaming s c a r s
within callous crevices of narcissistic cliffs.
I long to be the moon
amidst the horizon that refuses to unveil
the majestic
crown of crystalline compassion.
But what if I am an echo of
a forgotten dream?
Would you still love me when
confused by the moving minutes,
as the last petal falls~
tangled in thistles of time?
Tired is this heart that aches
but refuses to break,
as I am more than a fleeting thought,
a breathing souvenir
of yesterday’s twilight…
Now…
I am your s k y
a cradle of immortal l o v e....
surfing against the lachrymose gusts~
I dived into the cauldron of magic potion
and curated a eucalyptus elixir
to calm the sorrows you home,
when dusk
collides with doleful dawn,
allowing my quill to collaborate
with crimson cues
of frankincense clarity.
Life is never a planned ride
on a magical carpet,
that awakens jasmine
dreams lost in the brisk air.
We weave our own
zest of zephyr,
to tailor-stitch a tapestry;
buttoned with zeal,
cuff-linked with faith,
designed in silence~
fragranced with forgiveness...
We forget to appreciate
dusky clouds carrying
crooning rainbows,
when mists of memories,
shroud the lemongrass lace
of velvety eventides~
As twisted thoughts wade
through a lachrymose
web of thistles~
skies drizzle
tear-stained diamonds.
There was a time
when my consciousness
refused to seek
mulberry streaks
of halcyon light,
flickering beyond
cluttered chaos
carved in confusion,
for I've long waltzed
through drowsy darkness~
that circles around
the kundalini spirits,
stealing sacred energy
like vicious vultures
intoxicated by the
fickle flavors of
fleeting seasons.
I ponder, would I have
found clarity, if I had
abandoned the
bleeding dreariness
that dragged me
towards an abyss of angst?
Perhaps, I shall find the
sunsets that slumber
behind wintry eyes,
to heal this ebony skin
that hides bruised veins.
So tonight as I listen
to the rain serenade
the silence that swirls
between my
aching heartbeats,
I find serenity cascade
like whistling waterfalls,
calming inner-fears,
as I let go of the shadows
lurking behind the
angels that guard
enticing temptations,
tethered by false narratives.
Here in the rising glows
of ineffable moonlight,
I've seen the seven-stars
sparkling around auroras,
dancing to the symphonies
of truth interwoven with
rouge reveries of
today's twilight,
wiping away whiffs of
yesterday's blurred visions,
and unseen truth of tomorrows,
as the choir of mindfulness
orchestrates a
magnolia melody,
where every infinite rhythm
reflects the virtuous sound
of butterfly bliss
fluttering~
along mirthful chambers,
within the sobriety of my heart.