Long Mouldering Poems
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The old house stands still.
Rot has set in.
A flying termite caught in the webs of a dead spider, sway to the shrill of a ceiling fan.
All things sway.
Dreams rise and suffocate in the mouldering mortars
Falling on the adjacent tiled roof.
They scream, laugh, make love, declare the infiniteness
Of their finite existence through diatribes of reality and unreality.
They are passionate bunch,
Bound by their common desire to be. And blood.
And the house just is. It still is.
Once there were sparrows in the ventilators.
And envious swallows on the palm trees.
The ripples in the pond sing their dark, merry tunes
Licking away its edges,
And they shove and trample for the whiff of north wind.
Life persists in slow, lonely decadence.
The cactus on the roof thrives in monsoon and in summer.
Basil live and die, live and die trenched in the never ending circle
Of micro-civilisation.
The house harvests its own sustenance in the whispers among its bricks
That become a collective
And a roar is heard.
They pray to Earth.
The old house is defiant,
The old house is tired.
Its melting skin sizzles and stinks of industry of old,
A glorious past always in the distant like the horizon,
The promise of bright future exposed to the misery
That is naturalness of time.
The hammer rusted, weed has grown over,
They clinch onto the sickle, like oxygen.
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Form: Free Verse
Date: 02 / 11 / 2016
Growing up in a state of the country where all the magnificence is limited to either history books or fictional literature, one hopes for something more. This is definitely a political reflection than anything else, but 'the house' is not just a metaphor, it does exist, and so do the people living in it.
Mutant metronome’s
stygian riddle
inscrutable fixation
spuming
clustered clairvoyance
honing snoopy
quest querulous
quicquidlibet
tamper connived
sinewy stratagem
plimsoll plot
“sneaker” of
wily webfooted
nefarious nudge
at
tenebrific toll
maple smoke
screen screed
clandestine
cobwebs cohere
mohair marinated
muddle
subdued thespian
herringbone hoodwink
skewed camouflage
perused pearl
inveigling
skulduggery rife
underscored cadence
persuasive
percussive rattle
ubiquitous underbelly
prop to
dodgy dialogue
muted ritardando
silhouette streak
dangling magnet
mired in
gauche guesswork
subterfuge sciophobia
inkpot
amorphous machination
fiction wizards
emblazon
indices incipient
embryo empiricism
mouldering
cabinet coterie
spookish svengali
minatorial
repercussions
incurvate
sniffer dog
detective
poirrot’s prognosis
clouseau contingency
that
rivetting mystery
This burden, that you place upon my back,
grows heavier with time's passing, pressing hand.
My strength is stretched; my faith fails on the rack
of knowing that, in spite of all, like sand
escaping from a powerless, open sieve,
in two short words, from blameless lips and hearts,
my hopes might vanish; all that I believe
sunk like a wreck marked, mouldering, on the charts.
Sometimes the fear is physical and makes
my leaden legs to drag, my heart to sink
within my chest; sometimes the form it takes,
cold, black and dead, clouds out my power to think.
These times the thought of what may soon be lost
ten million times can multiply the cost.
Kim Helen James
11/8/95
Time's admirer hijacks sections
Rips strings of delicious from fattest flesh
Imbibes fibres provided sublimely
Licks fingers with shameless relish
Nature's passenger adequately dazzled
Rides intention piloted by passivity
Waterwheel which in turn feeds many
Delivers ceaseless needed energy
Rise makes way to fall: a pair inevitable
Weaving a trail mountainside as goat
Supplied segment of cycle's spectacle
Leaving views acceptance of what follows
Leaf litter tickets event for fantastic next
Mouldering grows mushrooms quickly
Spring brings surprise unrivalled gifts
Finds a shape, adopts a place unchecked
Become slowly resplendent in your realm
Adoration wells from inclusive depiction
Autumn acknowledges drifting's worth
Inactivity observes thriving of parallels
(no matter extreme global
warming more dire,
then cursing me smoldering
infernal languishing spitfire.)
Shade did adolescent
facade drifts asunder
asper...a major emotional blunder
shielding sensitive myopic eyes
against quashed
then young life, never
ordinarily gathering rose buds,
now I always wonder.
No, never so much
as a feeble arc
unable to issue even a light bark
unresponsive as a
cold bunsen burner,
nor can Clark
Kent marshal superman,
thus vital willpower
bleak and dark
within thine body electric
as mine life
journey doth embark
completing protracted orbit
whar raging self against time
strikes into metaphorical abysmal pit
continuing charade of
existence or quit
before chronological demise
decrees death to be writ
once flickering enthusiastic
willpower to be alive
snuffed livingsocial esprit de corps
elan forcibly crushed,
sans kamikaze nose dive,
when psychological arc
tangentially crossed figurative bee hive
aswarm with countless
invisible poisonous stingers
pierced late mine boyhood
asper razor sharp cutting knives
brandished by figures
shrouded within dark hood
whar bent gnarled fingers
grabbed and wood
not let go stranglehold
of thine curse canst atone
weak prepubescent unlovely skeletal bone
sinister voices still faintly heard,
within me noggin drone
like angry thundering birds
as anorexic starved
flesh didst groan,
now that fragile adolescent
boy within me revisits
haunting this middle aged
married man, whose moan
more nsync with countless
stifled mailer daemons
entombed akin to rigor mortis,
viz complex Oedipus prone
a wander lost young lad,
who left every mouldering stone
unturned - fearing unleashing
def finning tone
even to this very dusky moment
of my damned charade
fresh with painted fore
sight groping blindly
within outer limits
of the twilight zone.
copper burns across an endless sky
competing caws claim salt, surf and sand
sailing high above slowly sagging carcasses
long forgotten at the edge of the world
buckled rails swim over a shimmering shingle sea
the largest of its kind, hinting at some other time;
engines once chugged to billingsgate from this beach
herring bound for the cinque ports
and they say women dragged each boat -
pulled them down to that shore’s faithless embrace;
the muttered prayers of mothers and daughters
casting their men out on fortune’s dark waters
now nets, set for a tide that came and went, lay
mouldering among those collapsing clinkers
as if the fisherfolk just left one night, fled
granting the gulls sole control of that desolate dominion
their toil and trade, the legacy of our fathers’ fathers
still lays there on that beach; haunts that huge cove
rich history, like in so many places, fading away
rotting, rusting, ruined
"To die.To sleep?Perchance to dream?"
There is but one we will know
If immortality is in life's scheme.
If mortality is the only show
Then will our bodies turn to dust
Mouldering in slow decay
Only in memory will we be discussed
And even reminiscence will pass away.
Hope or despair,survival or extinction
Will wait until the veil of life is drawn
Lean towards one means the soul's destruction
No one will then know the truth ,once gone.
One path offers much more comfort
The other being so bleak
Religions offer the crutch of support
Humanism the second prefers to seek
I would pray for the life eternal
With its hope of renewal and complete bliss
The other option to me reeks of the infernal
With its impersonal emptiness
When I look on my life that's now half-spent,
I sigh the loss of youth that's forever past,
wishing myself better Fortune's consent,
love, friends, and wealth with naught to lose or waste,
but for the mean expense of young love lost;
despising this, I oft' bemoan the loss
of vestal company's first time the most;
for matrons offend like mouldering moss,
which, like Time's sure, inexorable march,
destroys the juvenescence of life's spring
year by year till extinguishing Youth's torch,
a dead flame for which I am most desiring.
If I could live and love anew once more,
I'd not err this time: and lay a rude whore.
Like a rose lacking its pedals,
My tranquility disregards its fascinating smells
Like a tree shaking off dashes of its mangled leaves
The switch of seasons interweaves...
You infuriate me with petrifying peace
You unlocked the gate... unsealing healing doom
Miniscule doom rummages through the town,
Wreckage brings peace, making us whole,
Stumbling down by our enrapturing gown
Polishing the mayhem, what a fine world...
You ate away at my purifying peace
You unfasten my fate... concealing chilling doom
Like a guitar tattered and out of tune,
The havoc that I observe is merely a mouldering misfortune
Like a drum busted open during the afternoon,
The peace that I yearn for has expired again...
You hesitate to gather refreshing peace
You unwind my misery state... unraveling incorruptible doom
Death
in autumn
colors in their beauty
falling without fear
without grief
simply ending the
story of the summer's
green outgrowth~
similarity cries out~~
Autumnal Tints in Concord.
"It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and rustling leaves. How beautifully they go to their graves! how gently lay themselves down and turn to mould!—painted of a thousand hues, and fit to make the beds of us living. So they troop to their last resting place, light and frisky. They put on no weeds, but merrily they go scampering over the earth, selecting the spot, choosing a lot, ordering no iron fence, whispering all through the woods about it,—some choosing the spot where the bodies of men are mouldering beneath, and meeting them half-way. How many flutterings before they rest quietly in their graves! They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again, and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree, and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! They teach us how to die."
-From "Autumnal Tints" by Henry Thoreau; 1862.