Long My musings Poems
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I wander through the corridors of my mind,
a labyrinth of echoes and whispers,
Where each heartbeat is a drummer of destiny,
and each breath a sigh of the cosmos.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet—all are bound by the threads of imagination,
A tapestry of madness, love, and creation,
each thread, an untold story.
The lunatic, lost in his own abyss,
sees devils where none dare tread,
His mind a vast inferno, a prison of phantoms and fears,
Where every shadow is a specter, every whisper, a scream,
A world where reality bends and breaks,
shattering into shards of despair.
The lover, consumed by the flames of passion,
sees beauty in the most improbable places,
Helen's grace in the brow of Egypt,
his heart a cauldron of desire and ardor,
His soul dances on the edge of reason,
a waltz of ecstasy and sorrow,
Where every glance is a promise,
every touch, a whisper of eternity.
And then, the poet, with eyes that see beyond the veil,
Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
in a frenzy of creation,
His pen a wand that conjures worlds from the void,
giving form to the formless,
Turning airy nothing into shapes,
dreams into reality, shadows into light.
In this enchanted twilight, I feel the pulse of their existence,
A rhythm that resonates with the deepest parts of my soul,
As imagination breathes life into the unknown,
crafting stories from the ether,
Each word, a spell, each verse,
a thread in the infinite tapestry of time.
The moon, a silent witness to my musings,
casts its silver gaze upon the world,
Turning night into a canvas of dreams,
a stage for the dance of shadows.
And in its light, I see the reflections of the lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Their lives intertwined in the delicate web of my thoughts,
Each one a mirror, reflecting the facets of my own existence.
In the end, we are all lunatics, lovers, and poets,
Lost in the labyrinth of our minds,
where imagination reigns supreme,
Each moment a spark of madness,
each heartbeat, a note of love,
each breath, a whisper of poetry.
And as we journey through the realms of our own creation,
We leave behind a legacy of dreams and desires, a testament to the magic within us,
A poem that sings through the ages, a melody that never fades.
Yes, that is the role of the Teacher, as Shams was to
me – showing one ‘who they are’, so they can stop
bleating, crying at night, and never again be afraid.
Rumi
Oh beloved,
I'm like Rumi without Shams.
A shivering summer soul,
secretly stalked by wild white winter wolves.
A chiffon child chiselling chimerical calligraphy,
cursed with invisible ink, silent in sentimental sighs.
I've become the son of solitude,
tired from torture and torment,
descending like surreal sinking sunsets shaded in scarlet,
yearning for a dawn where we can blend like sunrise.
I have no desire to write
in your journal of sorrows,
but you cut my veins to bleed.
What is pain without pleasure,
or a poet without his poetess?
Oh mistress of the night,
I'll forever wait for you to adorn my garden,
to finally inhale the fragrance of my roses.
I'm the oil lamp in all your blackness.
Sometimes I may flicker like a candle,
but I will always reignite to create a spark.
Change the eternal chambers of my heart.
The day you stop reading my musings,
my pen will forever slumber.
Oh daughter of darkness,
let me salvage moonlight then place it into your eyes.
Guide my quill to engrave upon your shores.
Together we will sail away from Satan's spawn.
I'll shield you from twilight's beasts,
protect you from demons with crimson claws,
emancipate your wings to fly from an illusionary island.
Because,
you love the moon,
but it's the stars you gaze at,
hoping their stardust will illuminate your heart,
before they fade into nothingness.
Oh my seclusive sweetheart,
I will strum strings of serenity,
so you release tears of tranquillity.
I may not be the most handsome blossom,
nor the most popular prolific poet,
but I gift you my art and alliteration.
Some may say I'm romantic,
but I am no judge of what is exotic or poetic.
We can't put all our faith in petals and poetry.
I'm no emperor who deserves an enchanting empress -
merely a broken butterfly in your precious palms.
Life is an absent bride,
so I'm not afraid to bleed to death,
in the hope of soothing tomorrows.
Love is a silent emotion,
invisible to open eyes.
But, I saw the naked soul
of her enigma -
my universal truth.
A pristine state of perfection.
As her 'silence' whispered to my soul
in a million ways -
I felt her pangs
As her spirit breathed my oxygen,
my heart forgot about gravity,
feeling immortal in every beat.
Now a small flame kindles in
her chocolate brown eyes -
hotter than wildfire.
I see beyond her invisible veil,
hiding her divinity, wrapped under,
her tanned bronze satin skin.
Smoother than a bed of feathers -
would to touch it, be a sin?
Her fruitful lips of blissful nectar,
are an eternal passage,
covered in ethereal dew,
awaiting my soul with promises
for unseen paradisaical passion -
a taste would leave one intoxicated.
The mind pleads with time to be kind,
for the heart to remain patient -
for distance to not become an adversary.
Because,
nothing could define her elegance,
in any form of artistry;
a poet has no vocabulary,
a musician without a beat to his melody,
a painter without control in his masterstroke.
Her aroma is a rare scent from petals,
my hands could never fathom to blossom.
Her love is like the sun rays of a new dawn,
forever, ascending my heart with warmth.
I am her cloudless sky, for her glory to shine,
the ripples in her deep ocean -
for her to bathe within me.
In my quest to be within her embrace,
I shall keep the vampires from her door,
slay the demons who bring her darkness.
Face Satan in his satanic seas.
Be the whirlwind in her storm,
releasing her from chains of uncertainty.
Once, I gazed at the stars,
wondering where you were.
My musings writing about your arrival.
You appeared to end all seeking,
filling my hollowness with endearment -
became the last drop of my ink.
Just as I’m nearing my Autumn years
There comes a moment echoed in my musings
Whispers of affection from the tears
Who have gathered to remind me that I have
Many memories to sort through,
Remember… just remember…
There were many seasons in vibrant hues
Caressing my memory, so beautiful
Like a kiss on the naked thoughts
Light whispering out through the oaks
Lingering on hearts who know
To remember is to hope
Remember… just remember…
Sunlight rushes in from the azure skies
Painting the scene in feathery frost
Feelings so tender they melt
Inside the warmth of these glimpses
Pale sighs releasing breaths
Of hope into my life
Remember… just remember…
Lifetimes being lived on a thought
Exhale and all has been lost
My memories tell of the many seasons
Spring and Summer – Fall and Winter
Seasons of recollection, reminiscence
Tricking through my mind, falling
Soft, like the rain – flowing
Over my thoughts, dripping
Remember… oh, just remember…
How beautiful are my thoughts?
Rich in tones of crimson, sapphire
Plentiful as the harvest of dreams
Spent lifting my spirit with faith
Reaching through my memories
Stroking the images awake
Flames of fading grace
Penetrating the past
Remember… just remember…
A photograph stills my thoughts
Each image brings a memory alive
Lifting my heart to earlier times
Faded fantasies flood my feelings
Tears stream down wrinkled cheeks
And I reach for the photograph
Sweetest dreams… the past
Lifting love from its place
Healing the pain, the ache
Grief that has been felt
Sorrow that leaves a mark
Memories fill my mind
Remember… just remember….
The mind is an abundant garden
Plants in all shades of gray
Browns and blues, darkness
And light, shadows fading
Filling my heart with thanks
For the chance to create
So many wonderful memories
Remember… just remember…
Love lives on these pages
Creased from endlessly turning
Each one over to be relived
Reimagined, re-experienced
Remember… just remember…
This is a prayer from
My Autumn years
So many blessings
So many tears
I sense that these are testing times with forecasts of better seasons.
I hope that I am not confusing, but I'm simply musing about a season
destined to be changed forever and for the good. Surely, methinks it is not
the worst of times because things could get a whole lot worse. Neither is
it the best of times because things could be a whole lot better. Perhaps
it is a prelude and a time of preparation for better things just beyond the
horizons. I see the dark clouds and feel the heavy winds, but have yet to
hear and feel the roar of destructive funnel twistings. Allow me to muse
about the possible prelude to and the prospects of the best of times.
Could it indeed be a time of reflection and refreshing, a season of calm, quiet,
and closeness? Could this be a gateway of intimacy with our God who wants
to be heard by a people who are not prone to listen? Could this prospective
prelude to new norms be a 'God-send' that vanquishes the old norms laden with indifferences and contentment without Godliness? Would we not welcome
a 'new norm' ever more kind, loving, and relational? Perhaps if we look longer, pray fervently, and wait patiently, we will see the silver lining in the cloud laden with a Presence of God unseen or experienced in our lifetime.
These, therefore, are my musings of faith, hope, promise, and love. As the world begins to thaw from the CORONA COVID-19 freeze, opening up itself step by cautious step, may we not stagger, staring at the little picture without beholding the bigger picture. And as Christians, may we not fall short of opening our hearts to a world drifting into ever deeper waters and falling ever further from God.
051320PSCtest, Brian's Choice B, Strand
Not by chance do I find myself
Awake in the dead of night; caught by fright.
The stinging pangs of a grace far from touch.
Are you real? Why such longing?
How and why do you make my heart sing so loud?
God I love you, want you and feel you stir deep within. My dreams tell me so.
I once held you close. Treasured your joy.
Too brief a glimpse of what love should be.
Stinging pangs of desire born from raging fire…
Again I awake with cold knowledge we are not together but wish to return to sleep where I find you. Such dreams are dissipating in their frequency.
No doubt dampened by reality. Smothered by denial. I wait awhile...
Shall I return to thee? Shall I close my eyes and drift again? Such intensity exists so when my eyes close I see more than when open during these bouts of selfish desire. A desire to hold you close and to hear your folly.
These latest dreams alas I know why...glimpses seen when rummaging through keepsakes locked in my mind. Love but a small child, a cap too big for its head. You look beautiful, you always have.
Maybe you belong only in dreams, dreams although less in frequency, burn brighter than ever. I will teach myself to nullify and the morning after? Such numbness of heart will remain and so on...until you find me again when in slumber.
Romeo in exile. Fair Juliet is asleep. In the dead of night must you stay.
Did you ever know how much I love you so. How could you I ask?
I drift again... stroking your hair, I capture your glare, eyes wide shut, less for eternity.
In dreams do you appear through blunted arrow and broken bow. Forgive my musings. A 1000 nights have I awoken suffocated by your bespoke soul and its grip on my innermost fragility. Too tender the soul to tender such flames.
I close my eyes and await the return of you to my arms wherein I hold you tight through this mocked up night.
Haunt me freely for these moments I feel more alive than at any other...
THE ROOM
I’ve a wish
To spend my musings on little things simple things
Little thoughts each in its place
Little items about my room perfectly fixed
(woods may be full of paper bits of discard
the footprints of children abundant
and their leavings)
(a trash bin tastelessly placed blocks view of a great old tree)
(the room’s a mess only as one fears an intruder
phone need not be lifted doorbell unanswered sweet music)
BUT
There are cats in the room
Breathing pulse on a terrible complex geometry
warping table tops and bottoms legs and arms
interrupting lines and joints
(how a cat will perpetually lick itself clean self companion
with filthy tongue)
A fat black Persian’s asleep (without eyes) by the patio door
Then a snow white cat in folds a rumpled pink blanket undulating on the floor
And
A seal point
With restless perfect beauty
With razor sharp flanks as though clipped each day by elfin barber
After petting she’s twitching around growling
Astrut in leaps and bounds
The intrusion is precious but devastating
Day after day there is a poet watching himself compose
mind standing off looking at some stale image of mind
neither hot nor cold but blowing
And I return and return
Sit down my hour to write each day
Watching the white cat on her pink blanket
How the light does play
...............................................................................................
This in answer to Carolyn Devonshire's challenge. I also just read a very fine poem about
being obsessed with a room, by Andrea Dietrich. Thanks Carolyn for your faith in me. BIG
LOVE, daver
Oh beloved,
I'm like Rumi without Shams.
A shivering summer soul,
secretly stalked by wild white winter wolves.
A chiffon child chiselling chimerical calligraphy,
cursed with invisible ink, silent in sentimental sighs.
I've become the son of solitude,
tired from torture and torment,
descending like surreal sinking sunsets shaded in scarlet,
yearning for a dawn where we can blend like sunrise.
I have no desire to write, but you cut my veins to bleed.
What is pain without pleasure,
or a poet without his poetess?
Oh mistress of the night,
I'll forever wait for you to adorn my garden,
to finally inhale the fragrance of my roses.
I'm the oil lamp in all your blackness,
sometimes I may flicker like a candle,
but I will always reignite to create a spark.
The day you stop reading my musings,
my pen will forever slumber.
Oh daughter of darkness,
let me salvage your light, place it into your eyes.
Guide my quill to engrave upon your shores.
Together we will sail away from Satan's spawn.
I'll shield you from twilight's beasts,
protect you from demons with crimson claws,
emancipate your wings to fly from an illusionary island.
Because,
you love the moon, but it's the stars you gaze at,
hoping their stardust will illuminate your heart,
before they fade into nothingness.
Oh my seclusive sweetheart,
I will strum strings of serenity,
so you release tears of tranquillity.
I may not be the most handsome blossom,
nor the most popular prolific poet,
but I gift you my art and alliteration.
Some may say I'm romantic,
but I am no judge of what is exotic or poetic.
We can't put all our faith in petals and poetry.
I'm no emperor who deserves an enchanting empress,
merely a broken butterfly in your precious palms.
Life is an absent bride,
so I'm not afraid to bleed to death,
in the hope of soothing tomorrows.
Silent One
4 December 2022
my earthly path is stormy . . . tangled and twisted_
time for a metamorphosis . . . for rebirth
there must be introspection and contemplation
reflection, enlightenment, and mindfulness
and perceptions must transform . . .
so, like the butterfly . . . I will change
~ this recovery is one of an awakening and a growth
to move forward I must let go of all hurts
for they are anchors holding me in chains ~
it is hard to comprehend the cruelty
that some people throw like swords
my one thought in my musings
is that I will ever remain gentle and kind
to all . . .
~ I will fold my wings like a rose today
and for recovery I will regenerate and enrich
my mind and improve my thinking ~
in my meditation- I hear the drums of my ancestors
like a heart beating in my soul
I am reminded of teachings of the grandfathers in the sky
I will gather their wisdom and insight to life . . .
and they tell me that a spiritual quest is needed
and I know now what I must do . . . in stillness
is my rebirth . . . "a journey" . . . in my mind
~ yes, I am flawed and have made mistakes
many times I did the wrong thing and made the wrong decision
should have . . . would have to often . . . not stood up for me
. . . but, I forgive me and because of that
I am transformed ~
_________________________
October 17, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/metamorphosis
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1495-062-17
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, ER: Enlightenment
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judged 10/25/2022
Third Place
Love is a silent emotion,
invisible to open eyes.
But, I saw the naked soul
of her enigma - my universal truth.
A pristine state of perfection.
As her 'silence' whispered to my soul
in a million ways - I felt her pangs.
As her spirit inhaled my oxygen,
my heart forgot about gravity,
feeling immortal in every beat.
Now a small flame kindles in
her chocolate brown eyes -
hotter than wildfire.
I see beyond her invisible veil,
hiding her divinity,
wrapped under her tanned satin skin.
Smoother than a bed of feathers -
would to touch it, be a sin?
Her fruitful lips of blissful nectar,
are an eternal passage,
covered in ethereal dew,
awaiting my soul with promises
for unseen paradisaical passion -
a taste would leave one intoxicated.
The mind pleads with time to be kind,
for the heart to remain patient -
for distance to not become an adversary.
Because,
nothing could define her elegance,
in any form of artistry;
a poet has no vocabulary,
a musician, no beat to their melody,
a painter, no control in their masterstroke -
her aroma is a rare scent from petals,
my hands could never fathom to blossom.
Her love is like the sun rays of a new dawn,
forever, ascending my heart with warmth.
I am her cloudless sky, for her glory to shine,
the ripples in her deep ocean -
for her to bathe within me.
In my quest to be within her embrace,
I shall keep the vampires from her door,
slay the demons who bring her darkness.
Face Satan in his satanic seas.
Be the whirlwind in her storm,
releasing her from chains of uncertainty.
Once, I gazed at the stars,
wondering where you were.
My musings a premonition for your arrival.
You appeared to end all seeking,
filling my hollowness with endearment -
became the last drop of my ink.