Long Niggling Poems
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Homeward Path 11/08 Roger M. Landry
Wise men say, stay out of the fray,
And perhaps that is logical, and even soundly psychological.
They advise, do not go my son into the dark wood; you will only come to no good.
And I ask, if the road is less traveled, it will leave me baffled?
The trail in the forest tall could it leave me feeling forever small?
Alone, will I not even hear the sound of the stately tree’s fall?
In my craven travels, shall I perhaps see the pellucid pillars of heaven seven,
Or experience the depraved depths of perdition?
But, what if there is no one there to tell?
No singing angels, or laughing demons from hell.
Shall I be weary of my iconoclastic dreams?
Because, in my youth, I had magic visions of being the princely toad,
Of crossing elegantly the paved road to fame.
However, carrion birds now read, feed on my bloody entrails strewn along the lane.
Now, I only wake up in the fevered night, no princess to soothe my stifled screams.
Beaten and torn, shall I become the salacious stripper of old?
That, with nagging words, expresses my vulnerable, and sagging soul.
Like a lost muse, shall the tiger burning bright, in the forest of the night,
Become my one and only frightful and guiding light?
I can see quite far from the gritty solitude of a lofty mountain.
But, would rather sit with my smiling children by a bubbling fountain,
Have someone park my expensive car,
Or sip beer, with friends, in a quaint neighborhood bar.
Going on a shopping spree and wearing designer clothes,
I think, is superior than to society loathe.
To have opulent gold is better than writing poetry in poverty, wouldn’t you agree?
Or, would it be better if I contemplate my fate, eternally alone, under a frigid night star,
While I pluck loose strings on an out of tune guitar?
They say that if you favor the glacier-blue, the flavor will get inside of you.
Now that I have made enough bad choices, because of those niggling internal voices,
I am eternally lost, my mind unloosing in a wilderness of my own choosing.
Like a pharaoh, I know there is a divine treasure in my head,
But, I work and work, feel dead, and just can’t get out of bed.
The road has its own agenda, to which I know my heart must surrender,
Therefore, I shall curb my shameful wrath,
And trust that my soul knows its homeward path.
Form:
While out driving, I couldn’t help, but stop and explore an old Victorian manor on a knoll. The unkempt courtyard was barred by a rusty old gate that had a chain and busted padlock to keep intruders out. My curiosity over took me as I gazed at the ivy and brush covered decaying building. Seeing no harm, I walked up the broken creaky steps on that silent eerie, deafening evening as a cold chill raced up my spine, even though I had a warm winter coat on.
To my surprise the weather-beaten door opened slightly when I knocked on it. After peeking in, I slowly stepped inside to a musty smelling great- room. As I started walking across the creaking rumbling floorboards, a warm breeze blew pasted me and slammed the front door shut. I jumped and let out a tide of nervous mumbling as I moved farther inside. There was a barren feeling of life as I eyed the dark musty, rundown old neglected house.
Dry rot had taken over the ceilings from being empty so long. Rats had run across the decaying dirty floors, huge fly filled dusty cobwebs in every corner. Despite the decay of the old manor it somehow retained a profound grandeur with an old run-down grandfather clock even though it had stopped living years ago. Making my way upstairs I thought I could hear low sounds of screaming, weeping crying of terrified voices. I couldn’t shake the niggling that something was amiss when I heard a loud noise coming from the attic that sent a chilling cold feeling down me. Hearing a door squeak open, I turned and raced back down the stairs.
Stopping in the great-room to catch my breath I jumped when I felt something rub against my leg. My head jerked down only to see a black cat purring and rubbing my ankles. As I looked up the old clock started to chime and with a click the front door swung open. Reaching down I scooped up the cat in my shaky arms and ran out the open door to my car.
With the cat curled up purring on the seat beside me, I raced toward home wondering what caused me to stop. I could be sitting in a nice hot bath or curled beneath my warm down comforter.
8/17/2018
For weeks I wandered, from one canteen to another, from one battle pack to
another, seeking the morsel of food there-in stored. Mournful the wind whistling
through the bones, and shattered dead, a ghoulish symphonic crescendo of finality,
it was over, we must have won. Yes my side had won for I was the last
survivor. "Sweet," was not the word for this victory. Walking on, and on through the
towns and cities, I realized that those leaders had gotten included after-all. Oh yes,
everybody had been sucked into the voracious conflagration.
Crazy, yes, I was crazy for the visions of my travels began to change, and no longer
did the torn dead people meet my eyes. Each day brought a fresh array of color with
which to greet me. Now it was the flowers, which I sought, those survivors, of
splashing color springing up through the rotting souls and bones of the deceased.
An ever changing bouquet, every color, every shape, and I reveled in their
proliferation. Like a new marching army they filled the landscape. A niggling thought
started without bidding, and exactly when this occurred I cannot recall. Truth be
known, it did not matter when it started, for what was, without refute, was the
truth of its conclusion.
Tears were my constant companion at this enlightment. “There is no winning in war.
There is only dying.” The impact of this folly caused me to fall to my knees. Face-to-
face with a Sunflower I asked the question.
“Why do you not hate the flowers of different shape and color? Why do you not pull
up your roots and march into war? Damn you, answer me. Surely you feel the sirens
cry to set the world right for your kind? Where are your leaders to point out the
hated difference, and to direct your cleansing efforts?"
I became aware of the stupidity of my quest for these answers. After-all, everybody
loved the flowers, and touted their beauty. Their enigmatic silence provided the
answer, and I heard it clearly.
Hello there, do please come inside- no need to wipe your feet
excuse the mess, I fear you'll find it isn't very neat.
This place is always untidy, victim of my disorder
from old hang-ups to memories, I'll admit I am a hoarder.
In here hanging like mobiles, noisy, at odds with my feelings
are life's little distractions, niggling, swinging from the ceiling.
Careful with your torch, don't shine it underneath the bed
beneath it there is lurking a dark sprouting creeping dread.
Most people couldn't live with it, a disturbing thing to some,
as it cowers in the corner from the things still yet to come.
Tread lightly in the corridor, just mind out where you walk
you'll trip on my anxiety that bobs up like a cork.
The fire is stoked, the hearth is swept and logs stacked in a heap
my warmth to all well tended (well, except when I'm asleep).
Cardboard tubes in disarray, and more you cannot see-
plans I drew up in the past, none ever meant to be.
Mannequin in veil of black, arms raised as if to dance
with all my past relationships that never stood a chance.
This rocking chair, my temper, that sometimes I must sit in
and you'll notice that the varnish of my patience has worn thin.
My sense of humour's in the loft, protected by my hats
seemed like the right place for it, since my friends all think I'm bats.
That one small window by the beam lets my faith's light shine in
I'm sorry it's not brighter, window dirty from past sin.
Still, I can climb and open it to aim my telescope
for somewhere in the darkness lies the faintest glimpse of hope
that keeps me living here in peace and shelters me from sad;
you wonder why I live in here? Well, out there-
its just mad!
September16th 2015
For contest 'Inside my head'- sponsor John Lawless
*no outsiders allowed inside
a lone rule breaking in
a no rule zone
nowhere to go in an open sea,
lost with somewhere to go
a sleepless dream
or was it a dreamless sleep?
getting confused with the steadiness
of finally feeling a constant heartbeat
slowing down in the fast lane...
unpredictable in the land of inevitability
the silence of the heart
thunders
in the mind
niggling...refusing to accept
what it all means, what it implies
denial or is it blindness?
putting up a **deep facade
but really
just floating--
feet on the clouds
with head in the ground
solid stone crumbles to dust
as ice melts the fire
of resistance--now sputtering,
sparkling shyly
as diamonds would
upside down
right side up
downside up
up side left
head tucked in
with neck sticking out
heart in throat, swallowing it
getting thirsty in the rain
fools made out of geniuses
or is it
geniuses made out of fools?
love~
so many are lost in it,
puzzling the mystified
and the rational
yet many understand it
when things fall into place
but
once a missing piece does fit,
it only finds other mysteries
stumbling on answers
in organized chaos
no wonder
people go crazy over it
Jan. 25, 2010
ok writing this sort of confused me lol
* found this posted on door somewhere here
** snatched this from Chris Aechtner (sorry Chris you're
like a mushroom here, so used it without permission, hope that's ok ^_~)
haha wrote this before a parent's meeting so have to rush out of here--
heehee trying to squeeze in an entry in Kristen's Oxymoronica contest :)
will try to catch up on comments soon, promise :) thanks!!
ok Wilma sticking with this title, thanks Missy :)
“I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality.”
Frida Kahlo“
In the absence of love,
a childhood is shaped by the stars,
but when black smoke is the only impression in the light,
sorrows peel in soundless motions - slow burning.
When fate is sealed with a goodbye,
in an 'all I never asked for' moment,
the weight of fear appears as a niggling nightmare
in our personal book of dreams,
so we drift into an abyss of discarded destinies -
untamed we roam into a wildfire of lost souls.
I'm a silent knight unable
to suppress this wandering muse,
so I portray my darkness through rosewater ink,
which flows like a scarlet oasis of waterfalls,
merging into sapphire oceans of poetic heartbeats.
I blame my past for this saviour complex,
but battling demons has become my beautiful undoing.
Ugliness of sugar coated words,
hidden behind metaphorical daggers,
has engraved scars with unhealed wounds,
leading me upon a path resenting sealed emotions.
When nostalgic rain sings in sea shell whispers,
I wish I could hold the sun in my arms,
to stop me from pouring
in melancholic bleeding moonlight,
but my beloved's eyes resemble dandelion reveries,
reminding me of a fragrant bouquet of memories,
pleading to personify her in
petrichor perfumed poems.
Her scent resurrects my muse to life..
She always says:
"Never mind the moon, it's only a reminder of forgotten midnight promises."
How her heart is an island where my waves will eternally kiss her shores.
A sanctuary for my inner child to forever build sandcastles."
My destiny leads to the end of a rainbow,
which rests upon the ivory sands of her treasure -
where internal flames become calm.
Mindful
Startled out of nonchalant light,
Wakefulness stands at attention
Ignited flame from the eternal candle,
Energized vigil of the watchman
At the soul’s dawning daybreak
Tingling in the presence
Of every dappled infinite breath.
Rotating eye of illumination
Watchful, like a lighthouse beacon hovering,
Charts rocks and shoals through clear oceans insight,
Every nerve exposed in circumspection
Sometimes cringing in wary expose
Often basking in the light touch of satisfaction
As niggling prophecy finds confirmation in revelation
Throwing off the blinded penury of antonyms,
Embracing flashing synonyms of wisdom,
Tears of the heedful heart touch drab puzzles poverty
To polish with refinement’s shine burnished enthusiasm
For the incandescent dancing mindful
Then banish chary strobes of destitute indifference
Reaching beyond self-centered parentheses.
A lantern of thoughtfulness in floodlights
Of full harvest shared – no scattered crumbs of bread
Baked to stone in scathing flashes of the false
Eloquent vigilant splendor - never morning extinguished –
Torch to awaken lambent radiance of clarity’s joy,
Identity of the pilgrim heart, ejects sightless shades
Mindfulness blends the conscious scattered fragments
For Mosaics in clear lit portraits of charity's open hands
Throwing off the numb stalker branded carelessness
Born of intentional ignorance
Seeker’s actuated incentive to the attentive –
To hear! To see! To feel! To move in birth!
Action invigorated by accentuated humility of grace.
Date Written 6-10-21
Best #1 Poem - September 2021
1st place Trophy Win Poetry Contest - Mindful
Included in Poetry Soup Anthology - It's Still Poetry
Sudan 1993 and an ugly famine reaps its prey
malnourished bodies make it difficult to believe
that women were created from the rib of men
it is the most vulnerable who carry the weight
if you pardon the cynical pun on the grotesque
the lens is open and a vulture remains on guard
carrion in the making seems to die on the right
side of the frame and the wrong side of history
a little bird like face hands buried in minute hands
a grunting beak not afar as if smacking hungry lips
vultures have a serious problem with their reputation
but this particular images reaches down much further
into gut wrenching emotion of insatiable repulsion
for the record it is not the grim raptor who was ringed
but the little girl who wears a UN feeding station band
in all honesty the predator is not as close as it seems
a nearby manure heap serves its overfed companions
but the photo fails to escape the onlooker’s discomfort
however they wish it would fly away on prayer or wings
one vulture a Pulitzer Prize and millions of birdwatchers
although Kevin Carter the award winning photojournalist
followed all rules and was forbidden to touch anybody
for fear of spread of disease like cholera or meningitis
he was pilloried for only taking the shot and despairing
instead of well what exactly should the bird have told him
we are not privy to the fate of the iconic avian marauder
do not know what we would have done in such situation
maybe niggling bird song made us contribute to charity
but the other protagonist died in a red pickup truck with a
hosepipe and the girl’s parents told the press she’d survived
11th July 2020
The colour of her Kohl uncertain,
She flips the pages of the magazines.
No hints, no clues, no advice.
Disgused as the voice of reason:
Common sense.
She paints her eyes to burnt orange
To match her dark complexion,
She wears a flowery gown still in fashion
She arrives at the party
Surveying the naked eyes staring
At the starry night.
She wrecks her brains
About an ill-advice
Of staring at the stars with
Naked eyes.
Her mind is blank.
Why is no one wearing Kohl anymore?
All the females are in strippy gowns.
The invitation said flowery gowns.
Is this a postmodern take
To flowery fashion?
She takes off her glasses
And wipes them clean
The stripes are still hurting her vision
Where is she?
Why are all the familiar faces
In stripes and not flowers?
The loud music plays
Familiar tunes
Bob Marley, the Doors
She floats to the music
Ripples of her hem.
Though this enigma;
Still unresolved;
Is niggling her.
She strikes up a conversation
With a handsome
Blond youth.
He admires her Kohl
Burnt orange and all.
Pays a complement about
Her rose tinted complexion
She blushes even more.
Though the conundrum
Is still there
Unresolved.
She puts on her brave face
And asks
"The flowers are hidden
Behind the stripes."
He answers casually
No touch of irony.
How she demands to know?
"Simple," he answers,
"Dresses are multi layered"
She feels like a fool.
She reproaches to the question
Of lack Kohl.
"No one cares to hide
Their eyes no more."
The youth
Says
"I like a woman in Kohl."
Yasemin Balandi
We are here but a short time
yet we met and love many people
some we make mistakes with
find that they weren't real friends
yet even when things go wrong
move on taking the best with you
leave all the niggling negatives behind
all they do is mess with your mind
I have lived in several places aboard
hopefully taking the good on with me
one thing I know wherever you live
people seem to fall into various types
some become friends, real friends
the sort who stand by you all the time
who give without ever being asked
and to who you return all the help you can
most are fair weather friends, they run and hide
leaving you in the lurch time after time
they will steal your lover or husband
without batting an eye, its sad but true
As you go through the years you soon learn
you come to distrust until their worth is proved
then there's those who sweet talk you taking your heart
that's the saddest of all, still you learn to guard it
One day you meet a true love on who's shoulder
you can lay your weary heart knowing its finally safe
you share your hopes, your aspirations and dreams
make plans, set up home and raise your children
Then one day, in a blink its all gone, gone not forgotten
you have all the memories of the good times you shared
the hardest of all is you are still here struggling on
the cruel hand of death has struck taking them leaving you
In a flash life has changed become just so very grey
you mourn and try to be strong hard as it is for you
there's others who still need you rely on you
but I tell you this its not easy when they pass on