Long Onslaught Poems
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Defeat embraces the soul that has unraveled from lies, baring the pure truth.
In the library of destiny, where each heart inscribes its chronicles,
I lingered among the scrolls of loss, in the chambers of vast silence.
A single phrase echoes in my mind, a deep resonance:
"Defeat embraces the soul that has unraveled from lies, baring the pure truth."
Upon the heights of loneliness sampled in the shadow of great defeat,
The spirit strips off the ephemeral shrouds, unveiling the venerable skeleton of being.
The absurd bargain between man and cosmos crumbled, the bankruptcy of illusions gleaming like a relentless morning star.
When the mask of success falls, when all foundations erode to dust under the onslaught of fate,
Man's soul remains bare and true, a core of stars undisturbed by the crown of planets.
A man become withered by time, a faded leaf on the cold waters of destiny,
Meets another self at the crossroads, where no sign directs,
They are creations of the same executioner, inscribed in the alphabet of suffering,
Each word a wound, and every sentence a leap into the relentless abyss of truth.
In the half-light that follows the fall of the curtain of the grand show, the bare steps of initiation are heard,
In this temple, where the blind can see and the mute can sing, heart and soul revealing revelations.
Come, be witnesses to this exchange of silences, where the language of loss is the only currency accepted,
Open yourself as the sky opened on the night that birthed light,
Pure, devoid of adornments and prejudices, reduced to its raw essence by the untamed things.
On this territory of the alchemical retorts of fate, where the lead of pretension is converted into the gold of the abyss,
The self melts in the hand that transforms us, in a communion with the Universe,
In the refrain of this wintry song of defeat, in this celestial unification,
I have learned that the perfection of understanding is not the shining crown of the day,
But the eerie shimmer of the night when all earthly grounds are overturned and all certainties are but sand in the hourglass.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath,
laid a sheet of slippery freezing cold by my feet
and then whispered in my ear right to the drum
that echoed in my brain with excruciating pain.
She, his wife was of a complete different temperament
quietly without fuss she crafted blanched cotton flakes,
each a masterpiece, unique as if she retained every design
she had ever imagined so each time she could create anew.
He however with his bravado with his swelled chest
would pepper speeding glass-like pellets into the air.
Sting our faces without regret. Salt our wounds.
Mercilessly bite into our flesh with his frosted fangs.
Daintily she'd sprinkle the sky with the magic of her cheer
feather the atmosphere in a delicate splatter of alabaster.
Layer by layer she laid soft sheets of snow to the delight
of everyone alike creating a playground of endless mirth.
His breath reeked of dreams frozen, nipped in the bud.
Already he had high jacked his sisters, the Autumn twins
sent them packing, hurried, gathering their rustic garments.
He had no love of his siblings except his baby sister, Spring.
His wife loving and caring would temper his yearly onslaught.
She knew of his pain, deep, abandoned by his father Summer.
At times she'd blow slightly warmer air to provide respite for
us mere humans and allow the sun to warm our weary bones.
They would sit together and it was her would bring out
the albums of family photos view pictures of his mother.
Her smile like music would soothe his stone cold heart.
He loved, when she'd visit in the guise of an Indian Summer.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath.
I felt her presence there to temper his harsh avail.
Winter had arrived but when they walked as one
this magnificent couple dressed in their royal winter whites,
without a second thought you would bow in front of their regal
stance, a sight to behold, one that encompassed the entire land.
04~01~2015
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name: Seasons
First Thing
The morning is quiet.
I have not yet gone outside.
I yawn inaudibly.
What will the day be like?
Will things be okay?
What should I do about?
What will happen if?
It all floods back at me.
A never ending onslaught of…
So many things I think about.
Only moments before,
peace.
Now?
Not!
I want to roll over.
I want to go back to bed.
I want to pull the covers over my head.
I want permission to stay where I am.
No one is going to give me that.
Not even me…
Work is calling.
One kind or another,
“it” knows the word or words,
used to bring me from my stupor.
Yet, I linger.
Do I have time to pray?
It has long ceased to rain here.
The embers of drought are fanned by the merciless
Hands of hell.
The air is stifling,
The heat insufferable.
I cringe from a long wait on a queue in the narrow
Trench at a fast-drying
Brook.
I wait from the crack of dawn to vespers time,
But not an iota of liquid
The size of miniaturised Sri Lanka in a children’s atlas,
Has creased my aching tongue.
Not one drop.
My chances are scuppered by the returning terns
Who must refuel in readiness for
Another chaotic Atlantic crossing.
A mild squall renews hopes for a pluvial onslaught,
But clouds chose not to weep.
The petulance of spring tempts our fortitude.
As the days stretch with sloth’s speed
In the face of a prickling drought,
I could only drink from an hourglass....
The jaw of Time has broken.
Waves of seas clash on each other and welter
By way of crimson froths.
Bleached by salt,
They taste like mordant fruits,
Biting and scourging my cheeks to the
Fulfilment of stalking and waiting.
There should never be any time that matters
More than any season, no matter the name of
The Calendar — Caesar or Gregory.
As I wait, I finger my hair,
Now whittled by damnation.
I dream according to my visions....
If only opportunities came as regularly as the
Milkman!
Gutless gaffer, grinning gamely, gulled the gullible millions to the polls,
Oozing oily orations of orphanhood “I once walked barefoot, no shoes.”
On crowded corners we conceded, cringing at his crooked crew.
Disillusioned, we drift and drudge, desperate for deliverance from this dull dominion.
Lackluster leader, limp and lifeless, laced with looming lunacy.
Unsteady skipper steers the ship, silenced by shameless syndicate of plunder.
Circles of sorrow, suffering, and slow suffocation the sorry saga of a shallow sovereign.
Embezzlers erupt in ecstasy, excavating endless holes for highway robbery.
Bandits in bespoke suits, besmirching the bench with brazen brigandage.
Egregious evader, cringing coward, cried at cannon fire: “I am no lion.”
Laggard lumbering loon left lethal lunatics lounging at our doorsteps.
Encumbrances engineered by erratic clan erode every ember of love for motherland.
Damp duchess, dull and domineering, dripping with indecent diction,
Audacious accessory, always attached, avidly airlifting assets abroad.
Merriment masked as mission, mischief marketed as maternal duty.
Edgy encumbrance, endlessly entwined in their eager, empty alliance.
Punk pretender, pilfering public purse into private palaces.
Adventurous appetite for aimless globe-trotting gallivanting.
Twitchy tyrant of trivialities, though never voted into office.
Intoxicated by improbable luck, insulting the nation with incessant idiocy.
Euphemistic escapades, erratic entertainment, embarrassing every educated eye.
National nightmare nursed by notorious nincompoops.
Crude crudities casually cast “My fellow widows” to court cheap chuckles.
Encomiums of empty praise turned putrid: “Power” the perfect pipeline for plunder.
Jokers jumped with jittery joy, jostling jealously for juicy thrones.
Onslaught of terror from Boko Haram banished blessed sleep from battered brethren.
Numbed nation nodded “No” to hasty handover, hoodwinked by the horde.
Alas, the audacious fraud, the rapacious rogue, rules ruthlessly over us.
Tyranny thinly disguised in doctoral drapes creek scholar sans scholarship.
Higgledy-piggledy havoc, a hideous hoax hailed as democracy.
Amid the ashes of a fractured federation,
Nigerian overlords observed the obscene spectacle, secure in stolen silence,
While helpless citizens crumbled and cried.
Absurd is the business of disappointment with meaning
crawling to our knees in defeat
and panacea for healing that lasts
a full moment, before vanishing forever.
Absurd is the claim of victory over a raging battle
when one is in self-retreat and the enemy runs
rampant in the streets.
Absurd is the virus's real vocation
butchering us like flies and
then taking a breather before
resuming its onslaught.
Absurd is the cruelty of faith
in post-virus that carries hope
to self-destruction.
Absurd is the mercurial moment
of suspense between now and future
laden in ambiguity.
Absurd is the true essence
beating in the heart of darkness
enveloping the horizon.
Absurd is the light of
enlightenment promising
relief.
Absurd is the nature of
humanity yearning for
what it fears most.
Facing thought onslaught,
lower mind begot,
we struggle and grieve
but get no reprieve.
Our desire thought's cause,
which we put on pause,
choosing to be still,
that voids within fill.
Body has it's need,
so dark desires breed
propelled by ego,
we're loathe to forgo.
Moments of silence,
sans thought violence
are when joy seeps in,
pulsating within.
We remain alive
and in-form nodes jive,
more so when thoughts cease,
in a blissful sneeze.
We are in a fog
since tail wags the dog.
Thought's an instrument
needing improvement.
Tapping higher mind,
rid of ego's bind,
in divine embrace,
we imbibe God's grace.
Silence is the key
for us to be free
of desire and fear,
as thought forms that sear.
Thus by letting go,
in staid stillness slow,
we become the flame
that carries no name.
07-September-2022
The fake isolation of the island insinuated the fostering of remnants;
remnants of religious fervor, close knit seafaring families, and rugged farmers;
remnants of power past and present.
A fog shrouded canvass awaits the onslaught of August revelry.
And, where widows walked the peeks of robber barons manses, the elementals now play.
Tomato red fire trucks ring the seaside green. Throngs of , oh so, polite W.A.S.P.S
and multicultural couples dot the lawn in precise groupings.
The squeal of stroller strapped toddlers echo across ocean
and down alleyways lined with painted ladies
Gay blades and saucy sisters saunter unharassed through the crowds of young families.
Prosperously retirees with salt and pepper hair in pink and green golf shirts line the porches
of the gingerbread homes ringing the green.
In the gazebo a brass band plays John Phillip Souza and closes by belting out
the American anthem, after dark, no flag wave, yet random patriots stand.
Their forms silhouette upon the gray fog like their intentions
mocking the holiday aire with their reminder of war….
those raging on in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.
and fade with the crowds roar to “Sit down your blocking the view!”
And as the elite, and privileged meet and greet chatting in wonder over the multiple sightings
of airforce one choppers and past President Clinton.
The three times the worlds average wage is spent on FIREWORKS, frivolously,
for the entertainment of the richest citizens of the planet. God Blessed America.
CITADEL AND CONSTELLATIONS
The green leaves in rugged moans;
The tall bushes in rumbling groans;
The roofs train creaks-- their fugue
blow cobwebs hugging branches below,
such are precursors inviting darkness lair
for stormy clouds before crowd the days.
Yellow horizon seem unreachable honey
as in my life's ocean, balloon billows I bear.
I-- surged in every swell to skirt yet still
lashing waves dashed pushing me sometimes to despair.
Again, cataclysm walk unheralded casting loose
my arms lift upon the glimmer of silver lining from afar
somber shadows enshrouded me in a mist of struggles.
Ounce of strength I have, I try to juggle and juggle
yet, curses fell from hearts and lips parched of love.
All these came, one and all --
the flowing light has flickered flash and gone
but beyond all these you stood -- my sentinel...
You hushed the bad constellations hanging 'round my world
like a lighthouse guiding a lost ship to his home.
Yes! You are my beacon, a promontory amidst
cyclic onslaught brambles and chameleons,
a rock to cling in the wind's creeping fury,
Staunch and firm, my ñhero fighting the torrential
cascade of tirades and reproaches: MY CITADEL. . .
_____________________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name Your Favourite Old Poem #2
++Placed 2nd++
***Sponsor Justin Bordner
Contest Name How You Make The Stars Hush
++Placed2nd++
©O.E. Guillermo
06:37 pm, February 24, 2015
What is the purpose of your visit young man?
I heard that you have the best marmalade in the world
Well we do import oranges but you look a bit foreign to us
I am a seasoned voyager look at the stickers on my case
That is what we are worried about just making sure you are not a friend of Islam
Just a travelling tourist Sir and I am not a criminal communist either
The usual hassle ensued at the border post and the police enjoyed its authority
It gave them power and a reason to be with nothing better than a bit of control
Made Britain great again and ruling over waves of incomers called for respect
Open your bag we can sniff drugs and destruction because your skin is so dark
It is called mixed complexion blame the Spanish because I am from Peru
I can offer you some tales from my journeys to take home for the kids
Bribery won’t work and now trap your dirty snout while we consider your entry
You must be trafficking something and have come here to infest and destroy us
Don’t like your sort and you are too big for your camouflage Wellington boots
But my papers are in order please look at the stamp in my passport
I have been to the world back and beyond and now you give me grief
If you don’t keep your gob shut we must send you straight back to the jungle
Not before we blessed your pigmented pelt with a firm handout from true justice
I may look a tad scruffy to you but people come in all shapes and sizes
Small I may be and yet I can fill hearts with joy and kind exotic delight
He pleaded with the dignity of a stranger which was an alien concept to them
Diversity had died very long ago and the Empire had suffered a solar eclipse
The guard’s hearts had sclerosed from an onslaught of ignorance and regulation
Luckily Paddington had a duffel coat and hat to keep him warm while detained
17th November 2019