Long Prisoned Poems
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The Hospital Asile
Like the highway as long it goes
Like the lover's longing
Like the winter's silence
Like prisoned midnight and falling dawn
Like the voyages made by Christopher
Tube lights and window panes,
Sang the lullaby.
The lone street outside,
Sleeps in the womb of night.
Nurses battling with duties and dreams
Doctors gravelled in white and faith
Staffs tested their patience and nestled
Behind the door,
Lay my ailing amma.
Her husband.
Her father.
Her pal.
Or somebody!
The shivering soul and my frozen veins seated in a long bench
Music of my tapping feet in the stained floor tryst with melancholy
Lost of fear is lost
Light of hope had perished
Just like Arctic Ocean covered by ice,
Her body covered in white linen.
And the ticking 3 AM
In the hospital asile
Elevator carried lost spirits,
Looks like ceramic sculptures.
I rise from the white-wine siesta,
letting go of the serpentine songs,
like a crimson-winged dragonfly
lost in the poppy prairies of Persephone,
untangling my prisoned heart
chained by the churning
deceit of Hades’s immortal chains,
savoring pomegranate promises,
pirouetting through petrichor nirvana,
as the sky smells like a saffron rose
above the castle of emperors
dressed in fallen flowers.
Yet the diamonds sometimes are
engraved with ominous omens
and remorseless remnants,
while I return to cinnamon seclusion,
dancing to the mood of my moon.
O divine dandelion,
in your eyes I see suppressed sighs
of a splintered sunrise,
flickering balmy zephyrs of paradise,
as my soul is tied to the softness
of your delicate dusk~
like a faithful disciple,
forever following your footprints~
while velvety roots of florals
face the glows of alchemy,
amidst the array of arrows,
left as ashes of gold gone cold,
and the gracious gusts of gloaming
devouring the unscrupulous wounds
of a fragranced dawn.
I am the aching pigment
in your palette of purples,
longing for butterfly blurs
to bring me back to a
kingdom of kindness,
where I’ll forever breathe tender lilies
rinsed with wind-swept wishes.
But amidst the clusters of jewels
and raining sakura,
tonight I choose to walk with
specters of scorching stars,
allowing curves of my scarred skin
to burn from the blazing breeze
that bleeds nefarious narratives
upon the bleached borders.
So watch me waltz into the
infernal waters of the deep, bruised bay.
There I’ll write an elegy,
for the sorrow that swallowed your spirit.
I will find an anchor to pull
you back to the land of paper lanterns
as I surrender to the
haunting hues of the horizon;
the sweet sacrifice of a beloved blackbird
singing farewell in silence
to save you from the devilish underworld.
As dandelion dreams
are designed in lucid lies,
carving my essence into wintry wires
of woes and verdicts
from the
growing vines of a
villainous valley.
I feel the blackbird weep, it’s everything
I see the blackbird quiver, it’s what you bring
dreary
d a n d e l i o n
Theres a surge inside of Britain..' A tidal wave will rise
Comesl the hour come the hero's lts time for history to
Decide.' In the deep breath of September although the air might
Chill.' The streets will bear true witness.' The station yards
Shall fill.' In every corner of the Nation on every market
Square the vibration will be travelling in the spirit of those
Who care.' As a beacon is to darkness as the Sun is to the
Day, so determination is against tyranny' it can be no other way!'
On the fourteenth of September..And on everyday till then
Speak of right, and stand for justice, fight the good fight.'
Raise a voice, lift up the pen.' Raise the standard..Be ye worthy! every one..Each stand saviour of the other one.' Give three cheers for all
The prisoned hero's..And that Tommy Robinson.!!!
Encage us we are of collective souls
Display us in prisoned wallpaper as ghouls
Send us into these sepsis tanks, in tin cans
in torture dungeons, in faraway lands
Mistaken for us are the migrants
who don’t belong in our black hole,
ripped from their family’s arms,
and broken, it has a toll
Try to discern, unchain me,
give me the time of day
I’ve not done any of what you say
I’m here, do you not see me?
I’m tucked in all of your publicity
Before us you stand prestigious -n- tall,
your toughness shared inside our halls
Donning is the blood red Maga cap a telling of your gang
and Jackboots as they were worn by the Sturmabteilung
Wings reinforced by the sword’s blows, in your case
against the chains that contain, and any empathy inside
Keeping you safe an expressionless speech,
seal the deal it shall seal my unmerciful fate
Judged and sentenced without any assemblance
I see right through your imminent coarse leather, and
by the end of your reign, hard you’ll fall
And later the field forces in which you thrive
rotting torn in shreds, but still alive,
as shall be fathers ripped away from family
Have you not exhausted every remedy for me?
Infection is your reasoning,
concede for me and it shall be litigation of guilt
Rewards you’ve given, they’ve taken
and so, forsaken I be
Regardless of it, they have me in error,
as prison wallpaper
I work in the fields, a visa allows it
I wear pastel colors, a straw hat covers
possessing no tats, what of straw hats
What of straw hats?
She entered the room and his heart as one
then all before distant time mattered less
he was no innocent, and she no nun
to which, much later, they both would confess.
But, at that instant, neither prisoned, cared
baggage they hid inside their faded trunk
for she, was a vision all golden-haired
and he, he was a sun-bronzed, six-pack-hunk.
He entered the room, in her, something stirred
and all before distant time mattered less;
and long before they had exchanged a word
he was, she well knew, an invited guest.
And in the next morning, as they both lay
they were yet to know the price they would pay.
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams I
Wall, we're astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear virgin,
we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Asclepiades of Samos, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable.
?Michael R Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner’s faithful Maltese...
but will he still bark again, on sight?
?Michael R Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks;
our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks!
I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly!
May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly...
so she shan’t get at you again!
?Michael R Burch, after Agathias
Hunter partridge,
we no longer hear your echoing cry
along the forest's dappled feeding ground
where, in times gone by,
you would decoy speckled kinsfolk to their doom,
luring them on,
for now you too have gone
down the dark path to Acheron.
?Michael R Burch, after Simmias
Wert thou, O Artemis,
overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds
when the Beast embraced me?
?Michael R Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie as
still as cold stone, huntress Lycas,
my great Thessalonian hound,
the wild beasts still fear your white bones;
craggy Pelion remembers your valor,
splendid Ossa, the way you would bound
and bay at the moon for its whiteness
as below we heard valleys resound.
And how brightly with joy you would leap and run
the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron!
?Michael R Burch, after Simonides
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Greek, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, translations, elegy, elegies, eulogy, eulogies, death, grave, funeral, lament, mourning, loss, pain, bereavement
A Moment of your Time
I was just going through my head notes and re-wrotes....
and came up with a finished writing that will become a re-write piece to say the least....I begged and pleaded with this now completed much needed sheet of paper that let my pen...that I used...
to write a complete poem to compete and show 'em me the "Eh Hem Pete"..... hi....may I....have a moment of your time? to unleash my mind from this surge of words that I purge from my eyes so I won't be going blind no more
or suffer from the eyes sore that I bare and bore before...it's not fair to endure a nightmare...or stare at the door when I'm awake...looking for...something to adore...but see nothing more....I care...but I swear...I will not compare my writing free to my daydreams and streams of words that I see to other people's poetry
I am merely just being me...
myself and I...hi...can I have a moment of your time? to unwind these blind binding words that are becoming more and more my vision...it's like I'm in a prisoned prism...locked down pen in hand...writing position...GO!...but woah...where do I start?...how could I part the ink from the pen...
and begin to write a rewrote note....on this sheet of paper? I know...here we GO....creator...Roses are Red...Violets are Blue...never mind...can you give me a moment of your time....?
can you be so kind...and listen or read and comprehend as i stand here and recite these blinding words that I will rewrite....
that my Pen's ink will bleed to
write from its statue of nature onto this sheet of Paper from my mind the creator...
Can I have A moment of your Time?
Africa,
Upon this vantage pedestal I see you,
i gaze from this hollow quest,
away from the home of my ancestors,
a sojourner for a time,
I yearn,
to tread again the beautiful climate of my origin,
where no strange stares forbids my freedom,
Africa,
Did I hear the enthralling songs?
The chirping sounds of the birds,
The brilliant coruscations,
the evening tales by moonlight,
Oh! Nature, never saw you tainted.
it is different here,
Africa, A vast exotics land of combination,
with lush emerald jungles
vistas of burning stars,
and torrential white river,
the mountains unharvested,
the hills uncrowded,
Africa,
we smile without suspicion
not hunted "like partridges upon the mountain"
We breathe though poor
Yet rich in morals
I am a prisoned sojourner here,
men speed away uncaring.
locked in debts called homes,
bills buries friendship,
and for wood hay and stubble,
nature becomes a nullity,
in motions like robots,
we wake, we work, and wear our frame
Africa i hear you call
Tis her eyes are flaming like the heat of superb reflection
Tis her glowing hairs,
Tis her strange teeth
Tis her cute little voice
She's the apple of Aphrodite's eyes, and dancing into gladness
And concubine strikes her passion was being prisoned for a flesh for two
Doth the siren knocks the eye of the beauty thine inside
She dances and dances and fell
By the hands of tsar
Twas they laughing and drinking
And drinking for more
For she a woman with no respect
But has thy beauty of boon and grace
She have a faith..
She hymn a dramatic tone..
The day starts at one
And after a day or two..
She solemnly swear
And believing that thy sun never runs out of light..
“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.”
David Levithan
I will forever be as pure
as white virgin fibres,
in your onyx
field of ravens.
When the
star-crossed
silhouette of
bleeding ink,
ricochets like
vindictive arrows,
within your
hollow walls,
quenched with
muted echoes,
I am reminded of
your ebony eyes,
cradled under
black decomposing flesh.
I shove my
misunderstood identity
into a pocket journal,
embalmed with a
fragrance of peace lilies
and rhapsodical prose,
amidst doleful dusks
painted with
past mistakes
hidden beneath
narratives of sinful
tangerine nights.
But, remember
that your fallacious
name is an
erased footnote
in the history of
relentless runes.
My tormented tongue
has become
immune to
your false screams.
There is no need
for close-fisted
fingers to flip
through pages,
of the story
I left behind,
as visions of
venomous verses
cremate into
ashes in my mind-
as mere memories
of monologues from
ice cold monsoons,
which don’t define me.
I’ve sculpted fragile
paper boats and
watched them ferry my
demons,
floating on daisies
in a ravishing rivulet
of truth and tranquility,
whilst you chase
impassioned imprints
within chapters
written in patterns
of insincere phrases.
I am a survivor of
your storm,
drawing dreams in
drowsy darkness,
blooming my
amethyst artistry,
which vibrantly
beats to burgundy
evolutions of a
blossoming flower,
who's scent you
will never savor.
My petals
may be fragile,
but I refuse to remain
prisoned in toxic
traits of a
weathered wildflower -
I only attract
majestic butterflies.