Long Rhythmically Poems
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These castle walls are cracked and moonlight seeps through, i hug my knees to my chest as
a sob threatens to break out of my throat. My skin is pale and thin; my bones stab through
my skin-nearly breaking it, I would look like a scraggly porcelain doll if I ever looked
in the mirror, but being trapped in this damned place for however long I have no access to
such a luxury.
My eyes are wet, my hair is tangled and knotted-unbrushed for at least three weeks. My
fingers resemble the bone underneath. I hear wolves call from under the ten foot tower, I
shake in my corner and wish to get a nights sleep that I know would never come. The marks
on my back from the whip stings like hell.
My limbs hurt; feeling stretched as if they were pulled by horses. A pain in my skull just
behind my eyes pounds rhythmically like hoofbeats galloping drunkenly on the hard
cobblestone streets of London.
The silver glow of the moon glows brighter as the silver orb centers itself in the sky.
The pain in my limbs grows more intense, the urge to scream in agony is tempting, but I
don't. I should, but do not. It will get me nowhere, and it will not help me. So, I sit in
the corner and suffer silently through such torture. The moon rises higher toward the
center, the pain grows; soon enough, I am unable to hold in the screams.
I scream.
Granted that citizens below can hear me; do they come? Do they wonder what or who could be
enduring such torture and pain? No...they do not. Never have.
I go through this for six centuries, no one looks up at the thin, slanted and dark window.
No one comes clambering, clumsily up the stairs of the tower to where my screams grow
louder and are the dominant instrument in this dark, cobblestone hell. No one comes-some
may wonder, I do not invade their minds-nor have I tried.
But, I fear not that they do wonder, probably are just afraid of what dark, evil creature
awaits them to their death. I am but a nightmare, not exactly a dream, but neither a
nightmare shrouded in shadows and hidden in scraggly, ugly branches like long, clawed
fingernails.
So, yes, I am nothing but what I perceive myself. What others perceive me as, I know not
what to think; I scream, no one comes...yet, my life is lived more for me as I am living
locked up in this hole. Locked up, and suffering. No one to hear me scream.
...she was ensnared within her prized gardens
There among a tempest of roses.
Entangled in the mournful whispers
of…
Weeping willows
From noon till night.
Within her bustling haven,
the envy of neighbors.
A source of joy and delight.
But her constant aching heart
desired so much more.
Her poor lonely husband
Once he was robust and
brimming and strong
with vitality...
Now his soul has withered
in the desolation
of his ongoing prison of solitude.
Like a leafless tree...
stripped bare by winter's icy grip…
His heart was shattered.
For upon the porch's creaking rocker /
...his soul dwindling...
...its motion faltering...
Stops...
She suddenly grasped the vastness...
of her loss?
Such an ache colossal.
Crying out to God!!
her tears flowing like a raging
roaring river:
"Restore my free!!!"
A glimmering thought emerged in her
a forbidden whisper:
"Conjure a deal, the deal, with nature...
and it will be granted."
An Epiphany as a glimmering thought
emerged:
His thumb... a sharp knife...
a cursed gift...
a grower’s unholy art...
A malevolent pact with nature /
rending her life asunder.
Then new life stirred within the
shadow's cryptic realm //
From fresh tilled dirt and top soil ground //
A sinister transformation...
...a harbinger,
sprout of chilling qualms.
On All Hallows Eve /
stirred by the relentless creaking...
of...
the...
chair.....
She rushed and she stumbled
for she was caught
in despair's whirlwind.
Her heart pulsated
rhythmically in tune.
The moon...
a spectral lantern /
Drenching the desolate landscape /
in silver light...
Casting ominous and writhing shadows...
that echoed with...
The dread of Walpurgisnacht.
A nightmare,
a beautiful grotesque masterpiece:
His form, hideous contorted,
agrarian exhorted,
A thumb oozing... with /
red and green blood...
Nature itself warping and ravenous.
"My Groom," as she spoke to this agrarian figure.
Now Love is ensnared in a sinister compact...
never to relinquish its grip.
Her Fervent devotion /
embodied in the...
Mandrake Sprout's insidious clasp.
Slowly rocking, miraculously...
...a dichotomy,
back and forth as the moon departed...
Entwined for eternity...
Bound in a loving unholy pact.
A sense of completion in the
depth of our twining souls, existing as featherless angels, in this plastic world of diffusive masks, and veiled faces of insincerity and darkness, my Venus.
I feel in my veins the healing essence of your being, the lifeblood that nurtures and soothes my unseen wounds and agonies, with the balminess of your majestic seraphic aura—the sacred elixir of life, my Korean princess.
Devoted to you in your every breath, dying, inhaling and exhaling your existence in the glimmer of lunar and sun phases, illuminating my artistry of magic and poetry, with the shimmering light of your irresistible ebony eyes, where i see our future, my marvelous creature.
Our promises of tomorrow, to be the light and cure on our path of being featherless angels, fighting storms, adversities, turbulent currents of anxiety, as demon’s whisper deceit within my mind, flying towards cobalt skies of serenity, merging our spirits, becoming one, my blue rose.
In indigo twilight, your heartbeats rhythmically blends with mine, serenading love songs in mellifluous breathtaking melodies and symphonies of forever us, as i show you my devotion is deeper than the ocean, giving you hope and faith through my pure sentiments, gazing into my eyes upon an iridescent light of profound love, my beautiful soul.
I take and hold your hand tight, promising you to be your home, your shelter, your safe place in every lifetime, giving you all of me, wrapping you in a warm embrace, my blue butterfly.
I found my Eden when i met you, knowing that you were my eternal love, angel of mine from the first soft touch of your soul, grace, profundity in your inner beauty, for you are a rare special being sent to me here on Earth by God, to be by my side to the moon and back, everywhere you go, you illuminate my days and nights, where you have become my world, my reason for living, my juliet.
You give me strength, making me believe in myself when i lose my fight with hellacious nocturnal anxieties—you are my oxygen and my blessing, helping me thrive in this life, my great love.
You are me, i'm you,
together we are the sparkling constellation of forever and beyond astral cosmic connections, in aligment within our parallel universes.
Eternally you, the ocean of my breaths,
my infinito
He's a disgrace to the Red Duster someone said:
don't say anything or he will slash you, he warned,
puking over you like a sea of spray upon a proud rock
or to stab you with a marlin spike as if splicing a wire
rope: doubting which he would do this was certainly true.
One in four, one in four
Casualty rate, a quarter of all
The seaman hunched over supported by sone under bone,
he was rhythmically sick, wrenching a regular as the waves,
waves, as uniform as a River Dart steamer's pistons in Devon,
as he swayed in the breeze like the British blood Red Duster.
One in four, one in four
Casualty rate, a quarter of all
Until Putin yesterday - until today no British Arctic medal
Britannia just swabbed her salty tears away with ol'
Red Duster anger now being assuaged as 'Justice'
sails into the haven of heaven with Mercantile Men
a decade or so ago yet their families' pride will remember
One in four, one in four
Casualty rate, a quarter of all
Some under the Red Duster were so foreign too
whether Chines or Muslims remember them too
if on the frostbite convoys they sailed too, then medals
for them or their families too defeating the evil of Fascism
One in four, one in four,
Casualty rsate, a quarter of all
Remember, remember this day, twenty-six of February 2013
as 'Justice' had her day in the Court of Humanity for the
One in four, one infour,
Casualty rate, a quarter of all!
By Sashi. Prabhu(zeauoxian) 1/3/2012.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared.
From the vertical column sans a crown of leaves of rotted dead wood,
Once, which was in its own right a magnificent coconut tree where it stood.
Freshness, splendor, Vitality and flexibility of a live tree all depleted and gone,
T’was a pertinent choice for the woodpecker mates to build a home foregone.
Abundantly birdies flock, Pigeons, robins, mynahs, hornbills, cranes and parrots,
On the evergreen nearby tamarind tree, but the woodpeckers my eyes ferrets.
From that eventful day my eyes they set upon,
Their wood pecking bills would on the bark sculpt and impinge on.
A homely hole to drill,
Their head moving rhythmically and looks like a cap with red frill.
Twenty five days back they first arrived I lucidly recollect,
Ten days, a pair of hatched altricial chicks, mates from adversaries’ have to protect.
One morn had me glancing to the oval cavital hole on the bark,
And feasted my eyes on feeding chicks being readied, their lives to embark.
Blissful and content , I recollect now I sat a bit longer to observe and discern,
Glorious hues, auger bill, cap with red frills, of the peckers as they take their unambiguous turns.
To zip across like beige, buttery yellow plumaged darts across the lush foliage all green,
Within, watchable bounds to fetch, insects, worms and saps as nutriment routine.
The chicks I saw they peek out of the shielded barky holes with awe,
Strength it seems to me have filled their wings bill and sharpened claw.
Now I wonder if I can listen to the joyous feminine “chrr”
and the shrill masculine “kwirr”.
As the young chick in the hole frolicking, giving it a try to fly,
Away in the wide world after saying a good bye onto the sky very high…………
Now the mates without emotions, kerfuffle and ado,
To each other, their home and their prying neighbour me have bid “adieu”.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared
Just like a wish, whimsical as it stirs dreams and trembles with the rhythms of hope, my heart anticipates the beautiful in a setting sun, a rising moon, a glistening star who abides on the nocturnal sea of memories. This is where my spirit concludes that the healing has begun, just beneath the succulent host of promises, the vision pleading with joy, the mysterious muse coloring the heart in hues of laughter, fantasy, so satisfying and breathless, like the wind.
In a still smile, joy resonates the kiss. In a hungry hug, the embrace of light. In the music penetrating the dreams, there I find the meaning of spiritual, the uplifting soothing away the darkness and portraying all the wonder in a heartbeat. Messages fall, unburdened, from lips who mean to reveal the serenity, the sincerity, the sensational sounds breaking through in timeless letters.
Letters who believe. Letters who weave a history and a future. Letters who hold the meaning of love and beauty, life lived and life done. Life lingers in the letters folded quietly beneath a pile of lessons only meant to persuade meaning from the cracks in the heart, the breaks in the soul, the fractures just small crevices where the feelings leak light and love, light and love so amazing it fades from the spirit in memories and misgivings, erasing the quiet and piecing together faded quilts of insight.
In words, we mingle yesterday with today and paint the details into the moments when hearts believe. Yes, believe… just believe. Where letters left off with a sweet goodbye, the message has just begun to deliver the spirit from doubt. Relief comes in the implication of a smile, the message far clearer between your heart and mine, the two who confide the meaning of the message burning in the details, the significance of the details threaded together by moments breathing rhythmically, gracious and gifted. Like a fire, the illusion is read between the lines. Between the lines, where wonders are fed by tears, fears and waves of desperation. Between the lines, where feelings blend with life and feel the promise, the hope, come to life… between the lines.
I go online so I can see my sales,
how many books did I move in the night?
These projects that I gave six whole months to,
the stories that give meaning to my life.
But the bar is low, sometimes it’s not there,
nobody much cared what I had to say,
these characters who have lived in my head
are unwanted, most hope they go away.
When I’ve seen people who have half my skill
write a bestseller it makes me see red,
unappreciated in my own time,
perhaps I’ll be famous after I’m dead?
I write a poem that speaks to the heart,
craft the rhyme and flow to move perfectly,
something that requires a lot more work
than those writers who prefer their verse ‘free.’
Put it online so others can partake,
hope what I say might just stick in their minds,
but come next morning my readers are few,
I’m lucky if one comment I can find.
There ain’t much demand for poetic types,
for emotions that are rhythmically said,
but maybe they’ll read it far down the line,
maybe I’ll be famous after I’m dead.
I look at all of these famous writers,
how few of them lived it up while breathing,
Kakfa was nuts, Dickinson was insane,
old Bob Howard was surly and brooding.
Even the ones who found recognition
weren’t exactly living the free and clear,
Tolsoty couldn’t keep his marriage intact,
Hemmingway’s fame couldn’t fight back his fears.
We all dream of setting folks’ minds aflame,
of selling millions and rolling in bread,
but that’s the exception, all we can hope
is to become famous after we’re dead.
It makes a man wonder why he does this,
since there are much easier jobs out there,
is the creative urge worth the effort
when it so impacts our financial cares?
If all of the appreciation that
we can expects comes when we’re in the grave,
is the price of our own satisfaction
worth the hours of working like a slave?
To create something nobody asks for,
ro silence that nagging urge in our heads?
While knowing the best that I can hope for
is to become famous after I’m dead?
Eh, who am I kidding with this. You’ll forget my name before you finish reading this poem.
You have, haven’t you?
Waterfalls here and there sprout (A)
From the bottom of the mountain (B)
Monkeys and apes are gamboling (C)
Comfortably, somewhere on the leafy soil (D)
On trees top, snacking from the wild fruit (A)
Gathered, seemed as they had a summit (A)
Somewhere wavering on the tree (E)
I were alone blatantly beside the pond (F)
On the body of the botched trunk (G)
Which were beside the spring water (H)
That flew rhythmically in the middle of the forestry (E)
Wending, looking good bye me and the place peacefully ( E)
The nugget, pebble, and the sand was seen ( I)
In the pure water lazed beneath the bottom ( J)
Little fishes were swimming dreading nothing a hook (K)
And I were not a cruel boy to show them a slash of bread (L)
To trick and eat them for my hunger and fun ( I)
Nature was delicious by itself why i did them stun (I)
I had no girlfriend but I were loved a blossomed lass (M)
She was my high school grade mate, so beautiful (N)
A shy, not seen when she talk and play (O)
With boys like me and teenagers (P)
A virgin of the south Ethiopian of that epoch’s class (M)
I were dreaming here beyond my memory mass (M)
Alemseged’s Alphabetical Rhyming Scheme style
Oh, my boyhood love had an agony of sagacity (Q)
Wishing greedily day and night losing many sleeps (R)
Being frail to say I love you snatched the aplomb (S)
Observing in heart and mind surrendered without fighting (T)
A different perspective on a dimension of beauty (Q)
A yearning of having her, an itching of victory (Q)
My childhood village, the forest, the mount, the cliff (U)
The two lakes, Abaya and Chammo, God’s bridge ( V)
They couldn’t told me how to get the bloomed aroma (W)
They couldn’t helped me how to say I love you (X)
But they whispered the song through wind that riff (U)
By Knowing my secrets, searched from my heart’s shelf (U)
Where are you now the un kissed flower of the ere (Y)
The bud and bold, the desired scent as the Mexican dahlia (Z)
I think now, the time is go on you were my potent age flare (Y)
You are my boyhood nostalgia, as of a shadow of acacia (Z)
May 29,2021
A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK
Poem written for and submitted to “When My Life Changed” Poetry Contest, Kai Micheal Neumann, sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Early morning, sun dripping gold over weathered fences.
I was running, feet rhythmically striking the pavement.
Then a sudden jolt, my foot caught in a yawning crack.
I remember the gasp, the sharp intake of breath.
The sky spun, a dizzying blur of blue.
The asphalt, bitter and gritty, greeted me.
Pain erupted, my sturdy ribs shattering like porcelain dreams.
My taut and athletic back, now a crumpled map of hurt.
My shoulder, a tattered sail, flapping in the wind.
I lay on the ground, a helpless marionette with frayed strings.
&&&&
Underneath fluorescent glow of the emergency room, the bright white sheets
embraced me.
The air was thick with antiseptic, the scent of fear mingling with shock.
I succumbed to the lullaby of anesthesia, the world fading to a distant hum.
I dreamt of running—a memory wrapped in gauze and quiet longing.
The surgeons cut and stitched, the confluence of metal and skill.
After, I lived in a cocoon of pain and immobility, counting the months of
physical therapy.
Months stretched like silent shadows, the world outside a blur .
I, a statue, saw the seasons change—my body and spirit temporarily
tethered to the earth.
I still remember the freedom of running, the wind in my hair, the earth
beneath my feet.
Now I find solace in walking, each stride a careful sigh, a bittersweet
reminder of what I lost.
The world feels foreign, though, my back a crooked spine of broken dreams,
three inches lost to gravity, the weight of time pressing down.
I reflect upon the journey, the scars on my skin, and the lessons learned
in quiet moments.
I am a different sort of strong now, hunched over, but unbroken, moving
forward with faith and grace—one step at a time.
literary food for thought.
Self Mutilation:
(ah bet thar iz an app for that!)
within unlit partial "FAKE abattoir"
sans wardrobe alcove
where dust bunnies didst allures
completing a simple task among
my never ending (Matthew's) list
of domestic chores
this undertaking engaged
thankfully while completely clothed,
and scrounging on all fours
nonchalantly picking up scattered detritus
including food crumbs
potential critters hors d'oeuvres
the spouse (ideally seated
on this same swivel chair
dashing off these lines
linkedin with this Macbook Pro) -
housing at least four scores
of word documents, she espied
the cheeky opportunity
that triggered many wars
within arms length the taut outline
of me 'lil derriere - re: rear end
temporarily dormant versus
when flatulence roars -
posterior flank hie
could not de fend
she playfully poked her finger
that didst dis send
within close vicinity of sphincter,
where rectal turgid business height tend
(most likely this husband not alone
getting tushy twerked) inn me own coal
less cents great movements got made
jabbing ma bung hole
while i happened
to be "blindly" groping
upon darkly cutout cubby hole
i.e. without wearing bifocals/ spectacles -
envision a human mole
thus amply qualified her role
to be literal and figurative
pain in the ass vole,
where much to my horror a flash
of red hot poker blind
momentary rage, did lash
out at me, when aye espied
a kitchen knife and acted rash
(how cutlery got in closet floor
a minor mystery
and potential topic de jure
for another poem)
to brandish sharp edge
around abdominal area
grabbed handle with left hand,
thence commenced to slash
rhythmically thwacking
wrist of right hand
then quickly dropped sharp implement
(as like a man momentarily possessed)
before rendering permanent harm
with a river of blood to wash.