Long Riddle Poems
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FEELINGS
At times ; you lead me towards the right path;
At times ; you mislead me;
At times ;you teach me to listen to my sixth sense;
At times; you just leave me in confusion!!!
If you were to answer my questions;
What would you tell me now?
Do we still love each other?
Have we ever loved each other?
Did he ever love me?
Did l ever love him?
Is it over?
Is there a possibility of mending the cracked wall?
Are we both over all what happened?
Are our feelings real or ........?
Am waiting in desperation for answers.
Is the introspection an answer
To the riddle?
Is this a puzzle?
I will look upon the mountains where my answers
Will definitely come from.
Where there was once love ;
Definitely ; there would always be a way.
All needs time.
Time will always heal.
Time always tells.
One will always wonders of feelings.
Feelings of joy!
Feelings of trust!
Feelings of love!
Feelings of truthfulness!
More and above all.
Sticking to what you feel; heals the world.
Let us live life lonely but not alone
Even if you choose to, no one does it
You either live on God or Satan's loan
God is simple and merciful on throne
The worth of his goodness do not blind
Let us live life lonely but not alone
He gave us His only begotten own
That world may be at peace and do befit
You either live on God or Satan's loan
For all has been to each life and death shown
To no excuse thereafter will God quit
Let us live life lonely but not alone
No one would be bail out from fact long known
The breath marks beginning sins we commit
You either live on God or Satan's loan
I buried your mind alive in this zone
To be fun filled for free fortunate fit
Let us live life lonely but not alone
You either live on God or Satan's loan
Written: June 16, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hope had gray hair and looked downcast,
Amid grieving and fears, hope is obscene.
At night, just a rocket and fanal were seen,
Life disappears into shrouds, leading to a blast.
Did the hurling and horrible air have a heart?
A single eye read the unformed wonder or boom.
He was the one who proved the current loom,
The quiddity draws the skies and earth apart.
Lord, my petition and argument are both fair,
What bears devils successful and me a failure?
Revolve their decay if the pair were my jailers,
Chervil-lined banks and curbs quiver with new air.
My sapient wairua creates an Elixir riddle ban,
Hoarding and ignoring nature led to a span.
At twelve forty-five, the clock struck one,
and when it had seen what it had done,
after sixty more minutes flew,
that timekeeper struck two.
It never learned, next to the shelf:
"Always keep your hands to yourself",
so, it continued its violent spree.
An hour later, it struck three.
Reinforcements came through the door -
but, too late, that timepiece struck four.
We could only hope to stay alive,
when Big Bad Ben struck five.
We knew we were in a terrible fix
when that chronometer struck six.
Three went to hell, four to heaven,
when that outsized watch struck seven.
The FBI came to investigate
when that mad sundial struck eight.
The national guard stood in a line,
and the ticking demon struck nine.
I prayed it would never happen again.
Just then, the awful beast struck ten.
When I cast my eyes up to heaven,
that hunk of gears struck eleven.
Into the hour's nature, my mind did delve,
as the clock, time's agent, struck twelve.
A riddle: how much blood did it spill?
Seventy-eight, it would kill.
And now, by order of fate's decree,
time is racing after me.
So, when I hear the clock strike one.
I know it's time to run.
Within a night, a simple crop field has been transformed into a magnificent work of art, the overnight cryptic formations capture the attention of all as the large section of the crop has been tamped into marvellous morphic designs of art, rings and other intricate accomplished geometric patterns.
Edges so neat, it appears that they have been crafted meticulously with most advanced gadgets, with such precision that even though the stalks are bent, they are not damaged at all.
One scientific theory explains the spinning columns force a burst of air down to the ground, which flattens the crops, yet the myth remains how can a few seconds works of spinning air creates such intricate and absolutely perfect circles, sometimes plain, sometimes circles within the circles with myriads of meticulous patterns within patterns? Some says aliens hands behind, some negates them as man-made hoaxes.
Wonder! People close to those rings of crops, encounter strange physical and emotional reactions as the circles rotate clockwise and anti-clockwise as unseen hands or remote controls are controlling them from unknown realms.
From Hollywood magic to spirits of secret weapons, from evidences of UFOs to erudite explanations, there is something hypnotic in their architectures, in their cryptic presences, in their aesthetic textures for inquisitive minds to continue further quests to unravel their enigmatic riddles.
© Silpika Kalita
It was always this way at Christmas…
Does he open my gift first
Or do I pull the wrapping from his?
Will I love what he’s given me?
The only true promise of harmony
Was allowing the wrappings to be ripped off
At nearly the same time
Will I love what he’s given me?
When the gift was there, ascertained
Established as the year’s best guess of a wish
That only the wisher could truly discern
Is this gift truly a dream wish, a fantasy, a miracle
Or is it only the hidden wisdom behind kind eyes
Will I love what he’s given me?
Will either of us ever know, for certain, that our gift
Was the answer to the other’s hopeful expression?
Will either of us ever give the gift and know it is the one
That will go down in history as the “One”!!!
Will I love what he’s given me?
Then, with all thoughts of wrapping paper and bows past,
A single clear laugh from a child vibrates through the house
Ringing out the gift that will forever remain the “One”
I love what he’s given me!!!!
Written on August 28th, 2014
©2014 by Regina Riddle
12/3/20
I opened and jumped out my window
I saw the bigger picture not just life through a window
Went to help out kinfolk
At times had to do the limbo
Wasn't always simple
Jack be nimble
The real thing, not no ditto
Never really got into disco
Or listened to Cisco
I don't need no intro
Too many minnows
Bimbos
And nymphos
It don't mean s*** though
Drinking, while smoke billows inside a limo
Still learning and obtaining info
Got lit with a few Zippos
Off that drank and indo
Harder shell than an armadillo
She tried to kill me, like a black widow
Near the town of Amarillo
But I got the better of that sicko
Too many people softer than a pillow
Got to grow up, can't keep being a kiddo
Close and far from Pismo
Took care of business with or without a gizmo
In life did no good being a Schizo
Didn't always need to tiptoe
Took a ride on a Pinto
Got off and stood Akimbo
Nearby waters filled with Hippo
Girl told me her name was Calypso
That she was originally from Jalisco
And use to work for Nabisco
She thought I was sweet like Peanut Brittle
And a bag of Skittles
Nah, it wasn't like that, not even a little
Little by little
Was able to chisel
And whittle
Music made with or without a fiddle
Life was much more than a complicated riddle
Had to think outside the box, not remain stuck in the middle
Even though what I did was abysmal
Hit myself with a missile
And woke up in the hospital
The way the tulips dance for me
Objectify my heart for the masses
Eclipsed by effervescent rays
Twisted and torn apart like frail butterfly wings
Immortal psalms spoken to a tree
In order to free the mind
From a rapture of forsaken solitude
There's asylum in silence
And burden in the collapse
Of a paradigm shift
Find little scraps of paper
Fold them over
A universe erupts in your fingertips
As if your actions
Were those of a righteous god
Whose blood could cure cancer
So riddle me this
If the answer is in the question
Was there ever a question
Or perhaps
Was the wrong question asked
But the right answer given
In the end it all leads back to darkness
Corrupting the senses
And clouding the mind's eye
We're a victim of our own cognition
Failing to bear witness
To reality for what it really is
Pantomime your last argument
The debate was settled before humanity began
That in the beginning an ending was written
And in the end a beginning was encapsulated
By the emotions of a willow tree
And the drunk man brandishing literature
To an immature world of un-hearing ears
Fill your last cup of tea
With the tears of Prometheus
In time you'll find your true self
But only if you become unshackled
From delusions
Planted in your mind thousands of years ago
If the nature of an honest man
Is wisdom
Then we shall label him unjust
And execute him
As a bloody tyrant
If the nature of a lying man
Is wisdom
Then we shall label him messiah
And execute him
As the savior from sin
And the burden is written on every page
Passed through generation
After generation
Until my heart is given platform
To write the language of the stars
I give birth to rapture
And in rapture I give birth to birth itself
For the sake of wisdom
My heart is half honest
But mostly lying
So mount me on the wall
And make me a martyr
For the whole world to see
And I watch one last time
The way lilies dance for me
what i am
Who am i .
Yes , is that not the question
The one that gets us thinking .
Complex it is, but easily weighed,
simply said but understood not .....yes .
given no charactor, no form because its whole.
who i am, seen soothing both in questioning and in the mystery of it being the rightful answer
Oohhh ! ,this our human life, a fragile beauty it is .
Short lived indeed,
rising to its prime coming to its glory
and just as fast, it fades far from our sight
out of our reach .
Who i am, does it matter,
Though it feels reasonable to ponder.
Who am i ? , Who cares when it rather feels so rightful
as my answer .
Rain knows me in all rainy seasons,
When with my faith i command him to stop,
and with that my name i say unto him , Do you know who i am ?,
through knowledge of what i do not understand he stops pouring and awaits till i get home
Then who am i , does it really matter
when the rain truelly knows and heeds my commands .
Who am i, matters not really
For why care for titles that limit my presence
for all i am is needs
for i am expressed in all expressions as truce .
Sun knows me well in his seasons of lesser glory,
When i tell him his story and see him through all his sorrow.
His one is a short life spun ,He grows warm in his light and so with time must sink always in the oceans to calm the fires of his nature.
So i tell him to hold on ,so that he may be remembered
I tell him the answer to the riddle of the ancients
yes tis that easy.
Tell not the answer ,for most do not know
and they may yet get confused even more .
Ask the question " who am i "
and expect them to know .
For after all isn't it all you
when in anger you express , in joy a smile surfaces
your deep infectious laughter ,the luminous sparkle in your eyes,
Be it the warmth of love or the cold fury of your rage .
The answer there and beyond is the same.
Sometimes I climb in the shower,
and stand, bathing myself in glorious water,
waking up my senses,
realising the day is about to start...
And I cry.
That's as far as my strength goes,
if the morning is good.
Now I have to push,
push through the mental pain,
the wall,
the block,
that barbed wire fence.
Now I fight.
I cry because I am mourning.
Why have I lost my strength?
Why does anxiety riddle me
at the thought of washing my hair?
Something so simple,
a form of self-care.
I grieve the person I was.
The water hides my tears,
as I stand with no clothes on my back, stop
no armour for my war.
This is when I am at my weakest,
when the true me is exposed.
No one knows, no one sees,
because I need to survive.
But now, I've said it out loud -
my Achilles.
My kryptonite.
As I turn the shower off,
I hold my breath,
gather what pieces I have,
and make myself look whole.