Long Skillfully Poems
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The poem "VANTABLACK" exhibits a profound exploration of emotions and existential themes. As a poet, one would appreciate the nuanced use of language and the depth of introspection conveyed through the verses.
The title, "VANTABLACK," immediately draws attention to the darkest substance known, emphasizing a profound sense of darkness or void that permeates the poem. The tumultuous street and the notion in flight evoke a sense of chaos and uncertainty, setting the stage for the emotional journey that follows.
The poet skillfully employs imagery and metaphor to convey the complex emotions experienced. The notion that "hastens in haste" and then "averts its gaze" suggests a fleeting and elusive quality, mirroring the transient nature of emotions. The descent of the heart's echo into a "crimson abyss" hints at the depth of emotional turmoil, perhaps symbolizing pain or longing.
The lines "Your name, I called, yet emptiness replied" and "A bloom of yours, I drew, withering away" express a sense of loss and unfulfilled connection. The act of calling a name and drawing a bloom implies a desire for presence and beauty, but the responses are characterized by emptiness and withering, adding a layer of melancholy.
The exploration of choices in the lines "Life's lines extend before me, To choose, where your love resides" delves into the existential theme of navigating through life's possibilities and seeking love. The word "resides" suggests a search for a meaningful connection within the vastness of life.
The recurring ritual mentioned in "This ritual unfolds each day" implies a cyclical nature of introspection and perhaps a daily struggle with emotions. The poet peers within, describing it as a "melancholy abode," suggesting that the internal landscape is characterized by sadness.
The concluding lines, "Where my heart, a vantablack canvas, remains," encapsulate the essence of the poem. The heart being a "vantablack canvas" signifies an emotional void, absorbing and reflecting no light, emphasizing the depth of emotional darkness or emptiness.
As a poet, one might commend the poet for the rich tapestry of emotions woven through carefully chosen words and metaphors. The poem invites readers to contemplate the complexities of human emotions, the ephemeral nature of connections, and the existential quest for meaning in the face of emotional voids.
The very first time
my mother's healing touch
tapped my forehead,
I felt God's travelled down
here in this peculiar earth
to heal me up from the fever.
A sunken soul released out of me,
turned as rejuvenated as a fresh lemon leaf
and I touched the toes of my mother
as per God's very secret advice
from the previous night.
I wasn't a vivid worshipper of travel
until and unless I felt the presence of God
everywhere slowly trickling down
through the silver streams of time.
Time's travelled a lot, even I call it the best traveller
it's seen Jesus dying without any vice
just like a poem dies without a reader's embrace
and time's probably poured all the sobs out
freezing the moments and collecting the snaps
as if it was to unravel the malicious truth in front
of an ignorant crowd, later, very later
to repeatedly portray
the sickening death of its precious child
and people have travelled enough to size
these epic memories up in a 24 hour, "Christmas"!
It's tasted the same poison Socrates drank
for his cruel deed of renaissance
among the youth of Athens,
and yes time has travelled through
a sickening era of its huge loss
like a hollow human body without its organ!
It's seen through the ages that
the countries suffer in a subterraneous syndrome
of travelling and entering into each other's territories
to stand as the best fitted emperors
and suck the last drop of blood from its innocent folks.
Time has seen a lot,
freedom, battle, idols, ideologies,
love, hatred, blood, responsibilities
and then with God's appeasing
permission shaped itself up
to the pages of history ;
Now history serves as the best traveller!
and we, humans know the utilization of books.
I find the books as avid tourists
as they skillfully make rounds of the world
and then coalesced with the satisfying words, curious pages to turn as books.
And all these existential procedures,
God's evolutionized in as many forms as he could
to insert the mesmerizing journey
of this universe since its very creation.
We, humans aren't except of the flow,
each and every moment we breathe,
we travel, as a traveller voyages from a place to another like we do through
the voyages of emotions.
The next time if someone asks,
"Are you a traveller?"
Nod your head, singing the lullabies of a nomad.
~ ©storytellersuchismita
Born with a complex like a tormented fugitive in a constant flight from a life of acceptance, his Life is filled with questions and complexities. There is no room
for blame. In a secret place, he was crafted skillfully; non are the same.*
Stored away in my garage are many items of relative values. Some have little
to no value and are pleading for me to tossed them. Others are just put in containers relative to their size and shape. Some totes contain various items
with distinct labels of identity. Some are boxed; some are in totes; some are very clearly 'marked'. Fragile people are Like boxes of beautiful jars and
choice pottery. Such ones must be cushioned and shielded, with postings, signs, and markings, less they be broken in a thousand pieces. There is a
Divine Mandate requiring us to be sensitive and protective of them. To do less is to be a lesser human. Always present is that inability to stand
up to conflict and withstand insensitive people. He cries easily and hurts badly. He requires special touches of love and human kindness. The 'marked
ones' are so designated, not because he is more important; but rather, because he is so very fragile, and must be handled with care. The one who
would dare to bully or mistreat him will himself be uncovered and revealed as one with much disfunction and sickness. No elasticity; No bouncing ability; No
flexibility; as if crafted in a sea of glass. He is entrenched with fragility. Finished and matured glass is highly useful, but is very vulnerable and easily
cracked and broken. Some of us are strong and solid like a rock. Some of us are weak and vulnerable like sheets of glass. We all are made in God's image
and likeness. You and I have an intrinsic worth of high and equal value. May we be as HE who notices every falling bird**, and embraces us as HIS friends.
10132017 PS Contest, Fragility, Hamilton,5P *Psalm 139:15, **Matthew 10:39
[Continued from Part Two]
The elder took no notice of risking life and limb.
Hither, thither ran the children, glancing up at him,
while indulging mindlessly in each impulsive whim,
with no apprehension of the future looking grim.
Their chances for salvation seemed increasingly slim…
That aged man’s deep compassion filled him to the brim.
The father knew the children liked any strange device,
exotic playthings, trinkets, whatever would entice.
He needed now to improvise a mode, in a trice,
that could capture their attention— something to suffice
to hold their young imaginations— to be precise,
a mechanism marvelous, no matter the price.
He had stores of immeasurable wealth, beyond doubt,
and his warmhearted love was impartially devout.
Just then the elder had the thought that not in the least
would his limitless riches and reserves be decreased,
even if to a kingdom vast he were to dispense
his overflowing fortune… so why shouldn’t he hence
give out his wealth directly to his progeny all,
before the children’s catastrophic deaths should befall?
The aged man reflected on what tactic to pick—
an expedient means that was sure to do the trick.
He told the children of exquisite toys he possessed
along with lots of precious carts of the very best
craftsmanship and quality, that all had been designed
expressly with the youngsters’ own enjoyment in mind.
The elder next, in order to persuade them, stated
that right outside the house at the entrance awaited,
to suit the young ones’ fancies skillfully created
goat, sheep, deer, and ox carts, ornately decorated.
He said that they must rush to leave the mansion, in haste,
and he’d give them everything— there was no time to waste.
Then the children finally fulfilled his desire
and scurried in a race safely out of the fire.
The father beamed with bliss that the urgency had passed.
They had securely left the burning building at last!
When they’d exited and scampered out, they all sat down
on the dewy earth and asked their father, with a frown,
where the toys and carts were that the elder had portrayed
for their own special likings to have been tailor-made.
The youngsters had escaped and the elder’s heart was eased.
But now each one of their capricious wants must be pleased.
[Continued in Part Four]
~ Harley White
In the depths of the mind, endless questions dance like shadows on the vast and silent sky,
Who am I, what am I, a speck of dust merged with everything, a fragment of a lost dream?
I am nothing and everything at once, an echo of the universe singing its endless melody,
A current flowing into the great ocean of existence, where time and space dissipate.
In the search for perfection, I find myself caught in the subtle game of old pride, a piece without rest,
I try to climb the peaks of morality and art, but discover it's all just a contrast,
A shadow play, where my success is nothing but a step on the path of others' failures,
An illusion spinning endlessly, a spiral of desires and fears struggling in silence.
If you wish to overcome the feeling of ego, ask yourself sincerely why you seek to escape this fight,
For the desire to reach spiritual heights is just another mask of pride that keeps your path broken,
The ego, a falsehood pretending to be authentic, is not the free center of the soul, but a foreign mechanism,
Implanted by the world, inherited reflexes that make us dance on invisible strings, in a predetermined fate.
When the ego relearns to be a victim in its own play, it divides and mimics helplessness skillfully,
"I am just a bundle of reflexes," it says with unspoken guilt, like a shield against any judgment that comes.
But we too are puppets, with souls tied to the same strings that carry us in the dance of the world,
Why shouldn't this lie, this shadow play that pushes us toward abysses, infuriate us?
In the end, the ego is nothing but what it pretends not to be, a wall of defense around another wall,
A labyrinth of illusions and appearances, a closed circle in which we lose our steps and get lost,
And in the center, the mysterious nothingness reveals itself, a hidden truth in the heart of a shadowy universe,
Where at last, the truth emerges, like a star piercing the darkness, singing its eternal song.
In this game of life, we discover ourselves, layer by layer, until we reach the essence,
And understand that we are part of everything and everything is part of us, in a harmony without pretense.
We are nothing but echoes of an infinite song, where every note matters, every whisper,
And in this dance of existence, we lose and find ourselves, in an eternal and magical quest.
Now for the final act,
I go over to the broad
lying on the floor
quivering,
grab her by the restraint
and prop her up
so she can watch the show ,
bending down to her
I skillfully
slice away
her eyelids,
she mustn’t miss
any of this.
I kick her mate
into the middle of the floor,
snap my fingers
releasing him
then step on his back
and bring his right arm up
and start twisting it,
as it comes free
my ears pick up
on the horrific howl
being projected
into the atmosphere
by me
drowning out all sounds.
To calm myself
I start gnawing on his arm
with her watching
the whole while,
time for the feast to begin,
slowly I step down
on his head,
I can feel the bones
in his skull start to separate
and as his eyes pop out
the resistance is gone
and his brain
squeezes
out the top of his head.
I turn and stare
at my last toy,
blood and tears
marring her face,
this is gonna fulfill me.
getting down on all fours
I crawl over
and start eating
her left calf,
her rasping cries
drift into my ears
like a dirge
being played
for the recently dead.
I work my way
up to her thigh
then the other leg,
then to her belly,
now in a total frenzy.
I force myself
out of my feeding
and look down
at what’s left
of this pathetic wretch,
I retract my claws
and place my hands
on her cheek and chest
releasing
the glorious rot
that exists within me,
that is how
she shall spend
her last moments,
decaying
in a pile of herself.
Standing
I brush off my coat,
turn to the closest
bloodstained wall
and with a tendril
scribe
“The taste of the masses
has quenched me,
but woo to those
who disturb my slumber
with their malice
to society,
my next message
will be written in their blood.”
As I head
out the door
I hear a cell phone ringing
too bad
the dead can’t answer,
the tale they would tell
could crack the heavens.
The rain---sounds like catapults fired on our roof
drops like palm kernels---splash on the back cover
of our black pots, Stamping the roof like horse
galloping on a narrow bridge. Is it war ? we ask
ourselves. And its comes along with Jealous wind
beating trees to pulps. The plantain treesare no more
standing with their toes but lying belly faced to the
ground, the palm trees in razzmatazz dance to the
calypsos Of the wind their hips fixed but their hairs
swirls
The sound of the wind
plays the tune of an invincible piper who was well
paid and skillfully trained. The African rain Is like
a tornado sent by a weird mate to greet a foe his,
competitor So as to end the play of his dancers stop
the beat of his drums and gongs. On his feasting day
as he refuses to settle the ground
We in groups
of seven, eight, nine ten---at the heart of the town,
nooks and crannies and front of our compounds
with belly flashed open unto the maker chanting
poems in unison to tell how beautiful we love it
when it pours.
With sandy coloured panties,
we dance In ecstasies to the unrhythmic beat of
the rain drops, splashing dirty waters on each
other body parts a sign to depict our new happy
days ahead whoever misses out this fun is a loser
we dance dance!! dance!! and dance the winner
the best dancer Is carry on the shoulders with
awards of applauds and joyous loud wailing
calling loud his name in repetition.
At times we catch little fishes In the frontage
of our homes as the nearby rivers, and
streams overflow into the dirty clean streets
with drainages stock by polythene nylons---
and our joyful mothers, who sing songs of
melody In their heart for a heavenly pour
to greet their water pots for a cool drink,
are seated in poetic manner l while some
stand at akimbo thinks the disasters it
might cause them their roof to cure.
Usually at nights mother goes around
Our beautiful clayed hutmaking little
amendments to our brown blistered
basket
mouthed roof and the drops it had
sneaks through. And the prayers our
hearts we pray its rains no more---lets
little ocean is our comfort.
https://youtu.be/hdZqDP0vMfk
The bridge/ Hear that?/ Snap it pop it / Not the one of stone and steel, holding cars and trains aloft/ This bridge hums/ It vibrates/ yellin’, mo’ funk and groove please woven into the boss horns strung with a bassline thick as smoke and Clyde Stubblefield holding down the fat beat/
Acid Jazz snap pop snap de beat/ tradition on one side, diggin’ for the now, for the new/ Jazz, ancient and revered, but dust collecting on the shelf, needed a spark, a jolt, a psychedelic brother a sister like no other/ Acid Jazz, the answer/
A handshake and a high five between jazz straight ahead and a synthesizer’s jazz fusion swing/
A knowing nod to Coltrane remixed into becoming the nu Acid Jazz king/Trane is way dope now to a whole new listening audience/
skillfully crafted club bangin’ acid jazz lick and samples/ the veins of hip-hop, throbbing hard and raw as DJs scratched the beats deeply rooted in the arrangements of funk jazz numerology/
Did deep house feel its pulse, its rhythmic pull/ Broken beat, fractured and funky, did it recognize its kin, polyrhymatics and the turntables… Oh, the turntables sang a different song/ a revolution spun on vinyl, a rebellion built on rhythm, Jazz and Soul/ Rap, HipHop and acid jazz as a Voice for Rebellion and Social Change / DJ Kool Herc, a sonic architect, laying foundations in the park and party basements/ Grandmaster Flash, a surgeon of sound, slicing and dicing the beat/ Afrika Bambaataa, a global sound system, uniting tribes with groove/
yo bruh, reality check/ They weren’t just playing records, they were playing the instrument/Scratching, back spinning, beat juggling – a symphony of skill/ Mix masters, beat captains, electronic alchemists, wizards behind the wheel of Hip Hop fortune/ They birthed a new language, a dialect of dance, a history rewritten in the hiss and crackle of vinyl on a HiFi Stereo/ Acid Jazz… Modern Jazz… Trip hop, Latin Tech House/ The DJ Culture… Rap, Hip-Hop, a family born from a shared rebellion, Formidable, Definitive/ Each is a testament to the power of sound, to the bridge built on a bassline, drum sample/
a thump, a bump on a low rider jam/ to the future forged in the fire of the beat/ The voyage is not over/ I have a fear of standing still…like I’m outta of here/
Geena Davis in Cutthroat Island
Generously endowed with ***** and spirit, GEENA
Engaged a most unusual leading lady role. And DAVIS
Ever so skillfully brought the audience right IN
Not one scene was lacking and it was definitely CUTTHROAT
At death, she shaved her father's head for the treasure map to Cutthroat ISLAND.
Delightful costumes enhanced her role as a pirate, never better PLAYED.
And it appears that no expense was spared to make this fantastic movie. For THE
Violence, explosions, fistfights, and duels are blasting packed, UNPRECEDENTED.
If ever there were awards for the most fun movie to make, this one would be LEADING.
So often, her laughter reminded me of a child pretending, playing the pirate ROLE.
If I were a movie critic judging on entertainment in action, I would give Geena an A.
Naturally, I, who love fantasy, like her in this role; she was: pretty, happy, and FEISTY.
Clearly, she looked like a lady, but a lady would never fight a man with her FIST
Until she was seen on a wanted poster in Jamaica, there had been no SLUGGING...
Then, the pirate, Morgan Adams, and her newly purchased slave, Shaw, needed a GUN.
The Governor's militia started surrounding them; soon bodies were SLINGING,
Her getaway met stealing the Governor's carriage and fist fighting without a SWORD,
Relentlessly pursued, fired upon by cannons with the carriage teetering, SWINGING,
Over ruts, out of town, wide eyed, escaping, and laughing, the epitome of RUTHLESS,
Real passions for a good fight, challenges, and she made pirating seem fun! AND
Throughout the action, suspense captivated; scenery and costumes were BEAUTIFUL.
In the end, she killed her murderous Uncle Dawg in self-defense using a CANNON
She saved Shaw; remained behind briefly with the treasure. No guns were FIRING.
Luckily, they dove off of Dawg’s ship before it exploded, watched by every PIRATE.
After the explosion debris had settled, up from the ocean emerged both he and SHE
Next, a marker barrel popped up. The treasure was brought on board; oh, the WOWS
Divvying was postponed; pirating would continue with Capt. “Morgan” . . .gutsy to ME!
© Name withheld for contest
February 17, 2010
Poetic form: Acrostic and End Line Word
All of our righteousness are as filthy rags
I do believe that's what I read
We all fall short of the glory of God
I know that's what my bible said.
But there are some of you that don't have a clue
You think yourselves an exception to these rules
You think you are wise and perfect in God's eyes
When in reality, you're nothing but fools.
You judge all of mankind making yourself blind
To your own faults, or you pretend to have none
You curse all men who are submerged in their sin
While forgetting the things that you've done.
You're in church every week and when its your turn to speak
You speak loudly, for you love to be heard
You should keep it in mind while impressing mankind
That your actions speak louder than your words.
It is church goers like you when you do what you do
That causes God to quickly take offense
You skillfully dodge all blame and hide in God's name
However, there are many ways to straddle the fence.
Now don't get me wrong for I do not go along
With the things that men are doing today
But I can't throw a stone when I've many faults of my own
I just tell people about God the right way.
You and your kind who are so stupid and blind
Build yourselves up by knocking others down
Because they're not like you and don't do what you do
You say that they're lost, and will not get a crown.
You sit in high places and walk about with two faces
Seeming godly, if only in your eyes
You tell your sisters and brothers that they're better than others
But I know that this is nothing but lies.
Think what you may but come judgement day
When the Master has completed His reaping
You'll stand in His glory and we'll know the true story
For He'll reveil the secrets that you're keeping.
When God sees your mess He will not be impressed
By what you have or what you think you may know
He'll take just one look, see your name not in His book
Then it will be off to hell you will go.
You could change this sad ending if you stopped your pretending
To be perfect and all holier than thou
Stop hiding your evil ways and do as God says
Then you'll be saved, but the time is right now.
By Benjamin Macieo Davis
Theprinceofpoetry