Long The unknown Poems
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Through the chilled night air, I wander.
Melancholy thoughts, I still ponder.
Tinged with foreboding feelings, I fear.
A nightmare while awake, a fog is near.
Devilment surrounds me, in a crazed state.
Tortured howls from creatures once sedate.
What misguided message does this send?
Are we just waiting for the world to end?
Perhaps its time to pay for our sins.
Where a world of fire and brimstone begins?
Will the meaning make us all be prepared?
To what end will the innocent child be spared?
To the higher power that everyone speaks,
Finding light and wisdom that each sinner seeks.
Still the curdling howls enter the unknown.
Terror begets as the last seed is sewn.
Those of faith have renewed doubt,
Will the good book show them the way out?
The young mock, the old laugh, the wise cry.
Is it time for the truth so they wont all die?
Standing on the precipice, so close to the edge.
Knowing that deep valley, merely forms a wedge.
When there is no more life for me to call my own,
Nothing grows now, though every seed is sown.
Gather them together to witness, as I expire.
They will have no answers to all that I enquire.
The truth comes from me. They know it well,
Will they join me? I hear them cry as we enter hell.
Dont follow me, no need for you to die.
I offer the truth, there is no reason to lie,
Turn, walk away, allow this hour as your lives begin.
Dont cry for me on your own doubtful way in.
As I walked in the shadows of the valley not mistaken,
My very last breath has now been taken.
Excited, and hearts beating with anticipation
five of us held hands... declaring, "We're in this together!"...
We rose into the clouds,..as fast as a bullet
In a stainless steel capsule...like amateur astronauts, ...
We looked at each another with wide eyed expressions.
"Such country bumpkins!"...."Do we look it?" I laughingly asked my husband....
Blood in our veins rushed with nervous excitement
"Hey, kids, count the floors!...Can you truly believe it?"
"Almost to the top!!" Then, they'll open the door
A soft spoken gentleman, wearing a bushy, yet neatly trimmed, mustache,
smiled and said to us...."Your first time, I can see?"..
He wore a uniform, (host, or guide, I supposed)... with the warmest smile.
"If you like,....I can point out places of interest for your children?"...he offered, kindly.
Our three children nodded in delight.
When the steel doors opened, we stepped into a large room
Making our way through the milling crowd, we found a spot for observation.
Our mustached gentleman, chuckled when we gasped for air,
then saw for the first time, the incredible views...
As if looking down from heaven...
City lights flickered on, and we knew what it was like to look upon the stars...
Only, this time, the constellations were below us...!
A magnificent city spread out before our eyes...
Stunned speechless, we were breathless...
Our new friend pointed out Ellis Island, the bridges, Statue of Liberty...
"Oh yes", ....he said,...."over there, ....is New Jersey"
"And there,...that is Staten Island. "Do you see the ferry?"
A toy it was, upon the bay.......so calm it was upon the day
He charmed our young daughter, and impressed our sons with his knowledge..
Here...on top of the world... in a magnificent twin marvel....
Oh, dear God....the innocence....of all the unknown...
Oh, dear God....the significance of what we now know...
one brief capsule of time....
in company of one kind gentleman, who wore a friendly mustache
We will never forget that day................or him................. Oh, dear God....
_________________________________________________________
True story....and dedicated to the kindness of one stranger....
(a prose-poem)
He was very young, he knew that he relied on others to think,
live and survive, although survival was an unknown planet in an
as yet, unread comic book.
He spent much of his time in that garden.
There were people who joined him there,
they were the 'wooden' people,
the 'underground' people,
and those who arrived from an unknown planet.
It was there that the underground-people whispered advice
to him to stop talking to the wooden-people.
They (the wooden ones), would not reply to him,
and looked through him as if he were not there.
The snow-people liked to play,
but went away in the middle of a game like puffs of smoke.
He liked some of the people from the unknown planet,
but some were more like wooden people,
and some were like the snow people.
The underground people never showed themselves,
and never went away.
Gradually over the few years that it takes for a child
to become more unaware of impossible things,
he became less conscious of these beings.
On his first date he fell in love with a snow girl,
after that encounter he became himself a wooden person for a while.
Later he would whisper advice to himself as if he were
an underground person.
Many years past: a slow realization dawned upon him,
he now knew that he was one of those people from that
unknown planet,
and that this world was but, an as yet, unread comic book.
Going Towards the Unknown
Zabra, a Spanish vessel sailing around Africa to
Yemen by the Red Sea. A sense of
xenophilia was felt among the mainland Yemen people on our arrival. They are
worlds apart in lifestyle from ours, they live in mud homes. Our charter
voyage takes us back home to the fond memories of living there. We have easy sailing
under the right conditions if the tides and wind permit. We’ll stop at
Tanzania and pick up supplies and head back to our homeland, the
Spanish sun of Spain.
Retreating down the companionway to my stateroom and a tranquil
quiet night. Sweet is the night air as the Zabra, rocks and lulls our tired bodies to sleep.
Passing of so many days and nights,
our thoughts are when will this voyage ever end.
Not until we sight shore will our
mind’s forget the terror of being forever
lost at sea.
Knowledge of skillful sailing assures us of a safe voyage.
Just pull the sails up and fill them with wind.
I gaze upon the sea and smell and feel the tease of a cool, crisp breeze against my face.
High tide and we’re off with a full moon navigating by the stars
guiding us into the horizon all the way home
filling us with pride.
Early morning radiant sunrise, shows us a
dealbation heaven opening to the cloud full sky.
Catching the wind in our sails,
beckons me on to embrace
a life of sailing journeys.
10/15/2015
Contest Name: first ever Z Y X contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
zabra : a sailing vessel resembling a small frigate and used chiefly by the Spanish in the 16th and 17th centuries
Xenophily or xenophilia means an affection for unknown/foreign objects or people. xenophilia love of foreigners
dealbation --bleaching; whitening.
So many friends live side by side
Here on my bookshelf
Sweet stature and pride
To help me conquer self.
Over the years a growing pile
Loitering patiently
Anxious to prime fine style
Swiftly and most surely.
My mental diet of food for thought
Is a daily intake
Authored by minds that plot
Feelings and thinking breaks.
So many clever minds live here
In pages that reveal
Finesse and fond good cheer
That fund such grand appeal.
Grace and blessings live with sure poise
To hoist my fragrant days
With consistent sure voice
To fling fine writes my way.
I simply sit right here and pun
The wit and rhymes that spark
With conspicuous bright fun
That lights the unknown dark.
Day after day, deep company
Helps steer my sanity
Warmly, briskly, surely
With wordplay intensely.
Night after night, I seek new light
To help me write new lines
That align precious sight
Beyond that old grapevine.
Who can be lonely here my dear
When candid minds befriend
With lovely thoughts sincere
That touch and thrill and tend.
Leon Enriquez
01 August 2014
Singapore
For each singular occurrence fleeting before me,
All senses come alive to experience life’s motion
Filled with a thirst of discoveries—a hunchbacked
Rock gleaming, salty nectar pouring on the tongue,
An insatiable need to quill under moonshine..
Then to allow the unexpected to happen
Without examining its reason,
As though a vigor of the unknown creates
Some divine exploration, my belly on fire, down
To earth or above heaven’s ridges..and I would slither
Away from what is mundane…the hardness,
The softness of nature’s terrain assaulting
My being, that I find seemingly inconsequential
Moments consequential: Somehow, this willingness
To ride with uncertainty leaves me awestruck—
Encountering the uniqueness of new ventures , inimitable.
------------
11/6/2018
John Lawless’ Creative Conformity Contest
The blizzards are over, the seasons winds no longer frigid
My lips are chapped hands ache even with these mittens on
Windy March cold is climbing furnace sounds as of a symphony
Seasonal change the colds, the snows are going their distance
The bitter temperatures of the unknown climates rages cause
The prospering horizon sights such an illumination what an a epiphany
March's winds
Blows in
Now is the windy
O' what a season
Warmer is the earth
Time now to cultivate the dirt
Temperatures rose plantings begun
Solace March 21 and It's now SPRING
3/19/18
For 'PREMIERE CONTEST: 135 ANY FORM OR MAX OF 20 lines' Contest
Sponsored by : Brian Strand
SOUL BIRTH : 71 HORSTLEY STREET, DISTRICT SIX
Swathed in golden fleece
White light dancing
Cigarette smoke twirls
Waters break and gush
Bright as the nearby ocean
To say hello to the midwife
Preparing the birthing table
A violet spirit comes
A birthing through channels and layers
The room becomes vast
Souls linger about
Radiant and receiving
Onto the Earth Dimension
Task complete
Melancholy sits here too
Cradling the unknown
Too delicate to hold
Waves dance in rain and white wind
Ice cold separated by time
Here I sit in a District in the South
Watching myself being born
And red blood
Flows…
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song +-1980s
LISTEN TO POEM READ BY POET ON YOUTUBE
[ This is one of the poems I wrote on my experience of Forced Removals from District Six, South Africa under the Apartheid Government. Nine of the poems are published in the Testament : District Six Memories, Thoughts and Images /edited by Martin Greshoff/ Attic Press 2021. This is the first of the set. Watch this space for more poems on Forced Removals ]
Paradise may be that moment when we turn back to the past,
And discover that its beauty existed despite our presence,
A time when our departure reveals the splendor, hidden beneath the whirls of shadows,
We wandered through the labyrinth of life, and now, a light pierces the clouds of melancholy.
In the alleys of memories, our steps were echoes of nocturnal shadows,
Beauty passed by us, unseen, like a night flower opening in secrecy,
With our eyes closed, we contemplate the past through veils of dreams and the unknown,
We ask ourselves: were those moments truly magical, in their silent brilliance?
Forgetfulness weaves invisible strings, a mute song of dissipated years,
Each memory a note in a symphony of enigmatic destiny,
And now, our absence unlocks the charm hidden in times gone by,
Paradise, a locked painting, becomes beautiful because we are no longer there.
Old clothes kept in dusty chests, impregnated with scents of forgotten times,
Each particle of dust, a fallen star on a sky of prolonged yearnings,
Now we see clearly, in our absence, how all those moments reassemble,
Magical fragments united in a universe of shadows and pale lights.
Through darkened windows, the saving tranquility pours out,
Absent, we watch the past becoming an Edenic garden lost in reverie,
Without us, wounds heal, smiles return, music permeates the silence,
Beauty is found on the forgotten edge, where time flows like a pure crystal river.
Shadows transform into gods, statues come to life, dancing under evanescent rays of light,
Without pretensions, just the mysterious reflection of our absent calm,
In such a perceived past, magic blooms, and we bow astonished,
Paradise, a living diorama, where beauty reborns in our absence.
And I, a wanderer through the seas of the dream, always return,
Among those fragments of memory, in search of a long-lost purpose,
Each fragment is lost in an abyss of rediscovered lyricism,
An eternal game of shadows, woven on the canvas of mystical reality.
In our absence, paradise reassembles,
A landscape of dream and expectation, where time reveals its hidden treasures,
Thus, I return again to the dream of endless quests,
In a world of poetry, where shadows dance under the light of eternal stars.
In the twilight of his years, he stood,
A figure sculpted in the sands of time,
A shadow cast by the dying sun,
Caught in the turmoil of destiny's rhyme.
He reached that moment, inevitable, profound,
When the deep currents of the soul pull,
A whisper, a call, a shadowed sound,
Where the true compass of the heart is full.
In the labyrinth of his mind, he wandered,
A stream of consciousness, unbound, free,
Thoughts like autumn leaves, scattered, pondered,
Each one a fragment of his identity.
He felt the weight of a thousand moons,
Each phase a chapter, an untold story,
Where demons danced to haunted tunes,
And genius shone like threads of glory.
The demon's call was a siren's song,
A melody of shadows, dark and deep,
Promising power, where right felt wrong,
A precipice, a cavern, a treacherous leap.
And yet, the genius within, a quiet flame,
Flickered with dreams of what could be,
A light that whispered his true name,
A vision of self, untamed and free.
He stood at the crossroads, heart in hand,
A divided soul, torn between,
The known, the dark, the promised land,
And the unknown, bright and serene.
With eyes closed, he breathed the night,
Felt the pulse of the earth, the stars' embrace,
A moment of clarity, pure and bright,
Where he found his truest grace.
He chose the path where shadows fade,
Where dreams are forged in the fires of hope,
Where each step is a promise made,
And with his soul, he learned to cope.
In the end, we all must face,
That moment, clear yet undefined,
Where we abandon ourselves to the grace,
Of the demon, or the genius, within our mind.