Long Throttled Poems
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I see nothing till I do,
I start as a feeling,
Building up in your throat,
Tracing the lines of the inner most parts of your soul.
My vision is always warped,
As though I were looking forward with a thin vale over my eyes,
Every shape is round,
Nothing sharp or ridged,
But instead all is obfuscated.
I lay dormant for days,
Weeks,
Months,
Maybe even years,
But I come back just as nimbly as I left.
I stay with one women,
She uses me more than I would like,
Everyday it feels as though I am abruptly taken ahold of,
Throttled and squeezed,
Then there is nothing left.
I feel her calling me again,
This time it is subtle,
More incubuses than before,
She must be hurt,
That is what I think,
She must be broken,
Bleeding out somewhere angrily dark,
She could be dying,
That must be why this time the hold on me is soft,
Almost reverent,
Like a lover’s touch.
So she must be dying,
For what other reason would she be this way?
When my vision does come it is unclear,
As it always is,
I find myself catching in the folds of the woman’s face,
At first I flow down her lashes,
Then I drip along the most intimate places of her face,
Sometimes I even manage to end up running along the dryness of her lips.
From what I can tell though,
This women is not dying,
She is just hurt,
In a different way,
Then I expected.
Through the cloudiness,
I see two of her,
They are inverted,
One of them,
Seems wrong.
More cruel,
Maybe a bit too honest,
So it is no surprise,
That she turns away from it,
To look at something more,
Ideal.
The ball in the sky,
Makes it harder for me,
To see her,
As well with the flicker,
Of flames.
But then the women,
She stops,
And I feel myself leaving,
I feel how I soak up,
How I dry out,
For the women,
Has none of me left.
But before I disappear,
The fogginess leaves,
Allowing me to see her,
For what she really is.
And with the shapes now,
All align,
I can see her,
She is just as I thought,
Yes,
She is indeed beautiful.
The end of the world cometh is the mountains fold and fall They plummet the streams runneth over brooks and lakes dry up. The sun shining brightly goes from dim to dark and war is among man It's the end of the Earth. A place that we know it corrupt and vile imaginations people fighting their imaginations. Disrespect of kindred fathers against brother's Mothers Against daughters. Blood running rapid amongst the curb flowing down the streets. It is the end of the world End of the Earth as we know it, colossal mammoths falls The Earth dries and cracks open It is the end of the world as we know. It and the base revenue no one has food..Someone has elected a president no, King and yet he represents none of us and is not our doing in a policing state and everything's false no one's least yet no one's great the fall of mankind preeminent and in the goal in the vial where is the little ones where is the child the one who is riding on a white horse now man who never died yet he died at the cross coming through the air with angels mankind still in despair it is the apocalypse been waiting of a hand say Jerusalem it is the end of the Earth and that's worth there's no longer a curse for the mark of the beast he is been chained and throttled did the pit of Hell opens and once again he's kicked down to fall to the bottom?
5/3/21
Crowd grows, din clamours grinds to crescendo.
Pandemonium breaks bedlam into brouhaha.
Hullabaloo and hubbub dulls the senses.
You can't think straight in all the commotion.
Vibrato rattles the brain, panic sets in.
You feel jostled and throttled by sound waves,
Can't stop the penetration of beats and throbs.
The mayhem rattles your teeth, hurts your ears
Now the hands over ears and finger prods
Don't really work any more
It's time to get out of the mosh pit,
To move way back, way further back,
Beyond the reach of speaker bang, clang, thump and bump.
------------------
15 April 2017
November 20th 2011,
betalbatim beach.
By Sashi Prabhu(zeauoxian).
Throttled pain and it’s come again,
All the doors kept ajar and my joys are drained.
Why it strikes me , I care to know,
The peace is gone and the pain seems to grow.
The druid churns the magic potion,
More gains are his only notion.
But men and women to take along,
Is not his goal and he’s so wrong.
Power blinds his wretched mind,
Oh! His deeds put all to the grind.
Dying creative powers they soak to grounds ,
Of the hallways, whose gonna turn it around.
People cry their minds a whisper,
All time idly spent in repent.
Passion dies yet another death each day,
And things not achieved all kept at bay.
Winds of change come sweeping across the globe,
The soothsayer swings his wand & depths he probe.
A new brotherhood of people he plans to build ,
Trusts he those who’s desires are unfulfilled.
Two years back,in November, at the nerve centre,
20 monks indicated to the leading lights along with their mentor,
The way ahead after spells of erudition under learned teachers,
A blind eye they turned then, today they all chant like preachers.
My plea to them is to let go of ego and come together,
As forces across the globe are down in the slump in all weather.
Together all must be to tackle the dark forces that surround,
It’s creativity that will bring back from depths,to astound
To build the cult the soothsayer has begun,
The dominos must align as now nobody must be the favorite son,
Err if it has been, now there is no way on land but to move ahead,
Cause the ships in troubled waters have already fled………….
I rested my eyes and I heard a bell ringing
I wondered what this afternoon might be bringing
I gathered my wits and peered out through the blind
Frankly, intrigued to know what I might find
There’s children stood there and they look so unruly
I sense that they’ve all got it in for yours truly
I think to myself with a shortage of mirth
The lot of them should have been throttled at birth
That bell is still ringing, it’s donging and dinging
I’ve got a sore head and my eardrums are stinging
And would you believe that those kids are now squealing
You’re likely to find me soon… clung to the ceiling
Will somebody please silence that flaming bell
I so want a crossbow like William Tell
I feel myself shaken and then shaken faster
Then… “Lunch time is over; please wake up, Headmaster.”
For Timothy Lee
The soulful whisper of love’s promise bore an
enthused mood when it softly clued me love assured.
In silent speech, an otherness air did somehow speak
soothing assurances I innocently absorbed as honest
but I was only nine when those promise words occurred.
Decades hence, I have ridden attractions to passions
that proved to be romantic cons dressed in love’s
fashions. Such snagged me in years of love commitment
stress battles that dysfunction ultimately throttled. I was
left with only brutal pains, numb dreams and traumatic
regrets as darkly grey stretched by threats of lonely.
Then came your engaging grin and blue-eyed smile.
Any thought of charade vanished when you displayed
such a steadfast pursuit that my cynical came loose.
Our soul’s mirrored love has long shown soulmate impacts
as proof love’s whispered promise was truth, solidly exact.
In silent speech, an otherness air did somehow speak -
'he will have a three-letter name' - I never forgot that share.
As dawn it roosts, to the early lids of my opened eyes,
Never ever has been a happy feeling pleasant comprise.
Quinquennium back I can clearly remember,
The morning’s plea scalds my thoughts like burning ember.
My blanket festooned body, on the bed it stirs & moves,
The immensity of my drumming head, ever hopes it improves.
Rise as I to the early morn’s sunshine,
Try to smile and reminiscent, it’s surely futile to whine.
And so I sooth my dreary mind,
Impel the mind to elude dismal thoughts & unwind.
Alas! I’m timorous, those dull & dismal thoughts befall,
My mind ,now I know I need to overhaul.
To edify my mind I have to seek,
Muse must I, think ponder reflect every day of the week.
Tall happy positive thoughts I must now contemplate,
For these are those that will bring me peace and joy once they ruminate.
When I close my eyes to tardy nites,
Am gonna be happy at morn the thought itself excites.
A long dark shadow of doubt it always looms,
It’s foggy dawn and my dull thoughts they resume.
From dawn to dusk I carry on a low,
Pessimistic spirits, they make me slow.
Explicit thoughts are sought desired,
A sound body and mind are always admired.
Forlorn, behold it in my mind’s eyes,
Set tone the work ambience my passions cries,
Throttled are my dreams, dismayed are my desire,
And Brutus knife it’s uncouth edge stabs the back in holy attire.
In a Quinquennium span, and time it ran,
But my spirit at first light is like a weary man,
Now I cognize to him his destiny a bloom,
And to me my destiny untwined from his , so not to doom.
Must alter my retort to suit me fine,
And joyous days will transcend me to cloud nine.
Aghast I am for I have lost,
The crusade within me and am weary exhaust.
Forlorn I am to the day’s time,
Often mull are they my thoughts, that are all slime.
Forlorn I am to the nite’s time,
I know it’s time to clean up my heart’s grime.
Forlorn it will be till I inversely think,
From insanity, I’m now on its brink.
Forlorn ,I want to say good bye,
For many eons before I die.
I am tempered in tender triggers
of transitory ticking tunes,
as the air feels heavy ~
with withered whispers
of waning reveries,
a mercurial mirror to
my burning skin...
I've nurtured the nature
nestled between
nuances of nostalgia
feeling the nudge
from wistful noons
freezing my thoughts
to follow the fleeting ebb and flow
of slipping silence,
swerving through
curtained homesickness…
but why must the salt
of sea-breeze melt into memories
hope knows how the heart
heals with hurt
whilst you see not the
pained palpitations
amidst light of life liquefying
into unmerciful minutes ~ of time…
O time ~ the tricking tamer
restricting inner resilience
straining the summer softness
retrospective recurrence
rewinding on repeat,
leaving me searching for
the falling familiarity ~
rays of wavering warmth
to feel the pulse of pleasure
closer to
the confined corners
within my conscious thoughts...
for grey is throttled in grievance
heeding not the restless rhythm
of wind and waves
ferrying the ocean-highs
speaking to my skies
~ catching catharsis ~
as heat unbuttons
the soul of azure
alliterating the alienation
of breathing blistered bliss
aching across the shifting
shadows of unmoved fields
and I waltz… a wanderer ...
sleeplessly swirling
through the love-phased
lace of longing
replaying the comforting touch
from yesterday’s dawn
the sun and
moon that soothed whirlwinds
of weathered
wild-jasmines ~
The naïve life possessed by the power of desire,
turns into an inanimate object, utterly inert.
The buoyant being, unsuspecting and unblemished,
if captured by the vicious clutch of cunning lust,
rolls in remorse like fallen gems of pristine garland,
the fragile string of innocence ruefully ruptured.
The sordid senses drenched in vitriolic insolence
don’t for a moment repent the presence
in the insistent mind the obstinate obsession
of nurturing the debased desire
in the swathing shades of garish grey,
decimating the desolate sapphire spirit
of its passive possession disowned.
For the body and mind ravaged by vile violence,
living is no longer a charismatic concept.
The piteous ruins of the broken heart pile up in futility
at the threshold of disgrace in the debris of disdain.
Where has the sensual sanity of sobriety gone,
why has the taste of love soured?
The tormenting times don’t have the answer.
The charming perception called life,
adored and fostered by the flamboyant essence,
a precious treasure preserved with potent pride.
When chained in subjugation it crumbles
as an object abused and discarded,
the agonized heart pines to be free
from the prison of pervert passion,
hopes to find secret solace for the shamed soul.
no longer mute in throttled tolerance,
waiting for the time to rise re-invented
from the dust of self-worth.
The old rusty gate hasn’t opened of late
Nor has it for so many years
The padlocks are seized and it’s overgrown state
Compounds our irrational fears
For when there’s a moon that is three quarters full
And the breeze makes the leaning oak moan
The gate remains closed but nobody can tell
What causes its hinges to groan
Tis said it’s a hundred years on from the day
That a lass countered her suitor’s plan
‘I’m not gonna do that, young man, young man
I’m not gonna do that, young man’
And the gate started creaking although it was locked
And my family’s torment began
‘You won’t take my virtue, young man, young man
You won’t take my virtue, young man’
Tis told that a vagrant had witnessed the deed
And the lass should have shut up and ran
‘I’m gonna tell Daddy, young man, young man
I’m gonna tell Daddy, young man’
The man took her virtue then throttled her there
Her body was quickly dissected
He crossed himself once as he padlocked the gate
The vicar’s son quickly suspected
Such ancestral shame and a dishonoured name
My guilt is a family trait
To find out the truth is the reason I came
So I reach for that old rusty gate
A brisk breeze this night, three quarter moonlight
A young girl ethereal white
‘I wouldn’t go that way, young man, young man
I wouldn’t go that way, young man’
‘No blame can there be for what happened to me
You were not there to see nor agree
But please place a stone with my name, Sarah Lee
Under that old leaning tree.’
The oak ceased its moaning, the hinges stopped groaning
She vanished but left me a plan
‘Go live your life freely, young man, young man
Go live your life freely, young man’
24 June 2022
Contest: One In Five
Sponsor: Joseph May