Long Undeniable Poems
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Pretty cunning how she captivates hearts of many,
Eyes of many, attention of many but acts like a maniac,
One glance of her makes many sleepless, not that she is a queen but a goddess,
Gives out a guffaw of a laughter full of joy,
Popping her eyes out as a sign of amazement
Giving out an incongruous emotion in serious conversations
Always walking confident despite of her flaws
Checks her phone alerts every now and then as a sign of anxiousness,
Perhaps a special somebody in her DM, a secret fascination
Hiding her inner wounds from the world, she camouflages them perfectly,
Welcomes every obstacle with enthusiasm by being eccedentesiastic,
Her talent glitters reflecting what she does best,
Never known how to be perfect but she is a real definition of an epitome of perfection,
Has known nothing but to stand firm, rigid and confident in whatever she decides,
Has known nothing besides being a person of little faith,
But higher goals motivated by the zeal to artifice a better future,
Has never known anything but making everyone around her ambivalent, problematic, some of them say,
Has never been too forward or backward but always been a minute past anger, a century past inactivity and a decade past docility,
Makeup is too modern for her but her natural beauty steals the show,
Has never known how to wear a body perfume but her natural scent is giving,
Can be a nuisance sometimes but her presence is irresistible,
Putting on her spectacles as many call that norm, “windows to the soul”, undeniable,
A woman of valor, she knows how to forge a better life in the harsh world.
She saw him, and a chill ran through her heart.
His eyes, sparkling like stars, held hers.
As the wind blew, her soul soared, yet she was stuck.
He saw her, and her beauty left him breathless,
Numb, trembling,
His heart raced, calling out her name,
They stood there, lost in each other’s gaze.
O Venus, is this love?
It feels too perfect, too unreal—
Could it just be a fantasy?
Or a trick from Aphrodite herself?
But it felt like nothing less than destiny.
Even now, her heart stirs with that feeling,
The kind of chill only love can bring.
O Venus, did you feel it too?
The undeniable power of love?
Birth Of The Askance
The odor of the cigarette scent lingered in my room
Some silence was even impossibly heard
Though unseen, felt was the vastly eyes of the moon
Seemingly awaiting, for a much awaited word
Times like this, the shadowing walls dances of death
Darkly hidden yet was careful to still be felt
Will the dance begone, shall breathe my last of breath?
Yet I voice not for the aid of help
It becomes a need or rather a desire
Be it shadows or some nightly spirits to just take me away
An urging lust burns with alluring fire
I fear not death, but to live another day
How much longer before the next coming hour
I close my eyes, listening to the ticks… then counting
Yet the clock ticks unevenly with an uneven number
And the time that struck, was an unearthly thirteen
Upon hearing the awakening chants from the fallen angels
Shadows amongst dissolve most immediately into the dark
A pair of green illuminates beyond the children of the devil
And having found was but tranquil in my heart
The lyrical incantations grew increasingly loud
And the fallens cleared a path to welcome their Great One
When finally he emerge, spanning his wings so proud
And a moment more, the unbearable echoing became calm
“Of those who knew, lies a few
A prophecy is proven true
Why yearn for death, if death itself will find its way?
Is death no longer feared as of ancient yesterday?
Yet this hex, bridges one of many reasons we encountered tranquil
Already an ill-fated destine, before even our meeting is fulfill
The only difference is… I now speak without a voice
Yet to you, perhaps fortunate to still be engiven a choice
The time has come for me to reveal the forbidden
An undeniable sin, which is meant entirely to be forgotten”
{It never did occur what fresh air was smelt like
There were only the stains of blood and bones of white
The wasteland bore grounds of ancient tombs
Everywhere the promising of life and death were always soon
Bodies of uncountable thousands lay either wounded or dead
Those dying were not rejuvenated, those living lay low on their heads
Every light only births a new beginning
Every night only promises a new awakening…
Pulled together
by a magnetic avoidance of loneliness,
fueled by an insatiable ardor
to evade a shortage of love.
Mutually splintered souls searching
for a place to embed and
implement a façade which conceals
mutilated minds.
Spurious attempts to disarm
the timebomb which is his mouth.
Futile efforts to escape
a mental cage
inflicting frightening fingerprints
on a shatter-able soul.
Cautionary writings on the walls
of his guise,
demanding subservient devotion.
Loud lashings from his slick tongue,
contradicting confessions of love and hate,
whilst ransacking an insubordinate mouth,
by extorting an opening through
quivering lips.
Transient,
insincere apologies
fall on deaf ears,
between briny tears plunging
down an anguished face,
debunking the reverie
that this is how love
is meant to taste.
A dismaying omen
predicting the dawn
of the end,
disguised as a single round, white dose
of insentience
aggressively shoved down
through tortured glottal wails.
Convulsive crying gives way
to comatose disposition,
displayed on a cold cement altar -
a sacrificial lamb laid out
for torturous vindication
of his deprived need
to strip of honor,
by forcibly desecrating
incontestable,
incapacitated remains.
An ungainly desperate last resort -
running with lead-like legs from a known enemy.
Flashes of head- lights and white painted lines,
don’t hinder a final attempt
at liberation or eternal rest.
Flashes of cold, dim swells of pain,
preferred,
over the clinging clutches of oppressive
maniacal hands,
lunging at the opportunity to subdue.
A harsh awakening -
in his lair.
A morning after like no other.
Hues of black and blue on
pale, dehydrated dermal layers,
serve as confirmation
of an undeniable recollection
of hair-raising anamnesis.
Painful retrospection
inciting an unrelenting
concluding confrontation -
never again
the victim will I be.
Determined energy encapsulates what smolders silently inside.
Quiet resilience produce a bold, inspiring presence that space opens wide.
With a colour gamut of profound earthy tone,
Striking fiery reds and chilling white hot lashes stand alone.
Morgan's painting suggests the perception of dancing flames to a beat,
Within the vision, to create a physical feeling of blistering heat.
This symbolizes deepest strength of passion with his brushstrokes.
Dynamic intensity instills the mesmerizing impression of movement it evokes. Demanding attention to the potential of power below the surface.
Gifted craft accompanied by the celebration of beauty is its purpose.
As I gaze at the canvas, undeniable appreciation of this abstract can begin,
With wild untamed spirit ''The Fire Within".
I’ll never bee kissed
Every weekend, Humble would go to the same bar,
In the same part of the hive, with the same group of mates.
He always went on the same Friday night and nothing ever changed.
Until one day there came message that The Pollinator band,
Were playing a gig outside the hive at Bee Pride
And as Humble arrived, he saw all the honey-fungus mushroom lights!
There was a huge crowd, so Humble pushed his way through
And eventually he made it to the front.
Some bees were drunk, some babes were happily screaming
And there, stood next to Humble, was a bee-punk.
She looked like the other bees, but she was a tattooed rebel.
She looked at Humble and his bees-knees began to wobble.
Then in-between Humble and the bee-punk stumbled her boyfriend
And Humble thought, typical.
Later, Humble couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The crowd of bees began to split apart;
I must bee dreaming, he thought,
As the music disappeared.
No sound to bee heard from a thousand cheers.
All he could see, all he could hear,
Was a Queen of undeniable beauty approaching.
The beat of Humble’s heart began to quicken,
He was in shock at the look of this fox!
She was unlike any other and he hadn’t even been drinking.
He knew right away that he loved her
And he would forever love her for all his days.
It was Colpo Di Fulmine; make no mistake
And luckily for him, she felt the same way.
She walked up and gave Humble his first kiss
And his entire life was changed
And then she said “Hi Cutey, what’s your name?”
He was left speechless,
He had actually been kissed!
It was like nothing he had ever experienced before
And no other kiss would ever bee the same since.
This was Humble’s first kiss,
It was unique.
He had finally managed,
To find his true love!
…or did he?
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
MIRACLE OF MEDIA
How would we know except for the miracle of media
of famines and earthquakes, fires and volcanic eruptions,
wars and rumors of wars, nation against nation?
The bible says because of the increase of wickedness
the love of most will grow cold; many will hate each other.
There will be a time when the sign of the Son of Man
will appear in the sky and all the nations will mourn —
will that sign be a crucifix thumped into place in the clouds;
an undeniable tremor of truth that might drive some knees
to the cursed soil, drive the nails into cold cold hearts —
too late? too late? too late! don’t let it be too late!
1/12/2020
As the stars overtake the night sky
I drift off to a dreamlike slumber
Awakened not understanding why
Why my heart is beating in wonder
My eyes span the room, listening
Hearing nothing, I look for the cause
Looking dazed and not understanding
The truth is this defies natural laws
For what could posses my inner being
To the point now without any return
Is it an angel’s face I'm now seeing
Audible voice so sweetly to discern
The vision intense so indescribable
Circles around capturing my thoughts
It's beautiful and completely undeniable
And no this is not just afterthoughts
Slipping back now to dreamlike slumber
And regretting not sleeps interruption
I'm grateful you've captured my number
Visions of you, I welcome this disruption
To a sapling, the truth is its own root system. Unseen, it delves into the darkness of the earth, not to impress the wildflowers or imitate the towering oaks, but to find its own necessary water and anchoring stones.
It does not worry if its roots twist in an unusual direction, or if a neighboring pine grows taller faster. It only knows its own need for depth, for the truth of the soil beneath it.
For this, above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day; Thou canst not then be false to any man.
So it is that the young tree, in its steadfast authenticity, finds its voice. The unfurling of its own unique leaves and the branching of its limbs become a blueprint of its inner resolve.
It draws nourishment from the darkness, and in doing so, reaches for the light. As its trunk strengthens and its canopy spreads, it does not have to consciously decide to offer shade to the weary traveler or shelter to the nesting bird. Its generosity is the inevitable influence of its own secure growth.
For how could a tree, true to its own deepest needs, produce a withered branch? How could it, when anchored so profoundly in its own being, not provide for the life around it?
The shade it casts is an effortless gift, the fruit it bears a natural bounty. The tree does not fake a thicker bark or pretend to bear different fruit; it simply is. And in its quiet, undeniable existence, it nourishes the forest, making the very ground around it richer and more whole.
Its integrity is a silent echo in the wilderness, and all who pass beneath its leaves are better for it.
Narrow streets overlooked by red-tiled roofs,
lie brightly in the April sun while small robins
nap in the branches of the blooming buds,
but awakened by the voices of vibrant youths.
The young nuns in black attire, cross the voice-filled street
of vendors and buyers, they can't be late for The Lord's Passion;
punctuality counts, it's a creed they firmily believe with conviction,
which is not found in souls that aren't so meek.
In this southern, friendly town faith matters more than wealth:
their devotion to Christ is that spring that never stops flowing...
it's passed from mother to daughter and son: it's following
the Cross until they reach the steps of the crowded church.
The middle-aged priest stands in the doorway and greets them all,
such a fervent faith is too undeniable in the faithful's overjoyed eyes...
Christ's life was given up for all sinners: poor, rich, big and small;
the Blessing of the Cross is an emotion deeply felt in grateful hearts.
This peaceful town at the foot the mountains dazzles in the mild noon,
the balmy breeze coming from the North brings in the fragrance of pines;
who was born here, will return and dwell in this valley of sacred shrines,
can all the wonders he saw be as enchanting as the midnight argent moon?
Written on 5/16/2017