Long Unheralded Poems
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The darkness is smothering, the stress is raining heavy.
A constant pitter pattering on the roof of my thoughts.
Sinking into the sunken place for the lost.
Where the outcasts and down trodden walk.
Strolling through fields of dried growth and wilted carnations of glum.
Backdropped by jagged hills with smoldering craters, releasing the suffocating stench of sulfur.
All for which the lungs may burn.
By day, dreary skies are warmed by a blackened sun.
As upside-down birds fly backwards, one by one.
By night, pitch black skies illuminating blood from the crimson moon.
While dogs meow loudly as they flee the pursuing barking cats with growling intentions.
Through portholes, only to return to point of origins.
As i exhaust from a perpetual journey, passing the same sign in multitude.
Down a direct road patterned with petrified cactuses, and legless crows.
Sips of vinegar from the canteen, for a cotton mouths thirst that continuously grows.
From afar i can see a group of shadowy figures.
Slowly i approach, as they stand encircling a coffin.
As i near, these apparitions file out into two lines, turning their attention.
They were towering in comparison.
Amorphic, with the appearance of a hooded head with no face.
With two dime sized flames, about where eyes would be placed.
Suddenly overshadowed by darkness, I could smell death in the air.
Unheralded, they release a great shrieking sound and lunge, attackingly.
No recourse other than to run, towards the coffin as they reached and grabbed nefariously
Tearing clothing, and flesh, forced to run the gauntlet.
Stumbling to the ground, I turn to face the impending doom.
But they break up into a swarm of flies and disperse in multiple directions.
Tattered and worn, I rise to my feet, standing in front of the wooden box.
With shriveled andweakened hands, I open it to see me inside.
Laying peacefully, with no worries of distrust or betrayal of lies.
Sleeping the sleep, that's never been slept before in life.
Peering at my face with a gaze, muddled over what appears to be a smile.
As I wonder, if this is the only path to elation?
"Open Skies"
The Sky
is now wide open
Good morning
Sunshine, he says
She
recalls
a dream
in abstract
In clouds, not white
when hearts are darkest
Love arrives
unheralded
on a harsh cold
dark Winter's night
the Sun arrives
promising benevolence
sounding sharp trumpets
a different kind of music
ants scatter under
strange coloured lights
stunned
and love frightened
hearts are opening
in common alliance
caught up
in the open skies
now being earthed in
this epic romance
The dream is silent
egg shell blue
it is cracked wide open
kyrie eleison
a Mass in
Exodus
snow on tongues
burnt manna turns to ash
Rapture arrives
in different colours
In clouds, not white
when hearts are darkest
the
unifying
colour
is -
Rust.
Love
arrives
unheralded
nearly all but forgotten
Prophetic communion
All Souls seen holding hands
hidden in their vessels
of different colours
The dream is silent
egg shell blue
it is cracked wide open
kyrie eleison
Open,
Blue Sky
arrives
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
The Orb - Little Fluffy Clouds
https://youtu.be/8Ecdn5SGT1E
"The hero is one
who kindles a great light
in the world,
who sets up blazing torches
in the dark streets of life
for men to see by."
“Let's go."
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"We're waiting for Godot.”
"Veni Sancte Spiritus".
The word Kyrie is used in the Septuagint, the earliest Greek translation of the Old Testament, to translate the Hebrew word Yahweh. In the New Testament, Kyrie is the title given to Christ, as in Philippians 2:11.
"Angelic Code Sound Healing"
https://youtu.be/8eFoJHjLmyU
"Veni Sancte Spiritus"
https://youtu.be/_m_6Fp9Va0w
I believe that writing is like spilling blood out of the carotid
Onto a canvas of sponge
This sponge can never be satiated
It takes generations and trillions of miles of neurons
Just to make a stain
My marrow is strained in such a glorious fashion
In attempt to produce even more lovely RBC's
So that I may contribute but just a mere speck
On this ethereal construct
Today I saw a man with hollow eyes buying homes with the skulls of rats
These homes onced belonged to living souls
The money machine came rolling in with the disinterest of a cow chewing cud
Masticating the precious juice from the canvas that once served
As a font of energy, an expulsion of electrons, something sacrosanct
To those who felt alive in a world consumed by dead, ridiculous intentions
Now
All of the canvas-blood-sponges have dried out in these places, and
As a result
The universe seems to recoil back in on itself as if in fear of
The disasterous implications
The dust seems to layer the meninges ever so slightly
Until I realize the fact that by doing so, I allow the miscreants running
This synthetic freak show of media pogrom and unheralded greed,
To stand in Pyrrhic victory
Somehow this is all
Compounded with an unaccountable need to accumulate as much
Material nonsense as possible because it helps fill
The inexplicable void
I just want to keep pumping blood out onto this convoluted stage, and
Scream in the ignorant face of the man arrogantly cutting others off
During rush hour as though where he needed to get to was so much more
Important than everyone else's destination
The disconnect is here
Look into the countenances of those around you
Thankfully there are those rare souls you see periodically
With some light left behind those orbs
They haven't been made grotesque by the modern world
They have been spending time with their canvas
Words come to me, from high above
I know not from where and when
They flow through me like a summer breeze
An invisible sort of Zen.
They are a cherished gift from high above
A flickering candle in the wind
To be seized on in that moment
Or to never be seen or heard from again
Words come to me
I know not from where
They come unheralded and unbidden.
I don't know why they have sought me out
Are they from Angels or are they from Demons?
Why do these words choose to seek me out?
Why do they come to me in this way?
Are they of their own mind and powers
Or is it "I" that have something to say?
Over the years, I have been so very blessed
By these many words that have appeared to me in this way
These words have been welcomed glimpses
Of the thoughts that pass through my mind each and every day.
And so I think and wonder
I sit quietly and pray
That these words will never leave me
That they will continue to come to me and stay.
I pray that my mind will always be
Open to think and to receive
Ideas and thoughts that only I can think
Words with which Poetry I can conceive.
Words with which I can string together something beautiful
As with Pearls and a needle and thread.
Words that I can use to build upon
Words that I can dream upon in my bed.
Beautiful thoughts of my emotions and ideals
Beautiful words to be remembered and said.
Beautiful words to be constructed into Poetry
Beautiful words to be read, shared and felt.
(December 26, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
CITADEL AND CONSTELLATIONS
The green leaves in rugged moans;
The tall bushes in rumbling groans;
The roofs train creaks-- their fugue
blow cobwebs hugging branches below,
such are precursors inviting darkness lair
for stormy clouds before crowd the days.
Yellow horizon seem unreachable honey
as in my life's ocean, balloon billows I bear.
I-- surged in every swell to skirt yet still
lashing waves dashed pushing me sometimes to despair.
Again, cataclysm walk unheralded casting loose
my arms lift upon the glimmer of silver lining from afar
somber shadows enshrouded me in a mist of struggles.
Ounce of strength I have, I try to juggle and juggle
yet, curses fell from hearts and lips parched of love.
All these came, one and all --
the flowing light has flickered flash and gone
but beyond all these you stood -- my sentinel...
You hushed the bad constellations hanging 'round my world
like a lighthouse guiding a lost ship to his home.
Yes! You are my beacon, a promontory amidst
cyclic onslaught brambles and chameleons,
a rock to cling in the wind's creeping fury,
Staunch and firm, my ñhero fighting the torrential
cascade of tirades and reproaches: MY CITADEL. . .
_____________________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name Your Favourite Old Poem #2
++Placed 2nd++
***Sponsor Justin Bordner
Contest Name How You Make The Stars Hush
++Placed2nd++
©O.E. Guillermo
06:37 pm, February 24, 2015
Destitute is the productive, empty lives
who Garner the plain
with heavy chains and a directive, pain.
Stone on stone they lay, the bedrock,
of their own, unheralded graves.
Each day a March of the little death,
terra-families in bondage to circumstance
until last breath.
Until Lifes taskmaster calls them asunder.
Until each ghosts the valley as a piece of it's render.
Rending afar into the forgotten memory
and silent voice of the landscape.
It being soul witness; sole attorney with a grimace,
to opine upon the court of the stars.
Ironic to be in the construction
of their own destruction,
of death in craftsmanship.
Servile-letting,
of whip, a chorusing,
coralling
into the building,
of the Tomb of another.
A demon king, Son of Sun basking.
Plumblined into their lives
as a heavier burden than stone.
Fortune-masking. Jeweled in fasting.
From the Valley of the Kings.
When they shall be. Redeemed. Everlasting.
I Reckon Eyes Personal Necessity,...
Sans Arduous Ordeal
To assess meager
cradling aborted efforts
miscarried ambitions, I now berate
myself plethora sans lack
of accomplishments to date
and admit painful truth to self
of an ill prosperous lx roam man fate,
which life frivolous erratic
antics less productive slate
than if existence spent hovered
over an inter city heating grate
since squelched milestones wrought hate
red of apathy toward self, and spate
of penuriousness a tete a tete
meager financial cushion barely
keeps homelessness will ne'er abate.
~ April 13th, 1958 marked approximate initial
biological, chronological, and fetal ugh glue
tin nation, asper obstetric
prenatal confirmed commencement, in situ
i.e. womb (donned in his cute
itty bitty cap and gown), whence through
uneventful conception nine months
later lacked any blues clue
nonetheless, this earth
ling christened Matthew
Scott Harris made his unheralded debut,
albeit, then his
anatomical timer immediately
started counting down, loo
ping what seemed an eternity,
when mortality would be due,
vis a vis, meanwhile,
he awakened, discovered,
and galvanized transient
tenancy as he grew
since birth year month, and
date stamped upon this growing hue
man, who possibly felt thrust
out from warmth of womb
into ice cold sterility naked
like an Arctic monkey freezing in an igloo
a singular diaspora of
this "FAKE" gentile jew.
I wake up to pure chaos
The pure chaos of my mind
Struggling to get out
Struggling to be heard
A jumbled mass of characters
A mass of jumbled mass of words.
I struggle to make sense of them all
To put them in some sort of rhythm
To have them say something meaningful
Something with a purpose and a reason.
I must have something inside me to say
Or these words would not come to me at all
There must be a reason they come to me
Why they come to call.
I want to make some sense
Out of all these jumbled words
I want to be able to communicate with them
I want my inner voice to be heard.
And so I try to settle the chaos
The chaos of my mind
I try to find some solitude
Some veritable peace of mind.
I go to find my pencil
and some paper
and my empty chair
And I start to write the meaning
Of the words I wish to share.
These words are a gift from heaven
Sent to me from above
Flying in unheralded
Of the wings of a white dove.
All of these words might scare someone else
Anyone but me
But I know there is a reason
for why they were sent to me.
And so I sit and begin to write these words
To formulate my thoughts
To put them down on paper
To seek the meaning that I have sought
To tame my chaos and create a thought
And so I begin to try and write
These beautiful words.
(January 5, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
UNHERALDED HEROES
Sirens wailing in the night
The scene of the wreck a grisly sight
Wreckage and bodies litter the ground
A small child's toy has just been found
EMTs, their compassion showing
Check each victim, immediately knowing
Not all will make it, they fearfully dread
Some already have been pronounced dead
They continue to work in pouring rain
Their dedication to save lives is vividly plain
As the last victim is taken away
These unheralded heroes kneel down to pray
Across town an eerie glow lights the sky
Flames from a fire are blazing high
Firemen race to the scene in haste
There really is no time to waste
An apartment complex is engulfed in flame
All the haste of the firemen proves to be in vain
As the last victim is taken away
These unheralded heroes kneel down to pray
Policemen are called to a convenience store
Their hearts sink as they walk through the door
The owner of the store is laying dead
From a single gunshot wound to the head
The thief had no concern for the life of this man
Greed was the source of his dastardly plan
As the store owner’s body is taken away
These unheralded heroes kneel down to pray
When next you hear the sirens keen
And the first responders race to the scene
Take a moment out of your busy day
And for these unheralded heroes, kneel down to pray
Curtis Moorman
1 September 2011
Smart and tasting tart,
Each bead of sweat that trickled down your spine,
Salt droplets upon the tongue
Reminding of times that were both yours and mine,
The moistened lock of lips,
Rapaciously a kiss long lingered on your mouth,
We stood in enraptured embrace
On pine-board floors of a house that faced towards the south,
And in the silken robes
Of the nights that sanctioned twilight suns to sink,
Sparkling chandeliers danced aflame
In depths of cold dry wine we as lovers drink,
Now remembered like old embers
Sweet bites of trysts and times no more remain,
I wonder if like me you make
Instinctive wish to steal them back again.
Like echoes in a vertiginous well
The dissolving ghosts of words that seemed to say it all,
Upon a distant street
A phantasmal passion play when sympathetic night would fall,
The plaintive weep, encroaching sleep
Upon the lavender eyes that never sought to cry,
Focused on the nucleus
Of sensual sacred love that wouldn’t ever die,
Unheralded even now,
Memorial splinters of pain for times when we would part,
Reflective slivers of arousal
Stab and score the secret pleasures of the famished heart,
Then the abstract manifesto
Of erotic times beneath the ashen harvest moon,
Now remain but a prisoner of the past
Of lost loves and lost worlds that fell to dust so soon.