Long Voiceless Poems
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Find it in an anagram,its a name of French descent
It has four vowels in it,and is a long nine letter word.
The main noun starts with C , and ends up with an E.
Its beauty lies in sugar-coated charm,Its carefree as can be.
A melody of lyrics where graceful swans belong
If you'll get to know it, it means you found a Song.
It owns a friendly attitude like Blossoms of May
Pleasant yet stubborn, and does plenty in a day.
A bountiful orchard bestowing delightful gifts
Of kindness, calm serenity ,and truth upon the lips.
It empowers the one who owns it
with a will to change the world.Born to be
a hidden leader whose voiceless men defends.
Endowed by empathy.Spiritually insightful
Emotionally endearing ,with a tint of mystery.
By Shakespeare ,Cleopatra's attendant was called the same
but as the Bard penned , 'What's in a name'
Would you treat me differently if I just called myself
Madame,Mademoiselle or Dame?
Would my light shine brighter if I was called a star
Isn't it our heart which proclaims who we are?
Isn't it our soul which reveals identity
Isn't it our life-lines which prevail our destiny ?
Date :1/15/2017
For Silent One's Contest : What's in a name ?
I speak of the breast best,
mother Mary and her voiceless love.
My pillow-talk told to doves and divas.
And my voice sounds in the whale bone,
in the thunder of workaday ants in their
Brooklyn bodega’s.
The breathless, the brazen
those who bargain and barter
their marketplace musical masterpieces,
let them unsling all vocal vending’s
be they sharp or velvet
in a caroling of living daylights.
Talk is dirt, let our mute fingers plow;
what we say, we say beneath the light
where ancient suns still lay voiceless.
I am a penny opera, you are the
song of the earth, my throat
swallows words
turns them into raw diamonds
for your cleaving,
facets you polish
with chorus and chant.
Where you echo I follow
washing my face in
your timbre and tone.
Deliver us plain into a Voice,
one chord struck as clear
as a chisels gleaming cut.
Utter me in your tongue
and I will croon you in the womb
where a common blood speaks.
Proclaim your revelations in a simple song,
an anthem for us to pray
at the end of our tolerable,
unsung days.
"Walking on Water in the Between Worlds Place"
when darkness came
the remaining,
those beautiful
transingularity
neo-automatons,
imbued with dark matters
running through the wired
dendrites of their splintered brain,
where implanted, the voices
of the neo-god speaks
instructing those
voluptuous and fresh
criminal bodies
calling the hungry
and wanton in, like magnets -
the soft sell was easy.
all hard served, fast and slick.
at first visceral, then,
it was deemed
the intellect wasn’t
necessary -
the new sensual feeling,
bodies and mind
caressed by a
small Neuralink RFID.
like snow white
encased in silicate glass,
for a while asleep, when
turned on, very much
awake.
some called it,
the great gambling chip;
flashing light signals
heavy free energy sitting
on malleable shoulders
that danced wars robotic,
puppets chained and pulled
like walking torture chambers,
loaded cartridges spinning
metal hearts cloned to ignite
like atomic bombs kissing
seconds to midnight.
clockwork armies
were laid bare
by the fire behind
eyes alone, sharp knives
like lasers eviscerate
those transfixed to
a new state of -
"Behold
I am come
Home";
they all eventually
implode to the
nowhere place.
only Love injected
into what exists soulless
half djinn in that desolate
between worlds place,
with a kiss, passed on the
voiceless tongue,
the tablets, wafer thin,
now like Moses speak -
a new ecstasy
melting the monochrome
back to barely human
on their pronoun knees.
targets sometimes
could be saved
before the strangest
Winter arrived
in the underworld,
its new revolution -
revelations raging
in the time of the
chromatic wasting,
chronicles of the unsaved
walking on water
in the between worlds place
the children of Lot
lost in the grips
of the new world
that dreadful
dimensionless
judgement domain
forever in
episcop-alien
glitch
on repeat
repeat
repeat
repeat
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"We live dangerous lives
We have the power of will
We turn logic around
We feed the engine of change"
Silent and docile, like the lamb
The trees sit focused on the afternoon breeze
Arms tossing to and fro amid the gusts
Whispering softly to all who pass by
Quiet and mild, like the lamb
The trees begin to bend their hands
Down toward the carpeting below them
A crimson array of passionate forest
Unspoken and warm, like the lamb
The trees slowly reach toward the wafts
Of humid air that is alive with the clothes
The trees keep tossing off their long limbs
Hushed and submissive, like the lamb
The trees lose all the colors that had graced them
With fashions from golds, ambers and scarlet
Flamboyant shades that now lie covering the ground
Voiceless and pleasant, like the lamb
The trees call out to be remembered for what they are
Individual species with all the colors of fall
Enlivening and sweetening their call
Like the lamb, who was crucified for all
These trees die down in the fall
Leaving only their clothing strewn on the lawn
Like the lamb, they arise again when God calls
Splattering dried soil upon my face
Lying on that bed for a space
Space for stars, rainbows, and the moon I plunged my eyes; the sky took me into a room
An inch of fumes and smoke filled my lungs
Drown in how they pierced their fangs
Space by space, acre by acre—work as a trade
My skin, eyes, and hair were cascading.
Treasures like golden quicksand,
Provider at most, even in their command
Midst of the haze, everything seems fine to me
Died at most, thou poorest tree
Let them cultivate their land and squeeze out my skin
Everything looks fine to me; I have no kin
Let them pulp my eyes and scorch my feet
Does not matter when I live in a threat
The gift of their deeds is the scaly land
Uncage the air and mutate the hand.
Living in hell or living in a raging tie
Raging storms, zapping lightning, polluted realm, and it looks fine to thine eyes
Stood a strong soldier with all those mishaps
Hiding my scar and fertilizing all my stuff
When you are all broke and I’m here to embrace you
Complaining is not my cup of tea
A poet’s death is but the final strophe, the concluding breath of a lifelong composition. It is not an ending, but a calculated pause, a moment where the pen lifts from the parchment for the very last time.
The soul is a well-worn quill, dipped repeatedly in the inkwell of human experience—of joy, of sorrow, of quiet observation. Each day, the poet or poetess has meticulously written upon the vellum of the world, their verses unfurling like the delicate, crisp pages of a cherished book. The vibrant hues of metaphor and the sharp cuts of imagery were the tools of their trade, used to capture the fleeting light of a single moment, to give voice to the voiceless whispers of the heart.
With death, the quill runs dry. The inkwell is empty, its contents now preserved on the countless leaves they have left behind. The hand, once swift and sure, slows to a gentle rest. The carefully crafted lines that formed their life’s work are now complete, the narrative arc fully realized, the meter finally resolved.
The poems themselves are not silenced; they are set free. The bound manuscript of their existence is opened and shared with the world, each reader a new voice giving life to the words. The echo of their rhythm continues to beat, a lasting heartbeat in the shared human story. Their physical form may fade like the ephemeral scent of old paper and ink.
Still, the essence, the collected wisdom and beauty of their lines, becomes eternal literature, an enduring volume on the endless shelf of time. The poet has merely finished their reading, closing the cover on one life’s story to allow the next interpretation to begin.
A little lie, like a thin veil covering the truth in the night of crystal,
A little candor, like a moonbeam gently piercing the darkness,
Forgetfulness does not weep, for tears have dried on the cheeks of lost memories,
Folly doesn't hurt, for it remains like a shadow silently slipping through time.
So many falls into temptation happen, like leaves dancing in the autumn wind,
As if even dogma is drowsy, like a dream asleep under an apathetic sky,
Ready to die beneath the wet horizons, where clouds weave the fabric of oblivion,
Nothing is seen, for the darkness becomes a sea swallowing the light.
Nothing is heard, except the whispers of the wind telling forgotten legends,
Nothing rises, for the wings of hope are broken by the weight of silence,
Nothing bows, for pride remains a solitary stone tower,
A little remorse, like a pale flame flickering in the depths of the soul.
A little light, like a wandering star on the infinite night sky,
A little forgiveness, like a caress on a forehead tired of thoughts,
A little hope, like a blade of grass sprouting from scorched earth,
Formal and empty, like an echo lost in the valleys of forgetfulness.
Tears are in vain, when the day is fading and shadows stretch over the world,
And from nowhere comes a rogue night, with secret steps and a heart of fire,
Absurd and blind, like a story told by a voiceless bard,
Strong in its axe, like a fate that shatters dreams with an iron hand.
To burn, to break, to cut, to steal, like a thief of time leaving no trace,
The little that love still carries, like a treasure hidden from the world's eyes,
In its palms, with a name of fate, like an unwritten covenant between heaven and earth.
I was dumbfounded when she said that she remembered niether me nor my wife. She remembered my place of employment, my superior,
and my closest co-worker, but not me. My continued attempt at aiding her memory only rendered, "no recall". I taught her and her brothers
in the church youth meetings. I was close to her parents, and though she was a bit younger than me, she was indeed old enough to remember. However, when it became clear she could not recall, we politely ended the phone call. Undoubtedly, it was time to cease and desist in the pursuit of the conversation.
I concluded that yes, she last saw me more than 30 years prior, but I must have stood in the shadows. I understood and refused to accuse or blame, because surely I must have sat under tall trees where the leaves and limbs deflected both the heat and the light. Moreover, for some reason, a shadow was also cast leaving little to no reflection of me.
Perhaps I was an unnoticed frame on the wall. Or could it be that I was a candle in a drawer, a voice unheard, a village in a valley, a pluto in a vast galaxy, a planet in the measureless universe, and not a city on a hill?
It may or may not be of one's own choosing to be cast a faceless image in the crowd; but it's helpful to know if one is destined to be a voiceless shadow person in a room. Perhaps I was quiet and colorless, non agressive, and more tolerating than I should have been. Perhaps I was interpreted as weak; and if so, I must confess; 34 years later, it caused a bit of annoyance and just a little pain. But I must add, it was not enough to cause a change in the essence of me, nor to drive me insane.
04092017PSContest, Any Poem In June, Laura Loo
Leave all your sadness on my doorstep,
To sit with me, weary as a shadow,
When you stealthily slip in your dear memory in the night,
And let my tears collect, pearls on the damp face of time.
Let them flow, a river of wreaths that flood my chest,
To disperse the closed echo of that gate entwined with roots of regret,
Where trees, with branches that once danced, now break in silence,
Under the weight of a love that unfurled like smoke into a sober sky.
Leave the sadness behind you, do not carry it as a shroud,
Set it free, among hearts forever seeking and souls yearning for the infinite.
Do not burden your steps with the shadow of memories, guarding your vagrancy,
Let that consuming fire transform into the ashes from which we are reborn.
Capture this sadness between your fingers, make it a canvas that caresses,
Woven with the gentle contours of thoughts, with every pass through the world,
And when your heart cries out, when you are compelled by the yearning for unspoken words,
Gather the sadness and return home, lay it down on the altar of reliving.
In the evening shadows, we, two devotees of Eros, silently join our melancholy, voiceless,
In secrecy from the world, against the grain of fate, starved for the memory of a shared refuge.
We'll take the sadness and transform it into a dance of whispers, wafting aimlessly,
Across the deserts of silence, following an astral thread, without a map, compass, or needs.
Promise me you will stay, shoulder to shoulder, tender wall for my ravaged heart,
In an eternity of moments, to love beyond the futile days we count,
To forget the undeciphered number of years, as stars forget to count their moments of twinkling,
As long as, on the ship of life, we find each other, two castaways landing on each other's heartstrung shores.
The Statue at the Crossroads of Cloud
We were frightened, two candles left standing in a southern wind,
we wept with tears of resin that washed nothing clean beneath the sky,
and stillness ran straight through us like water through a golden sieve,
while the road dissolved under our feet like the wax of a lonely dream.
You stood there humbled before a wave the moon had melted down,
a wave that had forgotten its own shore, a horse without its snow,
you were harsh with yourself, both the judge and the jailhouse at once,
and you caved in at the foundations like an altar bitten by ivy.
Yet still you kept trying to come, the way rain keeps looking for the sea,
with your footsteps of gentle ash on the staircases of the dream,
and I tore loose from the absurd unraveling like a bird
that flies with its own wing in its mouth — I left without ever leaving.
We both stayed on as a statue, two trees grown out of silence,
our roots braided together beneath a bridge that never was,
love unfulfilled, bread held in the hand until it turned to frost,
two voiceless lovers at the crossing of an old wayside stop.
That is how the tender love ended, struck by the thorn of the years,
by the winds that snap the mast clean off before the storm arrives,
by our staying far too long at that crossroads made of cloud,
where the last definitions of love ripened into bitter fruit.
What remains is glossy disillusion and long arcades of shiver,
forgettings that grow over our faces like moss on a cold stone,
and longing — a lantern burning in a house abandoned long ago,
burning in tears and in dreams, for a guest who is never coming.