Long Wandering Poems
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Most of the nude and swaying countryside
still speaks with sad,shreking and mournful sounds;
its stripped trees are bulky and tepid
as moisture continuously ascends from the languid ground!
Only a pensive,middle-aged man walks
curiously along the wide paths
flanked by jasmine,
and a casual pine:
where the marvis pauses,unmindful
of the gray squirrel!
Yet,incredibly,some shy violets shows
its frosty petals from among the dry,russet leaves;
how unhappy it is from that useless shelter...
regardless of the coming sorrow of its annual fate!
The wandering white-haired man
is very impressed by the tranquil landscape,
and occasionally stops a second,delighted,
to catch a glimpse of the glaring sun!
Some faint voice quivers into the intensifying darkness;
it's heard often...never to dominate the stillness!
Another clearer voice follows after that first one,vibrating:
it's the evening song of thanksgiving!
Who can bear
such a loneliness
of fake clown,
laughing hard even
the direst frown?
It's desperate
search for that
sweet one, but
luck's a fleeting ghost,
and I'm on the run.
Oh, I damn myself
for believing this lie,
I should have seen
the truth with my foolish eye;
that close friend of my silliness:
a champion without a crown.
I can't hold up
the cup of triumph high
to a happy crowd
cheering as I cry,
my spotlight's stolen
bf that guy named Dion
is all smiles and laughter
while my pride is withdrawn.
Ol, I damn myself
for believing this lie,
I should have seen
the truth with my foolish eye;
that close friend of my silliness,
a champion with no crown,
just emptiness.
Where's my adorable queen
dressed in red
with lips that smell like roses
instead?
Not long ago, I was that stud
in the game,
but now I'm chilling
in the shadows
of shame.
Please give me back
my throne, don't wait;
my ego
is bruised
and it's feeling great,
I struggle to earn it
feeling so low:
his victory didn't
blow me away
you know.
Oh, I damn myself
for believing this lie,
I should have seen
the truth with my foolish eye;
that close friend of my silliness:
a champion with no crown,
just emptiness.
Where's my adorable queen,
with that sexy glow?
Is she kissing his cold lips
down low?
Staring in his untrue eyes,
no spark;
this lonely clown's left
wandering in the dark.
I'll pay my rage out,
sing my respect;
this restless spirit
yearns for what's correct,
a rhythm to chase,
a swing to feel.
Gotta find that queen,
make the wound heal;.
ah, this lonely clown
ain't done yet;
I'll laugh again: on my heart
you can bet.
Outlandish plots that make no sense
when comes the light of day.
Fun tales, creations of a tired mind’s enlivened play.
That’s what dreams are made of.
Visits from a mere acquaintance
or from an old flame.
Kisses from a somebody who doesn’t have a name.
That’s what dreams are made of.
Wandering your childhood streets
or lost inside a maze;
feeling silly, overwhelmed, scared or even crazed.
That’s what dreams are made of.
Doing things fantastical
like flying in the sky;
feeling bliss or feeling magic, knowing you can’t die!
That’s what dreams are made of.
If you’re lucky, you’ll relive
the times you wish could last. . .
like seeing good old friends or loved ones who already passed,
and that’s what dreams are made of.
for Skat's Any Old Poem Will Do #3 Poetry Contest
A kiss on the forehead
Is a gesture of betrayal
It's not a kiss of love
Filled with joy and humor.
It would be better to kiss a dog
Which is as silent as a wandering
Moron in the Latin quarters.
Oh! Poor are those who smile
To these words emanating from a place
Where everyone has atavistic rights
Despite the silly threats of the accursed.
A kiss on the forehead
Is a sign of punishment
It is an act of treason.
P.S. Translation of ‘ Un Baiser Sur Le Front’
By Hébert Logerie.
Copyright © May 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Your call resonates like a lost echo among the shadows of dusk,
Deep within me, like spring water flowing towards distant lands.
My heart, boundless and mysterious, responds silently, naive and gentle,
As the sleepless twilight creeps again through the misted windows.
The lilac and currant bow their heads gracefully in the evening wind,
And my silent homeland whispers the call for me to return home.
Your call, my bittersweet sorrow, resonates in the echo of distance,
And I, wandering among shadows, seek my way on unseen paths.
I know our meeting will be fulfilled under the blue sky of night,
Our prolonged separation will find solace in the light of the hidden moon.
Distant bells remind me of the road I have traveled,
Raising the dust of dreams, searching for you among eternal memories and longings.
Your call at sunset, my melancholy will find its way to you,
And the promise of reunion will be sealed by the quiet of the night that envelops us.
In the flow of time, under the starry sky, I will keep my promise,
For my heart, once called, cannot remain far from you.
despite some consideration for the hows, whys, wherefores and whether
unguided, wandering through known universe tying things together
aged in millenniums, centuries, decades, days, hours and minutes
each one existing where all things may be true within their own limits
why, oh why have such tribulations of strife and tears befallen us?
does not the wealth of true human knowledge speak to and through all of us?
must we believe that all human foibles are prone to repetition?
beneficial ideologies should improve the human condition
avoiding pretension, apologies create their own disguises
unannounced guest from the past, guilt arrives in many shapes and sizes
we are fragile beings, unsuited to living beyond our planet
prone to greed, prejudice, long lasting grievances and truth's abandonment
often more than willing to turn into our own worst protagonist
The sky of the universe is our
The universe's ground is our sheer
Everything in the universe is for us
But now we are walking as impious!
Who are we? –Human
But forget this every man!
After the pandemic situation
Now we are in earthquakes loan!
We lost many of us to Covid-nineteen
And now we are losing in the tremors bin!
Skyscraper building to the little cottage
Aged public to newborn child phase
Gigantic mountains to velvet grounds
Seraphic nature to seasonal sounds
Wandering to the path of havoc slowly
But, who is liable for the destructive policy?
-No answer; silent mystery
-Anonymous authority!
©Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
12/02/2023
I went walking in the silent and stillness of winter,
it had snowed softly on this cold, cold night;
homes glowed from deep within and sparkled bright,
a lonely snowflake kissed my cheek like a feather.
Wandering deserted town streets a solitary walker,
park benches buried in the pure white snow;
quietly an icy and frosty river still ripples to flow,
and the shops are luminous in the town center.
At a church stained glass panes were welcoming,
the pristine snow laying on the steps in tranquility;
I bowed my head in prayer recalling memories of my family,
as snowflakes were falling and whispering.
__________________________
March 20, 2020
Poetry/Enclosed Rhyme/I Went Walking
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1235-997-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to the contest, Strand Choice E
sponsor, Brian Strand
Second Place
Under the infinite sky, where stars weep their light like crystal tears,
My thoughts weave into a silent dance, like a whisper of wind on leaves,
And I lean towards the heavy earth of unknown sufferings,
Where the tear of a hungry child weighs more than all the rains in the world.
Happy birthday, orphaned children, you who search in every shadowed corner for a ray of warmth,
Abandoned children, children of no one, wandering through labyrinths of silences and desires,
Happy birthday, barefoot children, with soles hardened by endless, cold roads,
Hungry children, who have never felt an embrace as a nest of peace.
In every pure smile that is born on your lips,
Hides a thousand tears and a thousand dreams that have not taken flight,
And happiness is a rare bird whose song you have never heard,
Happy birthday to you, children without childhood, with unfulfilled desires in your hearts.
Through your eyes, light takes on different shades,
Teaching us that love is not measured in words or things,
But in simple moments, stolen by time and kept in the heart as treasures,
Happy birthday, children of hope, may your dreams guide you to a kinder tomorrow.
Under the vast sky, where dreams intertwine with stars and light,
I pray that every tear is wiped away by a smile and every wish finds fulfillment,
That you, children of the world, may know the warmth of an embrace and the sweetness of true love,
And rediscover your childhood in a future full of promise and joy.
There at the market place
Onlookers gathered singing the masquerade’s praise.
A visible ghost about to get loose-
Held by its companion, from fleeing like a wandering goose.
The masquerade yearns to dance
Swaying like a drunkard it needs this one chance.
Bells hung on its cloak
Cane in hand seeking a ferocious stroke.
Gloves strapped to the hand
Gins poured as libation for the gods of the land.
Cane drums banging rhythmically loud
Acrobatic flips to amuse the crowd.
The atmosphere was livid
Revealing steps so staunch and sordid.
Soon whips like rain were loosen
As the masquerade’s companions get crimson.
Hats or caps are being despised,
Whips were used on those chastised.
Ara Orun; a progeny of the heaven
Veiled by its cloak from mortal haven.
Grumbling incantations strange to our hearings,
Offerings first before the masquerade find its bearings.
Songs accompany the wailing drum-
As the air was dozed with burukutu the black man’s rum.
Jolting back and front towards the musing crowd
As the song grows eerie loud.
The masquerade sways like a possessed
Shouting to the crowd; “you are blessed.”
Buttocks gracing the sky,
Hands spread like a bird ready to fly.
Is this man or spirit-
Whose charm had enslaved the street?