Long Yearned for Poems
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Some days poetry flows
sometimes it is just words.
In the final spring - a poet
yearned for an immaculate blossom,
for his fingertips to bring a painting into life - to
meticulously cultivate and craft a masterpiece.
I recall an opal oasis full of pearl petals,
glittering with rows of diamond orchids,
citrine marigolds, moonstone lotuses,
and garnet roses surrounded by
amethyst lavender and sapphire bluebells.
craving for his mastery.
In a distant meadow,
consumed with faithless flock
grazing dead leaves -
there you bloomed from bronze roots,
an enchanting flower held by an emerald sepal.
In your flattery,
he became a willing devotee,
seduced by the scent of your paradisiacal petals.
But in your admiration he neglected
his selfless blooms,
unaware of wicked weeds
wandering in eidolic fields.
At sunset he would mirror the stars
and follow you like fireflies at midnight,
Serenade you with mystical lullabies,
evoking a sense of serenity,
but in the deception of dawn
you prioritised the sun,
over his soothing moonlight,
so you wilted, withering,
dripping in dewdrops.
In your servitude,
he placed you in the
greenhouse of his heart,
to protect you from the arrival of autumn,
but gaslighting gardeners,
sliced all of his intimate stems,
allowing satanic rain
to poison your spirit.
In the darkness, which dilates his eyes,
the pain still penetrates like a bitter blade
and he has become a forgotten gardener,
with dead seeds of scepticism
sowed into his soul.
Funny how all these branching roads
so frequently turn into circles.
Before, I dreamed of adventure.
I dreamed of service, of travel,
of the unknown; of things
few others get to claim.
And now that such are mine,
or elsewise in easy reach,
I find the impending voyage home
more than luxurious, more than exquisite;
I just want this road to circle there
for longer than this brief visit -
but ever will it lead on.
Before, I made my way
by the touch of my muse,
the caress of the wind,
arms of the rain and light of the moon.
For months I was grounded,
viciously, to reality; forced to walk
amid an effusion of sweat, pain, and pride.
And now that those two worlds
have finally met,
I'm gradually circling back
to the more ephemeral world of yesteryear.
Before, I yearned for love -
longed for the sweet embrace
of one desired and devoted;
one to walk with, truly akin by the heart.
Now, 'tis much the same -
'twas put on pause for a time,
and I can't speak with certainty
on whether I was closer then, or now.
But after that hiatus from the heart,
I've quickly made my way 'round,
to dreams of a woman who laughs and dances in the rain.
You watch yourself move on,
change a little.
You look in the rear-view mirror
as you drive these dark, foggy roads -
you watch growth and tremors
in your reflection in the pond,
and see the past in the future.
The circle of life isn't simply
a song, an idea -
'tis a sight that unfolds before every eye,
if one cares enough to watch.
Case you didn't know
At first glance
I knew you were the one
When your eyes connected
I knew I had to take a chance
My heart yearned for your romance.
Your smile set me free
The sound of your voice instilled faith in me
Case you didn't know.
I would be a liar
Saying I could live without you
It's your heart I most desire
You still set my soul on fire
Case you didn't know.
Everything you are completes me
The last piece of my puzzle
The air I need to breathe
The vision that helps me see
You can give me all I need
Say yes and be with me
I love you so much
Case you didn't know.
Written by;
Gloria perezbarkaszi
9/16/17
Form:
AM STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU
It wasn’t easy to fall in love with you,
though your looks were always new.
You won my heart with time
but oh! then I had no money, no dine.
with nothing to offer you but my heart and soul,
you decided to go away in search for gold
leaving me in melancholy and jeopardy.
I cried for my loss; I mourned for my tragedy.
you overlooked my errors when I had affluence
but now you underlook me in every sense
you yearned for my love before
now you snoop me unlike before,
you disgraced me amidst my friends
and you broke our engagement, caring less;
You called me “sweetheart” before
while now you call me merely “Michael”
everything you do to make me hate you
doesn’t hurt me and I curse myself for it because
am still in love with you.
My father disowned me because of your sake
and I nearly drowned in a lake
you showed no care when i broke a leg
and you left me while sick in bed
you called my mum a whore
and in my absence you stole from my meagrer store
I can’t put your deeds in words for it is long;
for after all that you did to me
am really confused and i curse myself for it
for…for… for.. am still in love with you
You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all.
Robin Williams - Dead poets society
Poets are born,
not manufactured.
The moment when life said:
"Recite a poem for me."
Verses began to flow,
like moonlight shimmering
upon tides rushing to the shore.
Tongue spoke in silent tones,
in a language forgotten in time.
Emotions that had been internally burning
bled a scripted sadness of sentimental scents. .
A perpetual periodical anthology of adversity,
hidden behind an enigmatic encrypted haiku,
about a lost soul's suffering in chains,
caged within the nonsense of syllables.
An unmetered sonnet,
where the world saw common rhymes,
as unforgivable idiotic crimes.
Not all metaphors make sense.
Still the quill yearned for meaning.
To write in evergreen sanguine blessings,
creating a vocabulary reminiscent
of blossoming phraseology -
but words can be misinterpreted.
When eyes lie with fake flattery,
this gifted madness you call poetry,
is like a curse for a wordsmith.
The mind becomes bewildered,
drifting in heavy hues of longing lavenders,
wondering where the spring flowers are.
Some remain content with withering thoughts,
but my ink is immortal in sowing perennial seeds.
Subtle feelings burst
Inside her supple breast
Creating overpowering longing
A thirst that had her wanting
Something only he could give her
Silence fell between them
When they found themselves alone
As his hand brushed hers gently
Struggling with a need to grasp it
She yearned for his touch against her
Soft hopes beckoned breathlessly
Intimacy captured on her thoughts
Leaving her with a craving only he could cure
With those twinkling eyes and smiling heart
Who taught her that his was worthy of her desire
Sensitive gestures of delight
Colored her in hues of insight
Whispering joy through her soul
When he found that her heart was an open door
Hungering for his tender embrace and warm touch
Soothing sighs linger on the air
Aching for the intimacy that is a fire
Blazing through her thoughts – a need
Reawakened by the most tender French kiss
Imploring her senses to fall praises across his lips
Stunned by the splendor of such a sensation
Anna and the French kiss brought alive inside her
Stirrings that linger, thrill and ignite
Affection so real it feels like it is thriving
Dancing in shadows, bringing love into the light
Anna and the French Kiss poetry contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
August 16, 2021
She wanted to be loved
A desire that haunted her dreams
She wanted to feel worthy
The type of worth that could only come -
From a romantic love
Her heart ached with a sadness
That maybe love would never come, due to her blackness
She wondered -
Would she forever walk alone
Trapped in a body no one could love
Everyday she wasn't loved,
Parts of her soul had broke
She despised the fact - that she was stuck
In a body empty of luck
What would she have to do -
To be -
Beautiful?
She had so much love to give, yet -
Despite that fact, it felt like one thing was holding her back
Maybe it was because she was black
Would she ever be loved -
Or was she doomed from the start
The strings of fate, slowly pulling her apart
Until pain takes the place of her heart -
Just a broken piece of disposable art
She would straighten out her flaws,
Hoping to become more acceptable
But deep down she knew,
How could someone love her if she couldn't love herself?
But how could she love herself when no one loved her?
Maybe she was just completely unlovable
What was the point of living, when she was so broken?
She yearned for a life not of her own
One where she didn't have to question if he likes black girls
Wondering if she was enough to be taken home
Or forever wandering around the streets, all alone
The streets haunted by her wails and moans -
Wondering why it can't be her, wondering when it will be her turn
But, she was a realist, that's who she was
She saw the world for what it is and what it's not
She understood -
That being black and a woman
Meant love for her wouldn't be an easy run
When you saw our situation
And counted your blessings
You recounted all your sins
That needed confessing
...I know
When you gathered in
The fruit from all your labor
You were never stingy
In taking care of your neighbor
...I know
When you sat in silence
And yearned for your friend
You sensed my presence
And laid down your life, in the end
...I know
When others relished in riches
And you sat without need
My peace comforted your soil
And nurtured your seed
...I know
When betrayal knocked at your door
And you stood your ground
You hungered and searched
And finally found
~Rest~
I KNOW
Written by Trudy Schrader
Note: I wrote this for a dear friend who passed away.
In Chambers Grand, where silks and laughter played,
A voice within, a question soft and low,
"Tell me, dear Yashodhara, what ails your heart?
Your eyes, once radiant, now seem weighted by sorrow's dart.”
"My burden is great indeed," the answer bittersweet,
"For my husband, Siddhartha, has forsaken me in his spiritual need.
But is he not the prince of this prosperous land?
With wealth and comfort at his every command?”
"Ah, you speak true of his worldly station,"
Yashodhara replies, "Yet his soul yearned for a deeper liberation.
Foolishness! To abandon such privilege and power!" a voice critiques,
"Surely, this 'enlightenment' he seeks is but a fleeting flower.”
"Nay, though harsh your words may ring,
" Yashodhara argues, "I fear his quest holds merit, like a bird longing to sing.
Can you not see? We are all prisoners, bound by desire's chain,
Seeking refuge in the shadows, while truth remains unstained.”
"An intriguing allegory," a voice ponders,
"let it enlighten us further on this path which he sought."
Yashodhara explains, "'Tis a journey of the mind, a shedding of illusion's veil,
Where one transcends the cycle of suffering, without fail.
Like a lotus, unsoiled by the muddy waters of earthly strife,
He seeks the pure, unblemished petals of an awakened life.”
"But is such a state truly attainable, or mere fancy's dream?" a voice doubts,
"For the world is rife with anguish, or so it may seem."
"A fair query," Yashodhara concedes, "yet I sense you understand,
That truth oft lies beneath the surface, like a grain of golden sand.
Though I grieve his absence, my love remains true and wise,
For in his noble quest, the spark of hope eternally lies.”
With a gentle smile, Yashodhara concludes,
"So you see, my friends, though the way seems shrouded in mystery,
My Siddhartha walks the path of the Buddha, towards ultimate clarity."
I feel as though my soul came from your soul,
giv'n birth by some great miracle of God.
Though long have been the paths that we have trod,
we are at last together and made whole.
I only know I yearned for some high goal,
to find the heart I came from and the broad
soul with which my own soul could itself shod
and wear against the world. O, sweet soul,
I was from birth of you, heart of your heart,
and long I searched to find my way to thee,
to freedom from the world and all its smart,
to sure release from all captivity.
Ah, now I own it all, the whole, not part,
in you, my love, my life, my liberty.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987