Of Import Poems

Breaking, Broken, Breakthrough

Breaking apart
your verbal
sledgehammer
demolishes me
words that crush
all that I am
all that I thought
while I try to find
rhyme or reason 
for the assualt.

Broken down
As floods of malice
pour out from wounds
I could not see
in you, from you
I am broken
beyond repair
It's only cold now
now that I see
you no longer care.

Break through, a must
to breath.
I deconstruct
everything I am.
It's no longer of import
why you eviscerated
me with your words
why you left me
as you did.
In the end
you didn't love me
was what occurred.

Surroundings the Open Form

SURROUNDINGS
lfestyle
discerned
in
billowing
 images
of import
a
foray
with
 shadows
a
source
 of inspiration

a
genuine
suprise
to
illustrate
&
reflect
fascination
in
an
etched
manner
 susceptible
to
the
particular
to
emulate
&
experiment
 ensuring
an
effective
  self conscious
 perfection


NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE   using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.

The Birthing

Sometimes it feels
as if I am carrying it as a child in its womb.

It is yet unformed, 
but it has searching plasmid eyes 
that see in the dark.

It is unnamed and dispersed as threads and fragments,
but I sense its weight.

In the beginning (that ‘beginning’ is always nebulous),
there is an impulse,
a motive pressure that cannot yet
be translated into words;
at that time (‘that time’ is always uncertain),
 it is a kernel of import, yet still meaningless.

If I don’t force it to appear
it will gestate, gather a form around it.

If we are sensitive to the creative process
we will know
It is not the words we hear inside us
but the passing of muted footsteps
as they enter a reason to be born.

Perhaps after all.  it’s not the poem coming through us
but we coming through the poem?

Musing On the Soul

What is this soul we talk about?
Might I find it in a droplet of water
Perhaps, in a pop tune … a shout,
In a loving mother, an abusive father?
Elusive and ethereal, so hard to find
Is it in our unique thought processes,
A synonym for the individual mind,
Something every human possesses?
Perhaps, a figment of imagination?
Something we cannot understand,
Many a theologian’s rapt fascination
Part of being under God’s command.
A faith word of import, I assume,
All that’s left of us when body dies
All that matters, we can presume –
Is it the ultimate goal or life prize?
A longstanding mystery, to be sure
Many folks say when we die, it’s over
What is to be gained by being pure,
When we’ll be buried under clover.

Written April 6, 2022

Cultish Leanings

Cultish leanings..

There is attachment to

The mysteries of life

Embodied..seemingly in

A pedestaled attraction..

Add beliefs of import and

Shadowed conspiracies..

A religion start-up..?

All dismantled by inquiry

Into the Self we are...

What If

What if I pondered for some time
An end to life like end to rhyme
Not quite much as it may seem
In truth not more than end of dream

What if it be of import not
More than a passing thought forgot
Why hold to life must I then yearn
Mute lesson leaving aught to learn

What if of life there be no joy
Within its clutch I but a toy
Of Hellish children wrecked and wreathed
In pain until my last I breathed

What if I would not rather meet
The wretch I am at end than greet
Oblivion sure to be bliss
Compared to life of naught to miss

A Degree Or Two

the talk around the table turned
to matters of import
and one of those there seated
was heard to make retort
above the hubbub and the drone
of lively conversation
being carried on at once
expressing reservation
on a point of relevance
to the current topic
underlying all the words
the feeling was entropic
silently they heard her out
and weighed her every word
then they went back to the task
her point was not absurd
the level of intensity
that of the conversation
had risen a degree or two
'twas how to save a nation
without the need for shedding blood
while protecting property
they felt belonged to all of them
the weal of the free

The Hot Pink Galah

there once was a man from afar
who stood and held forth at the bar
but the tort he invoked was no more than a joke
in defence of the hot pink galah

now the judge who was wearing a wig
when he heard this did dance him a jig
for a poor constitution conveyed no solution
in the case of the flight of the pig

so the case was referred to the crown
who replied with a quizzical frown
how dare this galah make a pig fly so far
i refer to the case of the clown

but the clown at the back of the court
said surely there's more of import
than pigs and galahs who can fly through the bars
when the judge is so easily bought

galah: 1-gregarious australian pink and grey parrot notable for its often comical behaviour

Maybe We'Re Not

Lackluster lives filled with emptiness
Around us everywhere
But … seldom do we notice
They are even there

For we have lives of import – 
Things of urgency
Making our time busy -
It’s our dependency.

We do not see the child who
Needs our time alone
To comfort, guide and teach them
So their thoughts remain: unsewn.

Then there are the aged
Abandoned in their cocoons
Of experience and history
But … ‘tis we who are marooned. 

We ARE our brother’s keeper
But … if we are self-obsessed,
How then can we consider:
‘Tis we, the ones are blessed?

Grain of Sand

Inconsequential grain of sand
No less a star upon the strand
Than  nebulae, 
in the Heavens grand

Tossed about by waves and tides
No different than a comets ride
Small in scale, yet traveled well
Smoothed and formed on every side

By Heavens hand and Neptune’s whim
And doomed to salty universe to swim
Polished bright as nova’s light
This grain of sand…once dim

Tiny grains of polished sand
Jupiter worlds of size so grand
Both afloat in worlds remote
Both formed by cosmic hand

Alien worlds, stardust keeps
Briny climes, darkest deeps
Both the same…just different names
Of stone that neither dreams nor sleeps

But roam about their different worlds
Bejeweled with stars and milky pearls
One in skies and Heavens grand
The other in tidal pools and swirls
 
But each of import, 
no more or less Grander Than… 
an inconsequential 
…Grain of sand…

Its Place

sentimentality has its place
it's in my heart, it's on your face

in an edict of government, for a hungry child
in the middle of nowhere, all windy and wild

it's in scraped skies over citied tall buildings
it's on the Louvre's walls surrounded by gilding 

it's buzzing the field of breeze-blown wheat
at the photo-finish of a horserace dead heat

it lies with the dog quietly resting by the door
the cat's contented purr, the babies quiet snore

it's in the oven, warming with scents
it's under the tree, wrapped in presents

it's written in stories we've all known for years
it's in people you know in your daily spheres

it's right here, on this screen that you're reading
it's after, and now, and time since proceeding

it's in her hair, with its satin-soft sheen
her coy smile at you, if you know what I mean

it's in his brash boast with eased confidence
to do something of import with good consequence

it's kissing your lips, warm and alluring
it's filling your heart and quietly assuring

it's sunning itself, on sweating work days
it's enjoying each other in so many ways

it's in the glint of light shown on my eyes,
to this life lived full, and what it implies

© Goode Guy 2011-11-13

A Remarkable Occurrence In An Unknown Location - See Poem For Full Title

A Remarkable Occurrence in an Unknown Location Witnessed by a Handful of Beings 
Who Most People Say Don't Exist

There's a place that no human has seen
In the depths of a forest, pristine.
In a range called "Cascades,"
A great shyness pervades
In the lair of the Sasquatches' queen.

An event will be soon taking place
Of import to the whole Sasquatch race.
In a dimly lit cave,
Mrs. Squatch, being brave,
Has a look of concern on her face.

All six Sasquatches came here to meet,
And behold the new face they will greet.
Finally, it begins.
The queen gives birth to twins.
In existance are now eight Bigfeet!

Conviction

I try to write through bleary eyes,
as tears and thoughts fall.....
On paper.
Thoughts wild and deep
depart my brain and pen
and fall
helter skelter,
onto the paper.
I long to have words, conviction born,
that those who read will think my 
words true and of import.
I long to impress and endear 
those who read
of the urgent need ......
of action.

Sweet Lamb of God

O sweet lamb of God,
giver and Ruler of my life.
In whose steps I would trod.
Whose mercy to forgive is rife.

You are with me every day.
In all my thoughts and indecision,
guiding as a light the way,
of ponderance and revision.

Help you gave throughout my life.
On every decision of import.
When I prayed to take a wife
you gave worthily my consort.

You were with me as a child,
glowing thoughts kept me warm.
And with me with supporting smile
as my own babies were born. 

Through years of want or need
as the situations would arrive.
I saw your hand in every deed
that kept our hope and dream alive.

Through times of loss and sorrow
you held me up above the tears.
You gave me hope to reach tomorrow.
For more than my promised years.

Three score plus ten and three
for all those given me to love.
If another day I shall not see,
Sweet Lamb please take me above.

For Deb’s contest: Animal Guardian Spirits
© Apr 16 2010

Her Lover

Her Lover

There was no moment of silence

No vacant half breathing of poignant momentum

The falling stars could not entice from her heart

Or burden a single second with the simplest ghost of import

The open unwritten pages of her book left devoid of ink-ed blood

She does not ponder on the swirling fogs
It is those dank and drear mist which contemplate her

Darkest expression of nothing

Cold walled the clammy plaster and Armour
Iron shoveled and buried deep

Never to dance all for smiles or walk from the island marooned

No spark of life but vacant inspiration

No tears other than those wept long ago
Are now her only memories of sorrow

It is cold now

The words of passion and obsession
Sleep with their talk on her tongue

Her life undone
Love she turned her back upon

Love she walked away with uncaring grace
And a high hand haughty wave

With such a fire in her eyes un-kindled
Un-eternal

And shadow he watched her Grey specter
Of no avail his soul traveling with her
There in the gnawing desolation of possibility
She
Left him

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