—The Geography of Tears—
I know not where thou art, nor whence thy breath
re-enters me—yet when thy name is spoken,
my guarded blood, that had outworn its death,
breaks rank, and bears thee through the sluice unbroken;
whilst all the world proceeds, and engines grind,
some secret firmament within me alters,
and tears, more treacherous than the mind,
unseal the place where distance fails and falters;
I seek thee not in roads, nor years that flee,
but where remembrance, stripped of its disguise,
becomes a country having none but thee,
whose borders vanish inward through my eyes—
for absence loses all jurisdiction there,
and thou arrivest where my tears declare.
The foghorn groaned through seas forlorn,
To mourn the scorn of a sailor sad and travel-torn;
Thrice-lashed, salt-bruised and storm-torn,
wishing his soul to be reborn,
when midnight's black and barbed thorn
was withdrawn by break-of-day at dawn.
one lash for being ragged and outworn,
one more for stealing the captain's corn
a third for old regrets too long worn
upon the sleeve, to worship and adorn.
Oh the how the forlorn
wear a foghorn
on their sleeves torn
to mourn,
torn to adorn,
torn to scorn,
torn to mourn-
with a foghorn!
BEYOND DISTINCTIONS
a cycle
of
evolved
interpretatIons
of
disparate
traditions
elucidate
symmetric
illustrations
reality
schooled
as
allegory
corresponds
to
inward
feelings
flowering
rendering
as
a
diagnosis
both
credible
&
consoling
yet
inert
&
ignored
outworn
refractions
The core explosion is due September in the sky!
A supernova T Coronea Boralis to lite the
skies of earth. The remeant of a once larger star.
Once in a lifetime event. A red Giant anda white dwarf.
reaccurring once every eieghty years: the show
will be featured seen from earth.................
Will a blackhole occur during the supernova?
Collapsing onto it self as the two intermingle.
To cause a spectical in the sky?
Doubtful but what an oppurtunity to
be super romantic.
What a specail time to
be with someone you love!
Boredum has Outworn it's welcome!
She can touch me,
reach in
with an inward and knowing finger,
stir my senses,
entice,
until I know for sure
that the dead and the living,
are timeless.
When her love steals my mind away
'2gether', becomes a special word,
a spellbinding word - magical -creative.
I have faith in illusion,
what is unreal for many,
remains ever a fantasy for them,
no wonder their idea of being alive
is a lie told to a liar.
What is real for we who are free,
cannot be explained by old ideas,
or any outworn, buckram logic.
We who know
how to make love to the unseen,
continue to dance -
with the only one.
I had just spoken with John!
To meet the bastard I’d sworn,
My planned time 5:00am dawn,
Over his fertile grass lawn
He had had to treat with scorn,
Contented with being a con…
“You listen to me, Hot John!
Yesterday, you know, is gone,
A new day baby now born
And with it the Newest Morn!
In a morn one does not mourn;
Announcer of this: God’s Horn!
Good proof: True Life is not torn
Nor True Life true face outworn…
You’re , then, to face farm’s corn:
The white, The yellow and the fawn,
All its thought pains to be borne…
But then, to ask, are their pains?
Aren’t the growth of corns from rains?
Good luck wishes times ten, John
As you avoid your clique’s Don,”
This wreath is in your eidetic memory, yet you should live.
Can you receive my lament, which is almost to happen?
There is no garland as I plummet, rattled by the sieve.
Died with you, can't revive, as you lie on plush and satin.
Earth collapses beneath its weight—why was it to be that way?
The words reflect that living beings are welcome today.
To read the stones, the lost will return home shortly to stay.
The shade of gloom fosters a dark and virtuous decease.
Stashed spaceship shrines to scold scintillating stars in peace.
Among the outworn headstones, the moss knows the lease.
There's a hushed quiescence here; no birds to chirp up or hive.
The wind moans, the agony is veiled, and the heart blackens.
Trusting that I would rest here, bereft of any rich ray.
Leaving behind all my acrid-gained assets through a name cease.
Written: February 25, 2023
This poem form is the Fragmented Rhyme invented and Conceived by Constance La France. It has 14 lines with indentation, and a rhyme scheme, as follows: ABABCCCDDDABCD
Frightened to take two
Her soul was clenched in the hand's of evil, A strident deafening scream reverberating in her mind,
Searching for where she's broken the most, Trying to collect shattered pieces that are hard to find,
Even the faintest of lives light disappeared, Leaving her to confront dark thought's for a while,
Blindly stumbling through saddened day after day, Constant loneliness hovering making her fragile,
Others oblivious to her heartache retaining her struggle, A chaotic mind confused and lost in every form,
Ardently staying as strong as can be,
Undoubtedly the personification of frail is outworn.
So at the nook of the broadway alley
Stood there was an old defaced stall
With an outdated dark outworn wall
Coverd with the fetching portrayals of Scotland valley
At the upfront shelf was a young lady
Bearing a sweet grin on her baby face
Having the semblance full of grace
Working at that space that seems to be shady
Conferring her was not that hard
As she had a heart open for all
Engaging in talks that were small
Was the best segmet in her regard
Rushing every now and then to her
And savouring the sun down nattering
But all those moments paused in a fling
As those vivid dreams happened to blur
Our hours of gossip ceased to occur
As she moved to a place beyond our grasp
Unhanding herself from the mankind's clasp
On a divine evening as she would prefer
As another year close in on me
Once again I was at the nook of the alley
Gazing at the shop and those depicts of valley
Reminding of the person who was now free
O Muses! What is genius? Is it born?
Or is it taught? Why do some possess it,
and some do not? These questions are outworn!
As riddle over which to obsess, it
matters only that genius brings forth art,
music, poetry, mathematics, dance,
religion, and science to endow heart
and reason to mindless souls which, by chance,
we know as “Fools.” Genius is not for wasting,
or for consuming it upon one's lust:
rather, it is meant for God Everlasting;
to bring Him praise before one turns to dust.
Whatever genius's mystery is, it's His
to give as He pleases—of that there's no quiz!
Nail on the wall
Picture to fall
Spider in crawl
Omen to stall
Side along side
Image in stride
Time not defied
Somebody lied
Web on the spin
Calling the sin
Sepia got thin
Unfolding din
Intricate weave
Dust balls to grieve
Do not deceive
Imminent leave
Photograph torn
Image forlorn
Passion outworn
Innocence shorn
Framed by betrayal
Lost in the grail
He cuts the brail
The tale of a nail
12th April 2020
If the sun sets on me now, let it!
I have no more use
for the light of day,
Just hold back the dawn awhile,
I have to shed some light
upon the night’s shady ways.
Tell it to the vagrant wind
To hold its breath
and pass not this way again
lest it bestirs
the dying embers of my aspiration.
Let the spring know
to hold back its reins,
There are no more
flowers to bloom here now.
Tell the wayward road
to follow me no more,
I have to hang up
my outworn footwear now;
And let my dreams know
I have no more
wistful nights to spare.
~12/05/19
~Contest: Your Best New Poem
~Sponsor: Emile Pinet.
Dheedhi counts days with a sparkle in her heart.
She hopes to melt her ice-cold loneliness in the warmth of a party.
She buys a washing machine.
Pickle of mango peel, piquant beef, banana chips…
She packs all with pizzazz.
But her daughter foresees shards of shame protruding from ma’s
mannerisms.
Outworn ways, the ill-mannered slurps, unrefined words…
“Tomorrow’s function’s limited, ma.
I’ll come to pick you another day.”
Deedhi’s lips tremble and eyes become moist.
Several desires disappear silently in the Bermuda triangle of generation gap.
First printed in The Literary Hatchet (Pear Tree Press)
A walk in solitude is sometimes best
to weigh my thoughts in nature's open-air
and put my heart and soul to needed rest
where only I, with quiet beauty, share.
For then, when inner troubles wake and stir,
the beauty of the sky can wrap around
with softness, like a blanket- swaddle, blur
my problems until good resolves are found.
The singing of the birds lifts up my heart;
their melodies soothe well my anxious mind,
as if they speak to me alone, impart
a peacefulness where tensions soon unwind.
The swaying, tall tree branches wave to me
with graceful arms that gently pull me in,
Their motion holds my mind in fantasy,
and like a child, I feel caressed within.
A walk in solitude is my sweet gift,
for side by side with nature, I'm reborn
with its fresh air and beauty- such a lift
to leave behind my cares, soon gone, outworn.
Sometimes superstition mates with
scare in the wilderness of the
subconscious mind – some
apparition will be
the offspring.
Janu made just a shriek in the darkness.
Like a fried sardine, her body
lies on a mat within
a human hedge –her
soul has fled
somewhere.
Women stand with arms akimbo; men
whisper words in diverse shades of
superstition. Holy chants and
devilish mantras unite in
the horrible air.
An iron key – a black cord wet with spit –
a rural enchanter applies outworn
weapons in vain. Finally, a
sensible man sprinkles
water on her visage –
soul returns to her
body after a
blackout.
[First published in Nous Magazine, UK ]
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